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A time of everything

2011-12-13T15:24:00.000-08:00

December 13, 2011

“There is an appointed time for everything. And there is atime for every event under heaven—

A time to give birth and a time to die; A time to plant anda time to uproot what is planted.

A time to kill and a time to heal; A time to tear down and atime to build up.

A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and atime to dance.

A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones; A timeto embrace and a time to shun embracing.

A time to search and a time to give up as lost; A time tokeep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear apart and a time to sew together; A time tobe silent and a time to speak.

A time to love and a time to hate; A time for war and a timefor peace.”

For our family, a time for our worst fears and mostmagical dreams to come true, all at the same time.

On November 19^th, our daughter, DanielaAlona de Galbert was born. On November 20^th, my father (Aba inHebrew, or Abush as we called him), Guy Alon, passed away after four years ofliving with cancer. This post, to the best of my ability, is an effort tocelebrate both of their lives.

Pierre and I reached Needham at the beginning ofOctober. I was 7.5 months pregnant and our to-do list of getting ready for thebaby was long and overwhelming. My dad was thrilled that his transplant wasdelayed by a few days so he was home when we reached. The few days at home alltogether were busy, but we got a few nice moments. Anna, my good friend fromOttawa, was also visiting, so we went with my dad to the Elm Bank Reservation,a park not far from Needham and one of his favorite spots for taking picturesof flowers. We walked around and enjoyed the fall day. We got some nicepictures, and my dad just could not get over the size of my stomach. At home, Pierremade mafe beouf for all of us, one of our favorite dishes, and we had a nicefamily meal together. One of the evenings, my dad wanted to feel the baby move,and when she kicked him, he lifted his hand so high and laughed that she kickedhim really hard. After a few days, he packed his bags for the hospital, excitedthat he finally made it to the donor transplant, the procedure that he fullybelieved would return him to health.

The first few weeks were normal, or felt normalsince Abush was so good at making all of us feel that his illness was not thatserious. Guy had made an art out of making the most of his hospital stays.Armed with his laptop and blackberry, he continued to work from the hospital,even when not feeling his best. Pierre, my grandmother, my mom and I visitedhim almost every day, to talk, watch TV, pass the time quietly but together.When the chemo hit and he lost his appetite, Abush or my mom would ordermacaroni and cheese for me to satisfy some late pregnancy cravings. Meanwhile,our baby girl continued to grow and grow, and we were just getting so excitedto meet her.

By the end of October it became clear that thetransplant had some very serious complications. My dad started to be sleepymost of the time, and sometimes not making sense. It took some days before wemet all the doctors and understood the severity of the situation; complicationsfrom the transplant had damaged his liver and kidneys. Doctors started him onthe only medicine that could have helped and we entered the waiting period.Waiting while someone you love is sick is probably the hardest task. Every daywas an emotional roller coaster. A blood test would indicate a smallimprovement, which felt like a huge leap forward, only to be set back hourslater by another test, or another complication. As long as there was hope, weall believed that if anyone can come out of this, it is Guy with his strengthand optimism. Abush was so certain always that he can recover that we could notconsider any other possibility. We took the ups and downs and just waited forour little miracle, while painfully watching our beloved and energetic Guy lessand less alert and unable to communicate with us. The last thing he said to me,with great effort, was “how are you feeling?” Even in this difficult time forhim, he still wanted to care for all of us, like he always had. The nursesstarted joking that our baby girl will be born on the transplant floor, andeach day they would all welcome me by asking “you’re still here?” As Guy’scondition worsened, he was unable to breathe on his own and with a breathingtube he was moved to the intensive care unit. We struggled in the intensivecare unit, not knowing what Guy wanted, trying to hold on to hope, andsuffering at the sight of all the medical interventions. We met some nicefamilies in the waiting room where we spent hours and hours between visits withAbush. We connected to these families like “ships that pass in the night, andspeak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in thedarkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a lookand a voice, then darkness again and a silence.” We always hoped that when westopped seeing a family, their loved one has gotten better, and we hoped soonthey would not see us. As our baby girl moved inside me, I found it amazingthat our bodies just knows how to create life, that the process is somiraculous and natural, and yet fixing life, once something is broken, is apainful process, a struggle. All that we are, our potential, our love, and ourdreams depend on this delicate balance of bodily processes that we take sooften for granted but are really daily miracles.

Each day before leaving the hospital, I whispered toAbush that if he does not see me for a few days it is because I went to givebirth to his granddaughter but that I was always thinking of him. On November18^th, exactly on her due date, a time-keeper like hergreat-grandfather and grandfather, our daughter started the long birth process.The labor was long, very long, and one of the hardest experiences both Pierreand I have ever gone through together, but with the support of amazing midwivesand nurses, and Pierre as my rock, we got through it. One of the midwives hadtold me that you have to take labor one contraction at a time, and so I triedto think of my dad, his optimism, and taking life one small challenge at atime. I tried to picture breathing in love and out fear, and remembered a poemthat my mother found for my dad and that I read to him everyday while in thehospital.

“When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out,
Dont' give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.”

Then, in one magical moment, life changedcompletely, and after so many months of waiting and hours of hard work, thereshe was, Daniela Alona de Galbert, on my chest, a real little person thatPierre and I created, and I loved her instantly. All of a sudden I understoodthe love that a parent feels for their child, was able to comprehend the lovethat my father has for me, and I felt so blessed. My mom, or Savta Shoshi(grandmother shoshi), my aunt Iris, and my sisters, Neta and Lior, came to seeDaniela and she gave all of us so much joy. On November 20^th, my momheld the phone up to my dad’s ear and I told him he was a grandfather now andthat Pierre and I will do our best being the best parents we can, like he hasbeen to me. A few hours later, my Abush passed away, with Iris singing hisfavorite lullabies and my mother holding him, surrounded by love.

I like to believe that their spirits met as Danielacame into this world and Guy was on his way somewhere else that we don’t know.A South African woman once told me that babies are born with fists because theyhold in their little hands gifts that they bring into this world. We all carrygifts from our ancestors, genes, histories, physical features, and spiritualconnections. When I look at Daniela I hope that my dad gave her something asthey crossed. I hope she got his genuine kindness. She is such a small person,and she needs our help for almost everything right now, and yet sometimes itfeels that much like Guy, she carries our entire family on her shoulders,keeping us focused on life instead of death, on love, instead of loss. I tellDaniela that we are not sad because of her; I love you with all the pieces ofmy broken heart, I whisper in her ear. I hope that even in this difficult timewe can give her enough love and happiness, and I think of this song by LeonardCohen. “Ring the bells that still can ring; Forget your perfect offering; Thereis a crack in everything; That's how the light gets in.” My hope is that thecracks in our hearts only enable us to love her more, to appreciate more eachday, to celebrate what we do have in honor of what we have lost. There iscertainly some beauty in the timing, a reminder of the circle of life, but itis also very painful. I close my eyes and I picture Abush holding Daniela, orhow much fun he would have had taking pictures of her little hands and feet,and it breaks my heart that he got so close, that he fought so hard, and it isunfair, cruel really, that we could not enjoy this special time with him.

We came home for the hospital on a Monday, thefuneral was Tuesday, and we began a week of Shiva, a Jewish tradition ofaccepting visitors at home during a mourning period of 7 days. Our Shiva, muchlike the funeral, was our own version. Friends brought food and pictures andvideos of Guy that made us laugh and cry. Lior made a beautiful book withpictures of Abush. We felt overwhelmed at times by the love and support, andmostly by how much everyone loved Guy. He really was such a remarkably goodperson, not in any grandiose way, but he had a simple kindness and a goodnessthat everyone who knew him adored; I think he always made people feel like theymattered to him.

At the funeral, I shared that every person who hashad the honor to cross paths with Guy knows how kind, loyal, ethical, andbig-hearted he was. It is truly amazing, how in the last few weeks of his illness,every person that we talked to, from work colleagues, the secretary handlingour heating bills, travel agents, doctors, nurses, and of course his friends,all say how wonderful and caring he had been to them. Indeed he was aninspirational friend, colleague, brother, son, and person. And yet, I feelprivileged and lucky because I believe I always got to see Guy in the two roleshe did best – a husband and a father. Abush’s relationship with my mother willalways be the definition of love in my heart. When we were children we used tocomplain about the two kissing all the time. As an adult, and now that I havefound my own love with Pierre, I see their dedication to each other and sincerejoy at sharing their lives as a model of love that inspires me each day. To usgirls, he was the best father in the world, and although Neta, Lior, and I areall so different, he found ways to be there for each of us in a special way. Inall my travels and adventures, I have always felt safe and confident because Iknew he was watching over me from afar, always ready to change a ticket, callan airline, fill out an application, or do whatever it took so that I could seethe world, and try to find my place within it. I hope that now, even though heis not physically with us, that he will continue to watch over me and mysisters and that we continue to make him proud.

Now, with this beautiful autumn weather that isuncommon as we go into December, I think of Abush each time, Pierre, Daniela,and I take a walk, and I think of how much he would enjoy these nice days. Itfeels impossible that the world outside is the same, life continues, when ourworld has been turned upside down in so many ways. Guy was so optimistic, trulyso, that he did not even consider the possibility of anything but a completerecovery. He swept us with his courage and we all believed with him. Now, thathe had passed away, it seems impossible; sometimes, I feel like he is still inthe hospital, that maybe we can go visit him. It is hard now, but I feelthankful that his certainty that he will be healthy again meant that he reallylived during his 4 years of battling cancer, and in many ways those were thebest years of our lives. We enjoyed those moments with a joy that buds from therealization of how fragile life can be but protected with Guy’s optimism,without the fear that they might be our last. I feel that Guy would want all ofus to continue his sense of optimism, and remember that even though optimismsometimes may not change a life’s course, the lesson from his life, andespecially the past 4 years, is that optimism gives life meaning and allows usto live with hope and love instead of fear.

People say that time will heal, but I am not sure. Ithink that from now on every moment in life, including the happiest and magicalmoments we are already experiencing with Daniela, will have a pang of sadnessthat we cannot share with our beloved Abush. My hope is that time will teach usto accept both the sadness and the joy with more grace so that they danceinstead of clash in our hearts.

Many of you have sent messages, kind words, gifts,and your love and support to my family and I and I want to thank you with allmy heart for your friendship in this special time in our lives. Having a smallbaby means I am not as good at responding to e mails but please know that yourlove and support have meant a lot to me. Some of you have asked how to sendmessages for my dad’s memorial book and how we plan to honor his life. Forinformation on these please see the last blog post we put on Guy’s blog:guyalon.blogspot.com

Thank you for being in my life

Inbal

Daniela Alona

At Elm Bank, a few days before the transplant

As we will always remember him, always smiling, always optimistic

2011-09-23T02:59:00.000-07:00

September 23, 2011

I cannot believe it has been over a year since Ilast wrote an update. Every story has sections that are slower pace, longparagraphs of descriptions and inner thoughts and struggles that we sometimesskim over as we try to get to the action. Perhaps as life has settled into moreof a routine, I’ve skipped in writing those paragraphs.

Overall, we’ve been well in the past 12 months. InJuly, we finished our year of many trips with a final trip to Switzerland for abeautiful wedding. Back in Uganda, we were excited about having some time aheadof us without trips and to get back to our life. Project number one was theaddition of chickens to our family. Our very nice landlord built a chicken coopin the back, and Agnes, our neighbor, provided two baby chickens, which wenames Koko and Rolex. Nkoko is Luganda for chicken and Rolex is the name of asnack that has a fried egg wrapped in a chapatti. Koko disappeared after a fewweeks, and there are still theories about her fate. Rolex turned out to be male.We kept him for a while, until he matured and started waking us up at 5 in themorning. We gave him back to Agnes, and he lasted a few happy days beforebecoming dinner. I brought a new hen from Fort Portal and Pia brought one fromLira and now we had Kay and Clementine who on a good week lay as many as 10delicious eggs and we have been enjoying food from our little farm. Clementinewas recently replaced by Omelet, a new young chicken. I received a gift from afarmers group and for a while we had 3 chickens, a real farm! Our tomatoesgrowing did not go as well; we blame it on the pots, but we do have very nicebasil, lemongrass, and rosemary in our little garden.

In January, Pia brought her 11-years old daughterRoweena to live with her and us, and it has been wonderful having her around.Pierre is her very dedicated math teacher and I occasionally help with Englishhomework. Roweena also loves to read and so far her favorites are the BigFriendly Giant and the Clementine series. She is lovely and a bit shy andalways has a beautiful smile on her face when she comes home from school. Piais doing well at hair-dressing school and always coming home with newtechniques she wants to try on everyone’s hair. Pierre and I are not the mostwilling of clients, but we’re proud of her efforts and progress. Sadly, Carol,my favorite child in our neighborhood, has moved away. It is quite common herefor children move a lot, often staying with relatives who can take care of themor moving from village to city based on financial considerations. Carol movedback to her village with her mom and siblings. She came one afternoon to saygoodbye and it was hard. I gave her a poster I found at home to decorate hernew home. I wish I could have given her more for all the moments of joy sheadded to my days. I still look for her around the corner when coming home. Recently,after many phone calls I was able to track her down, and she came for a shortvisit, which was very sweet.

Work has continued well as well. There are alwaysups and downs, successes and failures, progress and delays, but overall theteam and I have gotten used to working together and have our systems androutines. We work with some wonderful partner organizations and it has been inspiringto see the impact some of them make in the community. One of my favorite eventswas the child rights storytelling competitions. We asked children to tell theirstories related to child rights and child abuse and neglect. Each school chosethe best stories and then we had an interschool competition. I attended one ofthese and was touched as brave children and youth told us stories abouthardships in their lives and also the knowledge, skills, and people who havehelped them. Daphine, a young lady with a beautiful smile, told us aboutfinding her father who had left the family when she was young. She found himafter her mother died and convinced him that he has a responsibility to supporther. Joseph, a young boy, so short and thin he would be easy to miss but forhis confidence and courage, told us about helping his classmate report a caseof sexual abuse. Susan, told us through her tears, about the time her aunttried to force her to have sex with an older man. Dick shared his experiencesof discrimination as an orphan, and pleaded with everyone that all childrenshould go to school. The children were inspiring and their stories moving. Thewinners of the competition went on to present their stories on radio and theirphotographs are on posters we use to promote awareness and to celebrate thechild rights heroes in communities.

Another interesting project has been working withcaregivers of vulnerable children to help increase their household incomes. Fora few years now, Bantwana has been supporting rural caregivers throughagricultural income generating activities. Caregivers are trained on improvedfarming techniques and supported with seeds or livestock to generate income fortheir household needs. Some caregivers have managed to generate substantialincome and improve their houses, send children back to school, and supply basicneeds and clothing. Yet, often farmers, who are at the bottom of a longsupply-chain, get low prices, either because they sell in a market that isalready saturated with the same produce (especially during harvest season) orbecause they are at the bottom of a long supply-chain in which vendors,middle-men, and transporters take a larger share of the profit. To help farmersget more from their hard work, we decided to pilot a few initiatives to addvalue to produce. For one group that is growing maize, we supplied a maizemiller which turns maize into maize flour. Another group installed solar driersto dry and package pineapples. A final group is working to turn theirgroundnuts into powder and paste used in cooking. The pilots are still ongoing,and we’ve learned along side our farmers, about the many logistical, business,and organizational challenges of operating in a competitive market, and thecreative solutions that dedicated communities find to succeed. When I am inFort Portal, and I see the dried pineapples from one of our partners sittingnicely on the shelf next to a packet of biscuits, I think of the manycaregivers I have visited, from old grandmothers to struggling youth, and Iwish the person next to me could see the stories hidden in that packet of driedpineapples. It is why I believe so strongly in fair trade, so that even when Ido not have the privilege of knowing the stories living within every product wetouch, I can hope that the people involved in making it can also make a livingthat is dignified.

With the generous support from family and friends,we’ve continued to support the young girls in Kyegegwa district to attendsecondary school. We’ve had some setbacks and disappointments. One of the girlsdropped out of school because she is pregnant. The relationship was a choiceshe made and she felt that the man she met could take care of her. It is sadthat at such a young age, some of these girls have so little confidence inthemselves and what they can achieve in the future. Another girl dropped out ofschool for reasons that are a bit unclear; to our best understanding she gotfrustrated with school and had some negative peer influence. She had struggled academicallyand in the end perhaps she just gave up. It may seem simple to support girls togo to school, but in the end, it is not just fees and books that these girlsneed. There is so much social and emotional support, as well as personalcommitment and confidence, that influences a child’s life in school, and for somany girls in Uganda, that comprehensive set of support is not a reality.Happily, the remaining three girls are doing well and progressing in school. Werecently visited them and had some nice time together. We went to Kibalenational forest and on our nature walk we even got to see some Chimpanzees.

Summer was busy with many visits from friends andfamily from the US and France. It was lovely to have people to share our lifewith and a good reason to travel to many parts of Uganda we had not seenbefore. Being with visitors was like discovering Uganda again through new eyes,which was a wonderful gift. It was fun to remember all the things that used tosurprise that are now part of every day life: the crazy motor-cycle taxis, thecolorful markets, women carrying babies and heavy loads on their backs andheads, and various street foods.

Now, we’re preparing for another transition,becoming parents, and in November, our little family of two will be family ofthree. We’ll be away from Uganda for a few months, but very much look forwardto being back here with the new baby and discovering a whole new side of lifein this place that has become another home.

Thank you for being in my life

Inbal

Some pictures from work with Bantwana Initiative

Caregiver and her grand-daughter

Maize mill at work

Eggplant field

Women at a village savings and credit group

Pineapples

Children at a community school

So Lucky

2010-08-10T22:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Family and Friends,

I am so lucky. The past few months are hard to put into words; they have been so filled with love that the heart feels full and overflowing.

After months of planning, the time finally came to travel to France for Pierre’s and I’s wedding. It started to feel real when we met Pierre’s family in Paris and then my family arrived. We were all so happy to be together again. We travelled to La Buisse in the South of France for final preparations. By Thursday, many of our friends and family had arrived and the fun part started. It was so nice to see people again, to catch up, to share some stories, and just to be in the company of loved ones. We had so many special moments, from the little laughs while assembling wedding programs, to eating too much cheese, and the life of moments of seeing my dad read his thank you card, and wearing my mom’s wedding dress for the rehearsal dinner. On Saturday, after a very relaxed morning, we started to get ready. It was fun to have my sisters and my best friends with me, helping to keep me smiling during hair and makeup, and making me feel like a princess with their support. Before we knew it, the time had arrived. Walking down to the tent and chupa with my parents was very emotional, seeing all the faces of our friends and family and Pierre waiting for me in the front. There is something so special about so many friends and families gathering to celebrate our union. It is more than just seeing people again, it is a unique feeling of all the love and support we have in our life, combined, in one magical moment in time, and together it is more than the sums of its parts. We just felt so loved, and on a day that celebrates our love, we were so thankful for this magical feeling. I often feel gratitude for all the love I have in my life, but the wedding was more than that, it was a celebration of love and its complete acceptance. The ceremony was wonderful. I loved listening to our family and friends read the poems and prayers that mean so much to us, and to share that moment with Pierre. Our vows felt really special, to share with each other, in the presence of so many was really special. At the same time, despite sharing the wedding with everyone, parts of it felt very personal. There were moments when I looked into Pierre’s eyes and it was just the two of us. After the ceremony, we got a quiet moment at the house, and looked out and everyone having cocktails and getting ready for dinner, and we felt so lucky to have so many wonderful people in our life. The dinner and party were so much fun. It was really amazing to see our families and friends all meet each other and discuss issues and dance and sing together. We danced until 4 am, and eventually Pierre got thrown in the pool by his brothers. The best part, is that even with the wedding through, I still feel the luckiest person in the world, for being married to my best friend and all that we have ahead of us.

From France we went to Israel. We enjoyed a few days in Jerusalem, a nice trip to the dead sea, and seeing lots of family. We had another nice wedding celebration for my Israeli family who could not attend. My parents were amazing at planning it all on their own. The best part was dancing with my grandfather, who has been refusing to go on walks, but somehow managed to dance with half the girls in the family.

After a few short weeks in Uganda, Pierre and I traveled to South Africa for the World Cup. The atmosphere was great with people all over the world coming to support their teams and the love of the game. We went to a few games; I supported Ghana all the way, and had a few football disappointments along the way. We also got to take a trip to the Drakenberg Mountains, a beautiful area in South Africa. In the morning, with the sun light on the red mountains, a cool breeze, and a warm hug from Pierre, I just felt like the entire world is in my heart, like I have everything I need and I am everywhere I want to be. We also visited Lesotho for a few hours, a mountainous and beautiful country we hope to get back to some day.

Now, after another wonderful trip to Switzerland for Edouard’s and Anna’s wedding, we are back home and looking forward to returning to our life here.

Thank you for being in my life.

Inbal

Pictures from our wedding in France

Pictures from Israel

Pierre in the dead sea

Our one day in Lesotho

South Africa for the World Cup

At Nelson Mandela's home

Drakensberg Mountains

Football!!!

the experiences that build us

2010-03-27T23:56:00.000-07:00

Hi Everyone,

Sometimes, in the morning, in that state of being between dream and reality, I am amazed that we are all made of skin, bones, and a lot of water. It seems unreal, a story made up by scientist, that we’re all made of the same stuff, and yet our experiences are so different. It feels much more plausible that we are made of our experiences; lungs from the moments that take our breath away, eyes from the images we can’t forget, ears from music. That somehow these experiences form us, one organ at a time.

The past two months have been filled with special experiences. Towards the end of February, I had the opportunity to participate in a livelihoods development workshop with some of the community leaders from organizations Bantwana supports. The idea is that with some start-up support and more information on productive farming techniques and collective marketing, farmers can make an income for their families and move beyond subsistence farming. At the workshop, I learned a lot about organic farming, which is the most cost-efficient in Western Uganda, a place with plenty of rain and fertile soil. During the practical session, we learned how to dig a trench for water conservation and plant a vegetable garden for improved nutrition. There is something special about being closer to the food we eat, to experiencing where it comes from, the labor that goes into it. Perhaps the vitamins from these vegetable gives us strength because they reflect the strength of the hands who cultivate them.

At the end of February, Pierre and I both traveled to visit our families. Pierre went to France and I went to the US. Seeing my parents after 6 months was really nice. There is something warm and comforting about being taken care of by your parents, even in the middle of winter. Parent’s unconditional love builds that part of the heart that allows us to love other unconditionally; I do not have the science to prove it, but I know it my heart it is true. Between enjoying work with my Boston colleagues and friends, catching up with friends, a conference in Chicago, a brief visit to Toronto, and enjoying time with my parents and Lior, time really flew by. My good friends, Sheede, Lindsey, and Joanna, organized a very sweet bridal shower for me, and all the recipes, advice, and love I received have integrated into various parts of me, from my taste buds to my toes, and have helped me feel like part of a community of women in the universal transformation we all experience from daughter to woman.

Coming back to Uganda felt great, a coming home of sorts. Pierre and I were happy to finally get to spend some time with our new cat, Chapatti. She is a kitten from my old cat in Gulu, Kuch. Chapatti is a bundle of energy; she is always running or climbing the curtains, and she provides endless entertainment. We’ve also moved to a new house, just two minutes down the street, so I can still see my favorite kids. It is a bigger and nicer house, so we now have a guest room and expect guests. Building a home with Pierre, our very first, buying chairs and planning where to hang pictures, is the calcium that makes my bones sing. It is the foundation of this shared life, and it is wonderful.

Shortly after coming back to Uganda, we were invited to my colleague Ben’s wedding. We made the trip to Fort Portal and attended the ceremony in a village just outside the city. The setting was beautiful, colorful arrangements of flowers and white tents, set to the background of the mountains. The ceremony itself is a negotiation between the man’s family asking the woman’s family for permission to wed. Ben’s family brought many crates of soda and packs of local brew, but the woman’s family kept asking for more because Olive, Ben’s soon to be wife, is well educated and a beautiful woman. The negotiation went on for a while. Each time Ben’s family spoke they knelt down on a cow skin, and when they walked away, they walked backwards, never turning their back as a sign of respect. Finally, when the price was agreed upon, the woman’s family brought out a line of girls for Ben to choose from. The first line of girls they brought were very young, all part of the show. Ben said they should go back to school. The second line of girls was older, but still Olive was not there, so Ben politely asked to see more girls. Finally, in the third line of girls, Olive was there, looking stunning, and Ben picked her. The families agreed and they exchanged rings and signed a marriage contract. Just seconds after the last ceremonial part, the rain started, perfect timing. We had a meal at Ben’s home. The ceremony was really beautiful, a real exchange between two families, another experience for the heart. Sometimes, these days, I think that the heart must be ever-growing until our bodies can’t hold everything anymore, and then, I don’t know.

On the way back from Fort Portal, we visited our friend Nathan. Together we went to visit the five girls we are supporting to be in school. It was lovely to see them. They met us with hugs and smiles. We listened to what classes they like and do not like, and which clubs they want to try out. It was lovely to see these young girls, who weeks ago were at home, feeling so happy at school. Appreciation for education, that’s a cell in my brain that forever has a picture of our five students and a feeling of their hugs. The fear in my stomach, that I can’t really make a difference, it fades when I am with these girls at their new school. Funny, that from all places in the body, contemplation, and sometimes the anxiety that comes with it, surface in the stomach. We wished the girls luck on their exams and made the journey back to Kampala.

We also stopped by and visited our friend and new business partner, Justus. We’re starting a business together that buys maize from farmers (at a fair price) and then processes the maize into maize flour, for the Ugandan meal posho. We’re just starting and learning, but we hope in time, we can set up a sustainable, social business that contributes to the wellbeing of farmers in Uganda.

Now, just weeks away from the wedding, we are getting really excited, and also continue to enjoy our life here.

Hope you have a time of wonderful experiences.

Thanks for being in my life,

Inbal

From the bridal shower in Needham

Learning to farm

Home in Kampala

Chapatti, playing outside

Enjoying our new porch

Chapatti, or new cat

Pierre in his new office... and it can also be a guest room... come and visit :)

Our nice kitchen... the other day we made Moroccan Tagine!

Living room

Our business adventures

Justus at the maize mill

Pierre and Justus in the office... the posho in the background is for sell

bags of maize

Ben's wedding in Fort Portal

the view in the evening

Ben's family bringing the gifts for Olive's family

The first line of girls... "they are too young" says Ben

The second line of girls... sent back because Olive is not there

looking for Olive in the 3rd line of girls

Here she is!

The exchange of rings (Yes, Olive changed her dress, very fashionable!)

Pierre and friends with the groom

Dancing with the women

more dancing

Questions, choices, and happiness

2010-01-30T01:12:00.000-08:00

The passed few months have been blessed with joy, and so I wonder sometimes when my head feels heavy with thoughts and concerns, whether there is a loose connection in my mind that short-circuits my abundant happiness from resulting in contentment. That’s quite heavy for the beginning of an update, but let me share some stories that will make some sense, maybe…

Settling in Kampala has been quite fun. Pierre and I live in a cute little apartment and turning it into home is a fun process. We’re putting up pictures and all the nice cards people have sent us and learning the best position for the antenna that allows us to watch football here and there. The neighbor’s kids know our names and usually as I walk home after work, people on the street inform me whether or not Pierre is home. We’ve also gotten a car, a blue RAV 4, which has made getting around a lot easier. Pierre has been playing basketball with a nice group of people and I have been swimming a lot, which combined with sunshine, lots of fruits and vegetables, and relaxed evenings together has put us in good health.

Between my busy work schedule and Pierre’s frequent trips to West Africa for consulting work, we’ve managed to take a few nice trips.

Around thanksgiving, we went to Gulu, to attend my dear friend Jessica’s famous thanksgiving celebration. The journey was funny because we went with Betty and all the boys in a car. The road is significantly better these days but one part is still under construction and to prevent people from speeding it is covered in speed bumps, and not the small kind! We were bouncing up and down on these bumps for what seemed like forever, and every time one of the boys complained, Betty said it is good for boys to be hardened. Thanksgiving at Jessica’s was wonderful. We have it every year in her nice home in Gulu, with turkey and stuffing, and my favorite dish – sweet potatoes and bananas in brown sugar, yum! It is wonderful to share one of my favorite holidays with friends in Uganda, and the kids love it because Jessica always has a few crates of soda. Being back in Gulu was fun. With stability back to the region, the town is growing fast. The pot-hole filled road, in which I once lost my shoe during the rainy season, has been fixed and new buildings seems to be coming up everywhere. The boys at Betty’s house are now taller than me. Baby Kilama is old enough to know I am a mzungu and runs away each time I try to play, and it is wonderful to see him so grown up. My cat, Kuch, was pregnant again, and this time Pierre and I are going to take one of the kittens into our family. Betty and Mike are still busy as ever, working in Parliament, running a school, and between all these responsibilities, ever more hospitable to spend the weekend with us in Gulu.

Around Christmas time, Pierre and I went to Israel and had a really nice time with my family there. It was fun to show Pierre some of the places where I grew up. It was really nice to see all the family and catch up a bit. We spent a lot of time in Jerusalem, and had humus everyday. On the way back, we stopped in Addis Ababa for a weekend, and really enjoyed our time with our friends Ben and Lilly and their kids, who all taught us the true meaning of hospitality and the joy of family.

Back in Kampala, Annette, one of Betty’s daughters and my sister, had a baby girl called Tasha. We were so thankful that both Annette and Tasha are healthy. Being at the hospital with Annette was a shocking reminder of the long way we still have to go for equitable maternity health care around the world. Just in the few days I was visiting Annette, in one hospital, we heard about a few women who had lost babies in child birth, and a few women who themselves died in child birth. It is sad to see women suffer from issues that can be easily treated with better technology. To learn more about how you can help, Oprah’s Angels Network has a wonderful website with links to donations people can make: http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/How-to-Support-Mothers-Around-the-World

Back to Tasha and Annette, I love spending time with these two. Annette is so determined to go back to finish her final year at the law development center and she is a real inspiration. Tasha is such a cute baby. She is so small, it is a bit scary to take care of her, but we had lots of help, and she’s just an amazing little treasure. Imagine that we were all that small once, and so helpless, it is hard to believe. When I see Tasha, I really think that the fact human babies survive at all, is a true testament to the power of love.

Just last weekend, Pierre and I took the RAV 4 on its first road trip to Western Uganda. We visited a few of the crater lakes outside Fort Portal, beautiful sparkling blue lakes among the green mountains. We slept in a funny hotel, which was supposed to be a luxurious nature experience, but I think they forgot to clear our room before we came so Pierre was quite entertained (and patient) every time I jumped 10 feet at the site of yet another bug. It was all worth it when we walked to the banda where dinner is served and in the complete darkness you only get away from cities were surrounded by fire flies making it feel like walking on clouds. We also visited Bigodi swamp and saw many birds and monkeys.

And it is among these joys and happy experiences, that not a day goes by that I do not wonder, what are we doing here, so far from family and friends? What exactly are we looking for? Are we finding it? What is it? Do we make a difference? What does making a difference mean? Why so many questions anyway? I was starting to feel a bit concerned about my ability to be content, when Iris recommended I watch Dan Gilbert’s TED talk about Why are we happy - http://www.ted.com/talks/dan_gilbert_asks_why_are_we_happy.html

The talk is fascinating and mentioned two kinds of happiness: natural happiness – when we get exactly what we want – and synthesized happiness – making ourselves feel ok with the cards in our hand. The interesting part is most of us are a lot better at synthesizing happiness when we do not have a choice. All of a sudden the world around me makes a bit more sense.

I travel a lot to Western Uganda for work, and I always admire the men and women picking tea from the picturesque hills. The beauty of the view does not fool me, picking tea is really hard work, and often very unfairly under-paid, and yet, I’ve always wondered how come these men and women seem so much more at peace with their lives. Perhaps it is choices that plague our minds. For many people in rural Uganda, life is about making the most of limited opportunities. The women I admire on the tea fields do not wake up each morning and wonder did I take the right course in my master’s degree? Is this line of work the one for me? Did I pick the right country to live in? This is not to say that people do not have aspirations and motivation, they surely do, but actual choices are fewer. Choices – the fundamental element of freedom – are both a blessing and a curse.

As some of you know, for our upcoming wedding in May, Pierre and I are asking for donations to sponsor girls in Uganda to go to secondary school. This past weekend, we met the five girls we are sponsoring this year. We hope to sponsor them for the 6 years of secondary school. It was really nice to meet the girls and their families. As we looked through the long list of requirements for secondary school and then visited the girls’ families, it became quite clear why so many families cannot afford secondary school for their children. It is an odd feeling, an uncomfortable and at the same time amazing feeling, having so much influence on someone’s life. As we met the girls, I thought about choices. In essence, giving them this opportunity for education is trying to open up doors for their future; to increase the choices they will be able to make, with both the joys and responsibilities that comes from being able to make choices.

So in the end, choices, with the toll they take on the mind, still seem to also lead to joy. Perhaps a life of contemplation, while not content, can also be filled with happiness. I think of a beautiful poem, recently featured in a fantastic movie about Nelson Mandela called Invictus, and I hope that along the questions that float in my head as the master of my own fate, I can also be a better, more forgiving and patient, captain of my soul.

Invictus by William Ernest Hensley.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Thank you for being in my life,

Inbal

Kilama (on the right) in Gulu

Betty and Mike at Annette's and Maria's Graduation Party

With a Edton's girls on a day at the pool

Kyenjojo town - the trading center of the district where we sponsor the girls for secondary school

Trees in Bigodi swamp - can you see the monkeys!

Tree with great blue turaco birds

Next to the Bigodi Swamp

Sun rise in Western Uganda

Pierre relaxing

Little friend that visited during lunch at the Crater Lakes

Crater Lakes outside of Fort Portal

Traffic on the road to the lakes

Enjoying a big glass of my favorite drink - passion fruit juice

A few from Israel

How we feel

2009-11-20T08:45:00.000-08:00

Hello Friends,

In a world where so many cannot meet their basic needs, we have a tendency of dismissing feelings. What’s a bit of loneliness compared to an empty stomach, or a bit of sadness to a lack of shelter? While it is true that basic needs are essential for survival and have a strong effect on how we feel, these past few weeks I have been awoken to the power of feelings.

Feelings are like the guy who shines shoes near by our home in Kampala. I see him every morning, arranging shoes on a mat, taking out his supplies, preparing for a day of work. I think he makes me smile every day, but I never notice until the days he is not there and some happy feeling I had not recognized is missing. Rarely do I wake up and think ‘I am so thankful I did not wake up sad!’ Until I wake up sad and miss those happy mornings when I wake up from a nice dream and feel deep in my heart a sense of purpose.

A few months ago each of the community organizations we work with through Bantwana Initiative trained a group of community volunteers on psychosocial support. It is a fancy term for mobilizing community members to support each other in social, emotional, and spiritual ways. This month I had the opportunity to visit some of these volunteers and observe their sessions with families caring for orphans and other vulnerable children. Usually when we visit partners, we focus on the tangible results, how the maize is doing, how many goats have been sold, are children going to school, etc. This time, the volunteers focused on how families are feeling.

Someone asked me once during graduate school what keeps me up in the long nights of studying. I would have liked to have answered curiosity or passion, and perhaps those are there, but often it is pure fear of failure that kept me going. I’ve come to see fear as a source of motivation. This week I realized, I was never really afraid of anything, perhaps highly concerned, but fear has taken a new meaning for me, and it is paralyzing.

A colleague and I are squatting under a tree to observe a session. A woman in a bright pink dress is leaning against the mud wall of her house and looking at the sky. A small child is resting between her legs. The volunteer is asking about how things have been going with her. ‘Have you been taking your ARVs?’ (treatment for people affected with HIV). ‘Yes, I take them at night or I feel dizzy, but people say the supply is finished. Next month they might charge us for the treatment.’ The conversation continues and the volunteer tries to encourage the woman to keep up with her maize production as soon it will be harvest time.

‘Do you know where to sell your maize mandam?’

‘If I am here, I will sell. I know where. Until then, I buy my children an egg each day, when I am not here, they will remember that.’
Fear – immense and powerful fear – not just of death but of those who stay behind. A fear that is lived each day when looking into children’s eyes, or caring for the maize plants, or going to the clinic, not knowing if today is the day the drugs will not be there.

In another household we find a pair of elderly grandparents caring for their granddaughter who has a severe disability. The mother had died and the father, their son, has taken off and refuses to care for the child. The grandparents show us the maize field they planted with support from the program. At an age when they should be cared for, these two kinds souls are working the fields for their granddaughter. For this visit we go inside, since the girl is paralyzed and is too heavy for the grandparents to carry outside. We enter a dark mud-walled house that is covered with colorful drawings and newspapers. The girl is 13 but is so stunted she does not look a day over 6 years. Her head is swollen due to water around the brain, a condition that has paralyzed her completely. I am thinking of the son of these kind people; a man who leaves his own daughter behind for greener pastures, and the love of his parents tested. Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally, do they still when children neglect their own children? I am lost in thoughts when the grandmother starts crying. A colleague translates for me.

‘We took her to the referral hospital with help from some people in the community. At first we were happy to see other children in her condition. We felt like at least she is not the only one. We even saw some kids who were getting better. But when the doctor saw us he said we came too late. There is nothing he can do. We came too late, too late, maybe if we came earlier.’

Guilt, it eats away at this woman’s soul, feasting on her sadness, adding hardships to her hard days. We comfort her that it is clear they had done the best they can. We spend some time with the young girl introducing ourselves and she smiles back. We all leave feeling guilty, that we, too, came too late.

The backdrop to these experiences is beautiful scenery. We walk along green mountain and valleys, sometimes picking guavas off trees, and I feel like I am inside an encyclopedia of where food comes from. I always ask, ‘what is this one, or that one,’ pointing at anything green. It is hard to explain that we do not see how things grow when you buy everything in a supermarket. I wish we got to see more often all the lives that are touched by what we consume… perhaps it would make us more caring as consumer, more careful and also more generous. At times the scenery seems misaligned with the hardships we find, like someone forgot to change the set between shows, but mostly, I am thankful for this beauty, the rest it provides for the heart. I am thankful that courageous people live in such beauty.

At another house we sit under a tree with chickens running around. An old woman is discussing intensely with one of the volunteers. To her right, on a straw chair, sits a young woman with a disability who cannot talk and has difficult moving her arms. A small child stands next to her staring to the side. When my colleague turns to translate for me, I ask her not to. I already know, I was briefed before we got there, and hearing it again is too painful. The young woman was raped and no one knew about it until she showed signs of being pregnant. Now, the old grandmother is tired. She is old and she already spent her life caring for a child with a disability, and now, she does not want to take care of another child. Discussions continue intensely and I listen to bits of the translation – keep the child, give him to the father’s family, demand payment, involve local leaders. I phase in and out. I just look at that child. I heard once that to grow into healthy adults children need at least one person who thinks they are number one. Will this child have that? We try to interact with the young boy, but after 2 years of emotional neglect he is non-responsive. ‘The pathways responding to affection in the brain are not developed,’ explains a colleague of mine. Children who do not know how to respond to love. We advise about next steps – ‘best interest of the child’ and ‘local leader involvement’ and other terms – when we leave that house I actually cry, silently and without attracting attention; we’re supposed to be ‘strong’ in this line of work. I thank my parents for teaching me from a young age how to accept love.

I do this for 5 days and I feel exhausted, yet our volunteers face these issues all the time. I wonder how they manage, and in later visits, I understand they persevere because they can see they are making an impact.

‘I was afraid to get tested,’ tell us a woman in a dark green dress, ‘but my friend here, this one, he helped me. He encouraged me and even took me to the place and stayed with me to get my results. Now I am on treatment and I am ok. I am not afraid anymore.’

Another woman runs out of her house to meet us at the road and gives me a huge warm hug. ‘These people, these friends of mine,’ she points at the volunteers, ‘they found me dying at my house, but I did not know why. I did not want to know why. They took me for testing and now I receive treatment. They even come with food sometimes.’

Tense relationships between grandparents who want their retirement and children who want their childhood have been mended as volunteers counsel families to share the work. Malnourished kids who could not walk a few months ago are playing happily as families were advised about kitchen gardens and healthy food for children. Community members have come together to construct shelters for families whose roofs had fallen in on them, literally! People have found motivation to participate in organic agriculture and animal husbandry as volunteers remind them that each hard day in the sun will result in school fees, medical treatment, and new clothes. Children facing stigma because their clothes are worn out or their parents have died of AIDS have someone who cares, who comes once a week to give them strength to ‘ignore those silly kids and focus on how smart you are.’ Volunteers come with nothing but notebook and a smile and they leave behind so much hope and companionship.

Hope is the magic ingredient – the energy that keeps people going even in the toughest of circumstances because tomorrow could be better. Love, or friendship, provides the ability to endure because together we are so much stronger. Next time I do a program budget I’ll make sure to include tons of hope and loads of love along side seeds, goats, and piglets.

I have also gotten to visit partners in Eastern Uganda, another beautiful part of Uganda, and to visit Sipi Falls, which was great.

Back in Kampala, cherishing the feelings of enjoying a new place, Pierre and I continue to settle in. The kids on the street have learned out names. I am Imba and Pierre is Pia or Mpira (which he likes because it means football). After a week in Western Uganda, I was greeted to hugs and before I even got home, Carol, my favorite little kid, announced to the whole street, ‘Imba, Imba, Pia is not home now, but come. Madina, Madina, Imba is back.’ Walking around our neighborhood, we also found where everyone dumps their garbage, in a huge pit down the hill from our house, and discovered that it is a prime bird watching place. There are the giant Uganda storks, which are not the nice kind in kids books, but dinosaur looking giant birds that are always filthy. Then among the garbage, sparkling clean and beautiful, as if immune to the chaos, are Uganda crested cranes, a majestic bird with a yellow crown. This time of year is also grasshopper season, which is a delicacy to eat. On our street people have set a giant trap which consists of really bright lights, iron sheets leading into buckets. At night, it looks like someone left the sun turned on, with millions of grasshopper swarming around, and kids and birds competing with each other to catch the spoils.

Hope you are feeling well.

Thanks for being in my life

Inbal
Pictures:

With community volunteers discussing a case

A family taking care of their kitchen garden

Stopping at a school to hear children sing about child rights

Fields of tea

And don't forget the coffee!

Walking around to visit households

Is that not the most beautiful school you have ever seen?!?

Now for Eastern Uganda - on the slopes of Mount Elgon

Sipi Falls

Update from Kampala

2009-10-10T02:30:00.000-07:00

In the old days, when people still used ships to travel across continents, perhaps the transition to a new life was a bit more gradual. During the weeks at sea, the waves would slowly wash away habits and daily routines; the sun would fade the present into memories, like brightly colored clothes left to dry in the sun for too long. People would enter an in-between-space, ready to be filled with newness. These days, you can work a few hours in the morning, have lunch with your family, spend a blurry amount of time in lines, watching movies, eating neatly organized airplane meals, and then you arrive. Even now, a month after arriving in Uganda to work and live here for the foreseeable future, it is with disbelief that I write this update. It still feels unreal that I am actually here; I wake up every morning in surprise, gratitude, and a slight bit of confusion.

I arrived in Entebbe Airport, which is looking more and more like an international airport since it was renovated in 2007 for the Queen’s visit. At night, the drive from Entebbe to Kampala is a pleasant one, with no traffic and a cool breeze, the seven hills of Kampala looking green and calm, the darkness and distance, hiding the hectic city. The next morning I went to work, with a bit of jetlag and a lot of excitement to keep me awake. The Bantwana team, all of whom I have met before, welcomed me with wonderful friendliness and kindness. We’ve been busy since I got here, and with all the other changes in my life, work has provided a base in which to ground in. It has been great to be so much closer to the projects I work on, and in the coming weeks, as I visit all our field partners, I look forward to learning so much more.

Just two days after I arrived, chaos engulfed Kampala. I will not even pretend to understand the complexities and multiple reasons behind the violent riots that spread through Kampala for three days. The simplest explanation I heard numerous times was that before President Museveni’s rule kingdoms were abolished in Uganda. Museveni, some say in an effort to win allies, allowed kingdoms to return as cultural institutions. The largest kingdom in Uganda is Buganda, and its king is the Kabaka. In September, the Kabaka was invited to officially open a youth summit, an event with the government felt was more political than cultural, and he was denied to travel to the event. Buganda supporters started to set up for the Kabaka’s visit. The police intercepted the set-up, the violent clashes started between youth and police. The mood of violence quickly spread around Kampala, with numerous clashes around the city, which were exacerbated with general looting and lawlessness that attach on to massive riots. In general, people felt that the riots became larger than the issue itself, a venting of anger from youth, unemployed and uncertain about their future, that they have been left behind. It was very strange, as the part of Kampala where I live and work was largely unaffected, and it was hard to believe that the pictures coming in on the news were only kilometers away from us. Our office has a mzee (old man) who guards during the day, and he is so kind and gentle, I often felt that if anything happened our first instinct would be to guard him. While I felt very safe throughout the affair, a close friend got caught in the middle of the riots, and although she came back unharmed it was scary. Watching on the news how quickly Kampala fell into madness was alarming, especially with elections coming in 2011. With Pierre in Afghanistan, and violence in Kampala, my heart was heavy for a few days with the brutality that human beings are capable of creating. We have such potential to create so much beauty, yet so often we destroy. Fortunately, order returned fast. The city was heavily militarized for a few days, and life returned to normal. Only days after riots, markets were bustling again, a true testament to the resiliency of Ugandans. My sincere hope is that these riots will serve as a warning, a glimpse into the consequences of exclusion, discrimination, and violent confrontation, and in the long-run provide Uganda with more advocates for peace and justice; only time will tell.

With stability restored to the city, I started my endeavor to get settled and catch up with friends. I met with a real-estate broker, in a dark wooden shed with one bench next to a large market, and although I was a bit skeptical at the beginning, once we went out on the town, he was incredibly helpful. I really liked the first apartment he showed me, a small two-bedroom place, in a cute neighborhood. The dirt road is lined with little stalls selling basic groceries. I think of them as magic stalls as the vendors fit more into the tiny sheds than many department stores. On the street and there are lots of kids running around, with the occasional goats or cows passing by. There is always a group of women sitting around, washing clothes, cooking chapattis, and taking care of the small kids. When Pierre came for a day, between his Afghanistan and Democratic Republic of Congo consultancies, he saw the place, and we decided to take it. We are slowly getting to know people around us, and Pierre has already found some friends to play football with. My best neighborhood friends so far are Gideon, whose probably three years old, and Carol, most likely five years old, who hug me with such delightful enthusiasm each time I get home, as their mother greets ‘welcome back.’ In the past two weeks, since Pierre has been back from Congo, the apartment has progressed tremendously, and feels like a comfortable little home.

I have also gotten to see some old friends, including many of my Gulu friends and sisters, some were visiting Kampala and some live here now. Betty, my Ugandan mother, finally got to meet Pierre, and with our wedding coming soon, she reminded him of the Ugandan custom of paying dowry. Betty said that I am a good catch, Pierre is supposed to bring many cows, so many that when they stand in front of me once should not be able to see my legs! We might just organize a big party for everyone and call it even.

One of my Gulu sisters, Clare, took me to her friend’s introduction ceremony, which is considered the traditional wedding (often followed by a church wedding and reception, though usually people wait a few years for those to save up money). The introduction is when the man’s family comes to the bride’s home to negotiate on the bride price, or dowry. The negotiations take place in a closed room, and neither bride nor groom is involved. The bride is called in a few times, in case the groom’s family wants to ‘inspect’ anything; at this introduction the bride was called once so they could hear her voice and see her teeth. The women wear the traditional and colorful gomez dresses. The negotiations are supposed to take long as a sign of respect. These days, the price is usually agreed upon ahead of time, and the negotiations are part of the ceremony. I was told that in the past, sometimes negotiations took so long into the night, that people would sleep there and begin again the next day. I had another appointment that evening, and negotiations took long enough, that I actually had to leave before the party, though I was told an agreement was reached and a good celebration followed.

I also got to take a trip to Nairobi for work and got to see many of my Kenyan friends whom I have missed so much and I am so excited that being back in East Africa I will get to see more regularly.

On October 9, Uganda celebrated 47 years of independence. Pierre and I went to see the national celebrations. There was a very nice podium set up, for President Museveni and his guests of honor, which included Salva Kir, President of South Sudan. For many hours, thousands of people marched in enthusiastic military style in front of the president, each group carrying a banner, and expressing their love for God, Museveni, and the country. It was interesting that the national independence celebrations were very much party-based, all people marching were supporters of the NRM, Museveni’s party, and the theme for the day was ’47 years of independence, 23 years of stability,’ which is how long Museveni has been president.

For the next few months, Pierre and I look forward to getting to know more of Uganda, and of Kampala, which is a new city for both of us. It is a fascinating city, with parts of Kampala feeling quite rural and calm, and others so busy and hectic with commercial activity. It is a city where walking to work every morning I struggle with the heavy traffic and pollution, but also stop to admire the lush green hills and beautiful purple flowers covering the trees with such abundance that they fall into the gutters. It is a city where children in ironed uniforms walk every morning to the best schools in the country, and street kids walk on the same roads picking up trash, or begging. It is a city of contrasts, in a country filled with possibilities, and the exploring is just beginning.

Thank you for being in my life,

Inbal

Some views in Kampala

With Netta for Jewish New Years

Visiting a friend and family

Pierre taking every opportunity to teach math

At the Introduction (traditional Wedding)

the beautiful bride

The view from our house

Our living room

Independence celebrations

Museveni Speaking

Visiting Friends in Kenya

In Memory of My Friend Kalpna - a year later

2009-08-26T13:32:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I wrote something short about how I have been dealing with Kalpna’s passing away, but I did not share it. Why? I am not sure. Perhaps because it is personal, perhaps because it is sad. Then, a few days ago I was thinking about Kalpna and the genuine and authentic person she was, and I felt the need to share this. That perhaps some of you are feeling similar emotions of love, sadness, regret, and joy, and that by sharing we would come together, and bringing people together is something I have always admired about Kalpna, so here we go…

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What I remember most about Kalpna is her death, and that makes me sad because she had such a full life. A life full of life, which not many people have these days.

I was in my office, just getting used to the air-conditioned air after coming in from the hot summer morning. I look out at the water, and then at the piles on my desk – piles of articles wire requests, budgets, and reports – the day to day work of someone like me. I open my work e mail and decide I need a few more minutes. I check my personal e mail and a few websites. The computer screen is already starting to hurt my eyes and the blue sky outside seems appealing. As I surrender to the work ahead and e mail comes in that Kalpna Mistry died on August 4^th in the Philippines. I didn’t even know she was there. I follow a link to a website and a beautiful picture of Kalpna appeared. She is wearing a stunning red scarf and gold jewelry, both outshined by her smile.

‘Kalpna received medical treatment and was among friends from her Fulbright Program,’ the black text on a gray background declare. ‘The family is working to get the body home and funeral arrangements will be announced on this site.’ Funeral – somehow that word makes it feel real. I search my e mail for the last time we wrote each other. I am disappointed when the most recent e mail is more than a year old. I quickly scan through Kalpna’s facebook wall, searching for my name, looking for hope, but find nothing except permission for tears. I feel different but I am not sure how, like a seed has been dropped into my heart and I must wait patiently to see what grows.

That night I have to write. I have to share memories of Kalpna so they do not disappear. I remember our first Voices for Africa meeting in graduate school. We were all so nervous and Kalpna came in with a huge smile, every tooth showing. Without any experience in Africa she just wanted to learn and help with anything. I write down everything I can remember.

For the next few days I read everything people wrote about Kalpna. I saw pictures of places and people she never told me about. I read about stories she never mentioned. I saw videos of meetings I missed for reasons I cannot remember. The stories that moved me most are of Kalpna as a teacher, her ability to connect to students and inspire them.

In the weeks after Kalpna’s death, I felt like I got to know Kalpna better each day. We were becoming better friends – my friendship with a memory. At night, we would talk, or mainly I talked and she would listen, or I like to think she did. ‘I’m sorry we did not spend more time together. I miss you. I hope to be a great teacher like you someday. I hope you can see how many people love and adore you.’

In the weeks that followed, Kalpna inspired me. I’d smile more, care more about others, try to show it more – like Kalpna did with her thank you biscuits, a habit I read about in a post. The seed that fell on the day of Kalpna’s death grew from anger to grief to friendship. A friendship with a memory and Kalpna is always a part of each of my days.

I wish I knew her better when we had the time, but I know I love her to my heart’s full capacity. She reminds me of all that is good in the world and to believe in change and in people. I wish she was around to see Obama win the election and to see her students graduate from high school and then college, as I know she would push them there. I like to think that someday our paths would have crossed again. She’s with me each day, more friend than memory.

Waves of Change

2009-06-09T06:25:00.000-07:00

Hi Everyone,

I hope you have been well. It has been a long time since I sent one of these updates, but you have all been in my thoughts.

My father is a numbers person so he has kept count; it has been 579 days since he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma and began treatments.

I remember the day he called, sitting on my bed in Gulu reading, after a long day of visiting students in different schools. He spoke, I listened, and his words dropped on me like a wave that takes the sand from under your toes and leaves you off balance, a magician’s curtain that falls and in an instant life is transformed. In the following weeks of goodbyes and packing, the waves kept coming, washing away the sand castle I had constructed in Gulu. Nothing can hold on the sand, like change it is comes and goes through the tiniest cracks.

I am not so much a numbers person, but more of sentimental one, so when I look through the memories, messages, cards, e mails, and pictures of the past 579 days, I see waves of change.

For me leaving Gulu and the wonderful Ocan family was difficult, for my family a year and a half of chemotherapy was a challenge, and yet for all we have lost, we have gained so much more. The time spent with my family and good friends in Boston, be it in Red Sox games, beautiful Boston gardens, snowy cold mornings, restaurants, our living room, or hospital waiting rooms has been a blessing. In challenging times, Pierre and I also found our way back to each other, from our corners in Africa to Boston, and it has been an incredible opportunity for Pierre and my family to get to know each other so well. I have taken classes in storytelling and healing, joined a writing group, met new people, learned to how to cook a few things from my mom, got to spend time with old friends, attend both of my sisters’ graduations; just a few of the pearls the waves dropped in my open palms, once I let go of the sand. The back and forth sounds of the waves, coming and going, going and coming, soothes and heals.

We had a family party this past weekend, to celebrate Lior’s graduation from high school, Neta’s graduation from University of Massachusetts, the engagement of Pierre and I, and my dad’s preparation for his stem-cell transplant. While I didn’t notice, the waves had constructed another castle in the sand. Change is the only constant we can count on. It reminds me in hard times that this too shall pass, and in good times to enjoy every moment because even happiness passes so that we can grow and learn and then be happy again in a new way.

So today, as my dad goes in for his stem-cell transplant, the procedure that will take him into remission and health, I feel another wave of change coming, and I am thankful. He will be in the hospital for three weeks, and then a few more months of recovery at home. My dad’s strength, courage, grace, and optimism have been an inspiration to all of us and many others. Thank you for your thoughts, prayers, wishes, and support over the past year and a half. It has meant a lot to all of us. In September, Pierre and I plan to move back to Uganda; life may not be predictable, but it has a way of taking us where we need to be.

I am also attaching a short fiction story I have written, as some of you have asked about my progress in the creative writing realm. It has been slow, but very enjoyable. This short story here is based on a moment at the airport, a split second of seeing someone stopped by immigration control, the rest is fictional… some story my mind visited.

We’ll be in touch soon.

Thank you for being in my life,

Inbal

Short story and a few pictures from the party below.

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Jacob Dinka, a short work of fiction by Inbal Alon

‘Jacob Dinka,’ the passport control officer says in a quiet voice.

‘Yes,’ Jaco says trying to look like his picture, taken long ago in better days.

‘Jacob, when did you arrive in Uganda?

Jaco notices her hair, very finely braided, a sign of a woman who cares about her appearance.

‘Jacob, when did you arrive?’ She asks again, more sternly.

Jaco wishes she’d stop calling him Jacob, a good biblical name he wishes to forget and leave behind.

‘About a year ago,’ he says politely.

He can feel her glance on his dark skin, stopping around the three parallel lines scarred under each of his eyes.

‘Where are you from?’

His passport says Sudan, his skin says Sudan. Jaco feels annoyed that she has to ask, as if asking for a confession that no, I am not from your perfect little country.

‘Sudan, Madam, I am from Sudan.’

‘You’ve over stayed your visa sir, by months. According to my calculations you owe…’

She stops and looks down. The computer keys click loudly and repeatedly. Each click another penalty.

‘$258. The penalty for your illegal stay is Uganda is $258.’

Jaco doesn’t need to check his wallet. He knows that he has exactly $23.04. He changed all 44,928 Ugandan shillings with a money changer offering the best rate in all of Kampala. He pulls out his wallet slowly, counting the money one bill at a time. The passport officer seems happy to give him time to count. To his left Jaco notices the other passport control officer, a young Ugandan guy with a wide smile and shaved head. People are passing him continuously, Ugandan in business suits, children in their church clothes, and tourists with their over-paid straw baskets and African-print T-shirts. No one seems to have a problem getting through. The passport control officer on the left is just stamping each passport with no questions. The stamp has a loud clunk of authority. The sound is almost mocking Jaco.

Clunk, safe travels. Clunk, come again. Clunk, have a good vacation.

Silence, you’ll never leave.

‘You got it?’, the passport control officer on the right interrupts.

Jaco wishes he went to the left.

‘One second, let me check my bag.’

Jaco wonders if his brother has left the airport already. He is sure he is long gone and he feels scared for the first time. Jaco wishes Mo would come with him. Jaco is the older brother and he feels ashamed to leave Mo behind, especially since they are the only family they have left. Last time they saw their mother was when their village in South Sudan was bombed.

‘Run Moses, do not stop, she begged.’

Moses, another good biblical name. She’d hate to know Jaco turned it into Mo. Their father, woke up one morning, not long before the village was bombed, and joined the SPLA, the liberation army. That was the last time they saw him. When they walked from Sudan to Ethiopia, Jaco told everyone their names were Mo and Jaco. Now, he does not really remember why. After years in refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya, many of the lost boys of Sudan got resettled all over the world. Jaco and Mo stayed in Kakuma camp. Jaco got sick of camp life and they escaped, hitch-hiked to Uganda, and bribed a young border control officer to give them 6 months tourist visas.

‘Sir, please step aside while you find the money. I need to help others in line.’

Jaco steps aside, his thoughts racing.

After they got their visas, Jaco and Mo got a small room in an iron roof shack in Namuongo, one of Kampala’s muddy slums. They opened a radio fixing shop in the market, a skill Mo had learned in the refugee camp. Jaco kept records and walked around the market finding customers. Money was always tight; sometimes not even enough for food. The business was losing money, spending more on parts and rent than the revenue from customers. Jaco wanted to keep Mo’s dreams alive so he took out loans in secret. It did not take long before he started defaulting on the payments. When he started to get beat up every other day by bullies to whom he owed money, Mo was convinced that he drank their money and was getting into trouble. Mo told Harriet, Jaco’s girlfriend, who was four months pregnant. Harriet left immediately; abused by her own alcoholic father for many years, she did not even given Jaco a chance to explain. Jaco has spent every night since then dreaming about his baby girl who he will never know. He remembers how Harriet used to kiss his scarred decorations and how much he loved her for it. Perhaps I should have told her, he thinks.

Without his brother’s partnerships and Harriet’s love, Jaco felt there was nothing left for him in Uganda. He saw an add in the paper: some sleazy looking entrepreneur that helps with applications to foreign universities and makes money when students send back some of their living stipends to pay their debts. The advert did not say anything about what happens to those who do not get in to any university. Jaco did not like the man’s picture in the newspaper, but he felt out of ideas and contacted him. He applied for a university in Atlanta, the applications man had some intelligence that they were looking for more Africa students, and Jaco got accepted with a full scholarship; the entrepreneur made his money. Jaco had good grades at the refugee camp school and with all the hype around the Lost Boys, each university was looking for its own alumni magazine article. Mo dropped Jaco at the airport, wished him a good life, and walked away as fast as he could. Jaco wished that bombs were falling on his head, to make this hurried, non-emotional goodbye feel necessary, not chosen.

From behind him, other passengers keep passing through in both lanes. I step to the side and the right lane becomes an express, Jaco thinks with a tint of resentment. Minutes ago he was just like the other passengers, passing through, checking in, looking at duty free windows, heading towards his gate of departure. Behind him is the path from which he came. He can’t go back; he gave Kampala all he had and he does not think he’ll survive long, he wouldn’t want to if he had to go back. In front is the path to a new life, an educated life in a new country, but the road seems blocked. To his sides, Jaco notices the duty free windows. There are bottles of alcohol lined up on clean shelves, expensive imported alcohol that makes you just as stupid. He hates alcohol, and shifts his glance. There is a poster of a white lady, sitting in a suggestive position, with a huge diamond necklace on her neck. He thinks of Harriet and looks away. A tourist has picked up a lion doll with bright yellow fur; Jaco feels confused why anyone would spend so much money on a toy that is not even accurate. Was the woman not just back from safari? Did she not notice lions are an earthy brown? Above her a flat screen TV is sitting by the window, its screen blank. Even if something was showing on that TV, no one would watch, too busy with the travels ahead. Mo would die for a TV like this; he’ll never have one. On another shelf chocolates wrapped in bright colors adorn the wall; the price of one pack could feed a family in Namuongo for a month. He observed this world of money, a world in which he knows he does not belong, and should have never tried to cross. All of a sudden he feels dizzy.

‘Sir, are you ok? The passport control officer looks at him with a glimpse of concern.

‘I think so.’

‘I cannot let you through without the money.’

Clunk

The gate is on the right, so close but so far away.

Clunk

‘Please hurry up, the flight is departing soon.’

Clunk

Everyone is going

Clunk

Everyone but you

Clunk

The ceiling seems to be spinning, the blue tiles on the floor seem to shift from side to side. People are walking fast from both sides of Jaco, announcements are made on the loud speaker for boarding. The noises and sights mix in Jaco’s head and Mo is all alone in Kampala and his baby has no father and the university has no lost boy. Jaco runs to the bathroom and sits on the floor, which is cleaner than any toilet he’s used in a long time. He holds his head and cries, tears that are years over due. He knows that soon airport security will find him. He’s not sure where they will take him – back to Kampala, a detention center, on to his flight to Atlanta – and he really does not care. ‘Wherever they take me next, Ma, I’ll start again as Jacob, I promise.’

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Pictures from the Family Party

The Moon Listens, I think

2008-10-28T14:13:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone,

I hope you have been well. It has been a busy time with work, visitors, friends, and family. My father continues to be our hero and keeping strong despite unpleasant treatments, and my mother a hero also, for her never-ending support to all of us. I got to go to Israel for my cousin’s wedding and had a lovely time with family.

While visiting my grandfather in Israel, he told me that when I was little I used to ask for story after story. ‘After four or five stories I would get tired and just start reading the politics section to you.’ Perhaps, that’s the reason for my strong opinions, but for now, we’ll focus on the stories.

The story below is fictional, a random thought that came to mind during the song moon at an amazing outdoor Shlomo Artzi concert in Israel. Though I suppose, as often happens in fiction, you’ll find traces of me in the story, and, I hope also some traces of you.

I realize these updates have taken a turn for the more imaginative side, but I hope you enjoy, and if you want a less fictional catch up, I’m happy to talk, chat, email etc any time.

Thank you for being in my life.

Inbal

____________________________________________

The Moon Listens, I Think

‘You have a lot of time to listen to stories. Maybe, from time to time, you also listen to mine, I am not sure. You have a lot to choose from, sitting up there looking at all of us. Probably you listen to soldiers and thieves, lovers and the poor, fascinating stories I would think. But maybe sometimes you listen to mine, when you are trying to fall asleep and make way for the sun. It is not much of a story, really, at least nothing beyond the predictable text of middle class routine, but I hope you listen. You’ve always been my best friend.’

Hila whispers to the moon as she falls asleep. Her bed is positioned next to the window so she can see the moon as she drifts to sleep. Once a year ago, she moved to this new apartment because the window of her old room was blocked by a construction site. ‘The moon has always been my best friend,’ she tries to explain to friends who are concerned about her sanity. ‘The moon listens to me,’ she says when asked to explain, avoiding labeling the moon as he or she. ‘Without judgment,’ she often adds, pleading for acceptance.

As a small child, Hila is active and curious. She has the confidence of children who have recently mastered the art of walking and the world is theirs to discover. She picks up everything, thoughtfully, carefully, and examines all sides before putting close to her nose and then to her mouth. Sandy, the family cat, does not enjoy these examinations, but the scratches do not deter Hila; her curiosity, eve at this young age, is immune from attacks. Many evenings, Hila’s mother finds her sitting on the porch, reaching her hand up high, grabbing strongly at air and pulling back with full concentration. She glares angrily at her empty hand and tries again. ‘She’s trying to catch the moon, Hila’s mother might explain to an observant friend, ‘she will do well in life with this vigorous desire to learn and explore.’

By the time Hila is in middle school her parents are worried about her. She is quiet and does not have many friends. She does well in school, always, and although she has grown to need the ‘A+’ or ‘Well Done’ on her papers to feel some sense of self-worth, the satisfaction is more and more fleeting. ‘It’s easy,’ she explains to the moon at night, ‘I go to a good school, I have good teachers, and parents who help when I need.’ She tries to make friends, but finds it hard to talk about TV shows, clothes, and boys. She feels bad when the girls make fun of another girl who is out of their click, and when she sees this young girl cry in the bathroom, she stops talking to those friends. ‘I do not understand why they have to make fun of people? It makes me a bit sad, you know, that they don’t care about how others feel’ she tells the moon. She’s fairly sure they now make fun of her as well. She reads in science class that the moon is responsible for the ocean’s tides. ‘You do so much,’ she says in admiration, and here I thought you were just lighting up the night and listening to stories. I am not sure what I do, to be honest. I mean, what is the purpose of a quiet 13-year-old girl who likes to read and talk to the moon?’ When a teacher refers her to the school counselor, and Hila shares her uncertainty about her purpose in this world, she is diagnosed as prone to depression. ‘The records at school say I have a strange inner sadness,’ she laughs when she tells the moon.

In university, Hila’s ‘inexplicable sadness’ is transformed to a productive anger towards injustice in any corner of the world. ‘We all sleep under the same moon, and I don’t see why we should not have the same opportunities for self-actualization regardless of where we are born, our gender, or the color of our skin,’ she is known to say to her colleagues. Her frequent references to the moon, received an eye-roll here and there, but overall she is admired by friends for her deep, personal, and emotional level of empathy. She is fundraising money for schools in Africa, cooking food for a local homeless shelter, tutoring an inner-city student, and writing letters to newspapers on a variety of issues from racism to fair-trade and poverty. ‘You are my kind of revolutionary, a real dreamer,’ says a handsome guy she has been noticing in the student coalition meetings. She blushes and hopes the moon does not tell everyone her secret. ‘It is out of guilt, you know. I have not earned much in my life, there is not much I have had to struggle against. Do you think when you help someone, I mean really help them, instead of gratitude maybe you can earn respect?’

Five years after university, Hila feels unsettled. She has traveled the world working for different organizations, building schools, training teachers, counseling students, and mobilizing communities. She has visited 22 countries, flown 137 times, and has stories, recipes, and friends from all around the world. When she day-dreams, she still thinks about what she wants to do when she grows up: write a book, start a school, work with youth, inspire a movement of community service and peace. She feels a bit sad when she realizes she is grown up. At times, having pieces of her hearts all over the world feels liberating and she is tremendously thankful for the opportunities to love so many times. Other times she feels lonely; her heart stretched in so many places that she always feels alone, always missing someone, some place, some feeling. She wonders if the moon finds her story more interesting these days, but she knows this long-time friend well enough to know the answer is no. The places, the stamps in the passports, the spices in the food are all details in a story that has not changed. People often ask about her plans; what they mean is settling down. She is not sure what she wants, there is something deep inside that keeps her motivated. As years pass, perceptions of her change; those who admired her sense of adventure now think she is lost, her comrades in fighting injustice now think she is naïve.

When she is already a mother, Hila decides she owes it to her children to achieve one of her dreams. She wants to start a community youth center, when young people can interact in a positive environment and learn about local and global issues and their power to change the world. ‘The Imagine Project,’ she tells a friend. She writes letters, organizes bake sells, gives talks at high schools, lobbies to town council, and spends every hour of her day thinking about the project. The concept is gaining support. An amazing group of youth has gathered to work with her, and friends too have dedicated their time. They get a small room in an existing community center and the Imagine Project kicks off. Youth are organizing community meetings, volunteering in elderly homes and early childhood centers, and raising money for places far and near. The project is going so well, Hila resigns from her job to work fulltime with the youth group. She can’t imagine a greater happiness. Years later, when she looks backs, she still can’t understand how things fell apart so quickly. First, it was the budget cuts that closed the community center, but ‘things would be ok,’ they all thought. Meetings moved to her house, and some youth started to drop out because it was hard to get there. Then, schools starting canceling the youth group presentations, ‘not enough time these days, with the new standardized tests rules,’ apologetic teachers would explain. Soon, more and more members of the youth group got discouraged. ‘But, we’ll be ok,’ thought the remaining group, ‘we’ll come out of this.’ It took months before Hila realized that every meeting was spent discussing how bad things had gotten, that she and the remaining five members were holding on to a corpse. She promised the remaining five to keep in touch as their mentor, and together they ended the Imagine Project. ‘I had my dream, and I failed. That’s my story of ambition, dear friend,’ she would snarl at the moon. For years, she has felt pity in people’s eyes, they saw her as defeated.

A long time has passed, and Hila now feels she can hug her sorrow. ‘I did fail,’ she explains to her husband, who has processed these lessons with her for many years, ‘and I am glad I did. It is not that I am happy that the project ended and it was painful for many people involved. Yet, through the experience I discovered a trace of my ability to overcome, to fail and to wake up the next day. Deep in that sadness are hidden the joys of resilience and strength.’ Hila is not sure anymore what she will do some day. Today, she is teaching, and so far days are going well, one by one. Sometimes, students tell her stories, funny and sad, hopeful and frightening, and she hopes the moon is listening too. She’s still a bit unsure of her story; but after years of uncertainty, she is confident the moon is listening. ‘Neither you nor I know what happens tomorrow, and that, my friend, is the most exciting story one can tell.’

Celebrating Healing

2008-09-18T08:10:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone,

Hope you are well. I don't have too much to report from my end. Life has been good and interesting, and I feel thankful.

I am taking a storytelling class that is making me write a lot, so don't be surprised if some future entries are in story format.

This month, for my dad's birthday, I want to share with you all part of our story.

Thanks for being in my life,

Inbal

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

He walks in twice a week, always on time, rushing through the lobby as if going to an exciting meeting. Lap top, extra batteries, and work files slung on his shoulder, he walks through the corridors. He arrives in quick strides and the nurses waive, “Hi Guy! Great to see you this morning. How are you?”

“All good. I’ve had three cans of V8, a salted fish, and Inbal sprinkled some salt on top. Sodium levels should be a record high.”

He sets up his mobile office, and before the nurses even start the chemotherapy treatment, he is already on a conference call, “Yes, I am fine here, lots of people taking care of me. How are you? How’s the family?”

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

When I was young, my dad loved to support my curiosity.

“You have a project on flamingos! That is so exciting. We’ll go to the zoo and see them, and take some pictures,” he smiled enthusiastically and took out a piece of paper. Instead of opening the encyclopedia to the letter F and sending me to my room, he wrote a letter to the national zoo. They wrote back, inviting us to spend a day with the flamingo caretakers. My dad could get anyone to do anything with a letter. We spent the day at the zoo watching the flamingos, feeding them, interviewing the caretakers, and wondering what color they would be if they didn’t eat so many carrots.

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

Later in life, when I started to travel on my own, my dad self-titled his role as travel agent.

“My flight is delayed, so I have to stay the night in Philadelphia,” I announce with fall confidence, after a high-school speech and debate tournament. Five minutes later, he calls back, “you can stay at the airport hotel. There is a flight tomorrow morning at 8:30, and the customer service desk should have some meal vouchers for you. Have a sate trip back, we miss you.”

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

As the scope of my dreams expanded, so did his reach. During my first journey to Africa, to a small town in Eastern Ghana, my dad put aside his natural parental worries of malaria medicine and safety on decrepit buses, and engaged in my reactions to a new world around me: the kids I loved, the women I admired, the injustices that enraged me. When the phone lines went down for a week, I felt worried and anxious. When we finally connected after some time, he was calm. “The lines were down to a flood west of Accra, practically the entire country without communication! The ministry of internal works has had every person on this, seems today, they succeeded.”

“Did this make international news?” I ask, somewhat skeptical and bewildered.

“Oh, no no! Not a chance. I called some number I found online, made some friends, and they kept me in the loop.” I remember feeling safe, but also independent, the right amount of having someone to lean on and exploring on your own.

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

He’s done this a million times, every day; he is the enabler and organizer of our family. Directions, frequent flier miles, applications, rules, dates, and regulations, along side with jokes, stories, and pictures, he can tell you anything about any of us with a few clicks on his computer. These days, not much has changed, we might have changed our lives to be together in his time of need, but he still helps us to manage.

At the bone marrow tests performed every two months, the nurse comments, “you’re brave. Most people come in here contemplating when they’ll faint.”

“It will hurt a lot, I know,” he says, making a funny face, “but it will be ok after two days, so what’s the point getting all worked up. Besides, this is the last one.” He tells her this every two months with the same belief and determination that he is right this time.

I remember times I have been sick and the weight of the emotional gloom and doom and feeling sorry for myself that accompanied the physical discomfort. I wonder where people find strength to heal.

“How are you feeling, really?” I ask sometimes, when we managed to slow down and really talk.

“The body does it own thing, struggling, creating discomforts, but you have to control it and do what you need, or else this illness control you. Life moves on, and you say ok and move on with it.”

This week, when we celebrated his birthday, he cheered to “a big party this time next year, celebrating the end of this.” On his birthday, we celebrate that he has not surrendered to being ‘a sick person.’ That despite medical challenges, he is the same energetic father, friend, and colleague who loves us and is always there for us. We celebrate his personality, kindness, spirit, and humor. When the doctors find the treatment that works for my dad, they’ll be catching up to him because he already knows how to heal sickness by being true to himself.

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

Video by Kalpna

2008-08-29T08:04:00.000-07:00

This video was made by my friends Kalpna and Bisola for the Voices for Africa Conference, which a group of us organized together while at the Harvard Graduate School of Education.

To me the video is a celebration of diversity, as Kalpna explained in her own words: "This project shows how the simple act of talking to someone, especially of a different background, can have a significant, positive impact on the lives of youth."

In her memory, I hope that we can all continue to live with empathy, to celebrate diversity, and to do it all with a beautiful smile.

To watch the video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVVM9TGIvpI

A Teacher, and forever a student

2008-08-06T09:05:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone,

I usually write updates about recent events in my life, but this time I want to look back and remember a friend. A friend that I knew for a short-time but that has taken a big place in my heart. Kalpna Mistry, a friend and classmate from the Harvard Graduate School of Education (HGSE), passed away on August 4, 2008, in the Philippines. This update is in loving memory of Kalpna, and an attempt to share the amazing energy and beautiful smile she added to the lives of those around her.

I met Kalpna in September 2006, the beginning of our brief and intense year at HGSE. It was in the first days of schools, when a group of young adults behaves very much like first graders: selecting outfits for the first impressions, observing quietly and sensing the social order of interactions, trying to be remembered but not stand-out. It was at the first Voices for Africa meeting, a student group that for three years had organized an annual conference to highlight and discuss education issues in Africa. Were we up to the task of organizing the fourth conference? I remember my introduction being cautious, listing my previous connections to Africa, justifying to myself the involvement with the group, trying to receive acceptance. Kalpna introduced herself with a huge smile, ‘I’ll help with anything,’ she said. She did not know so much about Africa, she admitted without any pretense, but she wanted to learn, and she wanted to share with others as she learned, her students, fellow classmates, everyone, so eager to learn and teach from the very beginning.

In time, Kalpna became an essential part of the team. She came to every meeting with energy and new ideas. She livened up the room with stories from her student-teaching experiences, with questions, and with a wide, kind smile we all grew to love and count on. She worked with another friend on a youth engagement project, making a short video to open the conference with youth’s perceptions of Africa. We all wanted to portray the challenges alongside solutions and optimism, to confront the stereotypical image of Africa dire with despair. We named the conference Alive with Hope! And it was a hopeful day, with a 180 participants who gave their Saturday to learn about Africa, speakers sharing best practices and lessons learned about the connection between education, health, and human rights, an African lunch, an NGO forum for people to connect and interact, and even dancing to live West African drum music. We shared this amazing day as a team, a real team, where everyone contributed how they could, and it was an incredible feeling, the power of efforts coming together. After the conference Kalpna continued with enthusiasm, helping to organize smaller events, including a session on ideas for teaching about Africa. She was always bringing people together to learn from each other and improve the collective ability to teach others.

On a different day, Kalpna attended a workshop organized by another group I was a member of, Education for Global Citizenship. We organized a session about Global Classrooms, a program by the United Nations Association of Greater Boston with the aim of developing global understanding among students. I always wonder about these sessions; people listen, write down notes, ask a few questions, but outside the room, I’m not sure what happens. After the session, Kalpna asked questions about the program and how she could bring it to her secondary school. A few days later I put her in touch with the organizers of the program. That is how I will always remember Kalpna. She was never just learning, but always soaking in with incredible thirst all the opportunities around her. She never saw something interesting and waited passively to see how things work out, but rather took it upon herself to make it happen, to act. She made global classroom happen in her school, and more than that, with her guidance her students won the Massachusetts conference and were sent to New York for the national UN Model Conference. When I wrote Kalpna to congratulate her, she responded: “thanks sweets! It was all you - you planted the seeds. Thank you for working so hard this year - you impacted me and my students!”

We all work hard to leave the world a little bit better than we found it, and rarely to the results of our effort fold out in-front of us. Often, we carry on faith, that somehow, somewhere, in some complex hidden web of connections our kindness makes a difference. Kalpna reminded me to believe in the power of enthusiasm, dedication, and passion, that every day is an opportunity to impact someone in a way we can’t even imagine and might never understand. We’re like passengers on trains that cross each other occasionally and we get to wave, reach out, smile, and then we continue on our journeys, and often we don’t see the ripples of our interactions. Kalpna was the true embodiment of one of my favorite quotations, author unknown: "I shall pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again." Since Kalpna passed away so many people, her students, colleagues, classmates, and friends have left messages about how she impacted our lives. We probably should have said thank you earlier, but I hope she knows how fortunate we all feel to have known her, to be blessed with her energy.

Since we graduated from HGSE in June 2007, Kalpna and I exchanged one or two brief e mails. I went to Uganda, and she went to San Francisco. It probably would have been years before we would have seen each other again. And yet, her sudden departure from this world leaves a tremendous hole. Somehow, knowing that she is not in California, being an amazing teacher and bringing issues of compassion and social justice to her classes, makes me feel empty. We walk around with empty spaces for those we have lost. It is hard not to fill these spaces with sadness, but in memory of Kalpna, I hope to overflow the space in my heart with inspiration. Kalpna described her profession as a teacher (and forever a student), and I will forever be guided by her passion to understand and to share in all we do.

Not much to report on the home front, we are all well and continuing with work, medical treatments, and the simple joy of being all together.

Thank you for being in my life,

and a special thank you to Kalpna, I will always remember you.

Inbal

Kalpna and our team at the Voices for Africa Conference

The bonds that free us

2008-06-22T20:01:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone,

I hope you have been well. It has been a long time since I have written, and the hiatus has not been for lack of activity, but rather a temporary disconnect between thoughts and words.

A few weeks ago, Pierre finished his contract in Niger and arrived in Boston. Before settling into our new life together, we went to Vermont for a weekend. It was nice to get away from the city and spend some time hiking and enjoying beautiful views. During our hike, I was intrigued by the roots of the trees among us. The roots from each tree do whatever it takes to bring water and nourishment. The roots of some trees spread far and wide, capturing water for the tree, painting the ground with an intricate system of pathways. The roots of one tree have forced through a rock, struggling against the odds through the tough surface. As for forest is more dense, the roots dance around each other, entangled in a graceful competition, until each reaches deep into the ground to fetch water for the green leaves above. On the pine trees, the newest addition of leaves is a bright green, the green of youth ever reaching for the sky, away from the roots that make this growth possible. We come back feeling refreshed and the experiences of the past few months have settled deep enough to find meaning in the soul.

In May, I had the incredible opportunity to travel back to Uganda. The Bantwana Initiative, the organization I work for in Boston which supports children orphaned and made vulnerable by HIV and AIDS, is starting a new project in Western Uganda, supporting ten community groups to care for orphans in their communities. Western Uganda is stunningly beautiful, covered with green hills as far as the eye can see. The variety of greens, mixing and merging as the car zooms between the hills, seems like a painting of life. The mango trees are a wise green, dark and old with age, and appear especially dignified in contrast to the light, birth green of beans and corn, growing anew each year. The eucalyptus green is deceiving, dark as if mature with age, but somehow in its speed as the fastest growing tree, distinguishable as less experienced. The tea plantations are a succulent green, bursting with flavor and highlighting the bright-colored fabrics that adorn the women working for hours in the sun. In this painting of green, villages are hidden, communities flourish and struggle, and individuals grow and wilt. We visit a few community groups that have organized to provide services for orphans and vulnerable children. The community spirit is inspiring; when parents die and families are unable to take care of children left behind, the community steps in and protects. Whether it is through collecting money to send sick children to the hospital, or teaching adolescent to grow and sell pineapples to generate income, whether it is through protecting vulnerable children from those who might exploit them, or listening to worries and concerns with a compassionate ear, community members do what it takes to nourish the body and spirit of children so they can grow into healthy adults. The challenges are immense, but the roots of hope are there, and as part of Bantwana it is an honor to nourish those community roots, and although the support is modest, it is powerful. Working with the team in Uganda is fantastic and we always have interesting conversations. On another field visit, we travel to a remote region of Northern Uganda I have not been to before. There is something incredibly exhilarating about traveling on an unknown road, not knowing what to expect beyond the winding curves. As the road gets narrower and the bumps get larger, I feel thankful for the companionship of my colleagues and the comfort we have together; an unknown path is an adventure when one feels in good company. I feel thankful for all the positive experiences I have had in Uganda, a country where the earth, and air, and feeling make me stable enough to enjoy surprises. We drive across a swamp, a rice field, tiny villages, people resting by the road, and even a group of Ugandan Crested Cranes, majestic birds with golden feather crowns. At the end of our road, we meet with welcoming representatives of the community we are visiting and discuss potential ideas for working together, and on the way back we feel sufficiently welcomed that the road feels familiar and we’re on the way home.

In this busy work schedule, I manage to take two days off and rush to Gulu to visit family and friends. Arriving in Gulu is like being air-dropped into a memory. The overall feeling is familiar, like I never left. Baby Kilama is a bit older and growing teeth, Marion is finished school, and Samson and Babu can swim the length of the pool, but aside from these signals of growth and passage of time, the place feels the same. I go to the Windle Trust office and visit my colleagues whom I have missed and feel energized again about the project, about staying involved, and about how much it means to war-affected youth to go to school and dream of a future. I run into a student of the program on the street, and I am delighted to hear she is doing so well in school. By the end of one day, I feel the routine has waited for me, with its wonders and frustrations. We have dinner together, Betty’s and Mike’s large family, which consists of family, neighbors, and friends, and we enjoy the simple time together. The girls spend the night making me odi, the peanut paste that is so thick and delicious it coats every part of my mouth with the taste and memory of Gulu. Back in Kampala I see Betty, who is back and forth between Kampala, Gulu, and Juba, putting all her heart and soul into a peace process campaign with the LRA, which has recently ended without an agreement and fills our hearts with disappointment. I also see the Kampala girls, Betty’s daughters who attend university, and as we share our stories of the past few months and feel a renewed closeness, I feel thankful for the resiliency of friendship. Leaving Gulu almost six months ago, I felt an intense fear that departure symbolized an ending. As months go by the intensity withers but the fear lingers, that a place, a people, a life that meant so much is now in the past, something that was but not is and may not again be. Coming back to Gulu is an affirmation that it will always be in my life, the details may change, but the important aspects remain. Return is a confirmation that past bonds are strong enough to be sustained into the future. It is a sort of settling of roots in a place and people and memory that allow you to leave and come back and never leave at the same time. There is an immense freedom from being welcomed back.

Back at home, in Needham, we’re a full family, all my sisters are home, and with Pierre, we’re as large a family as we have ever been. Unfortunately, after five months on a clinical trial, my dad is not responding as well as hoped to the treatment, and in the coming month he will be changing to a new treatment. On the bright side, he is still feeling well and will take the break between treatments as an opportunity to go visit family in Israel. Certainly, this change is a bit of a setback, but my dad is so sure that in time he will be ok that these hills along the way do not set him off course. As I watch him go through these ups and downs, I am amazed at the speed and grace with which he shakes off frustrations and at the pure power of believing in a dream. He is so strongly attached to his optimism that he is freed from dwelling on concerns.

Among memories and dreams of Uganda, treasured moments with family, and looking forward to surprises of the future, I find myself amazed at the inner peace of the past few weeks. I realize that for those of us for whom home is not a place, we grow roots into people, feelings, memories, and dreams. Whether it is burrowing toes into earth, entangling fingers with someone who gives us strength, or sending seedlings of dreams into the sky, roots stabilize us through the ups and downs and nourish the soul. And while we may spend so much of our life trying to escape and overcome the paths forged for us by history, we struggle even more to settle roots that water our hopes. In the end, we find security and comfort in adhering to people, places, and memories we love, and it is these bonds that free us to explore, and grow, and come back.

Thank you for being in my life,

Inbal

Pictures from Uganda:

With the family, and baby Kilama

From Western Uganda,

With Betty and the girls, and Kampala from Above

Back in Needham, celebrating Pierre's arrival, and watching the Celtics win the championship

Beautiful Vermont:

Desperate Optimism

2008-04-27T18:38:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone,

I hope you have been doing well.

For those of you that have followed my updates for a few years now, you remember that I always learn something through public transportation. Well, Boston is no exception, and during my many rides on the T (Boston’s very old subway system), I meet some interesting people.

I met two very different women on the T the other day. The first woman is a bit strange; she has large and oddly vacant eyes and curly red hair, giving her a little bit of that crazy person look. She starts knitting very colorful sox as the train shakes and moves. After a few minutes, she turns to me, glances at the apple I am eating, and says that apples are the best snack. I nod in agreement, and between apple bites, we begin to talk. Turns out she is half blind, thus the strange looking eyes, but she makes an effort to live a normal life. She’s even learned to knit and ski, and plays ultimate frisbee with a team that has welcomed her and agreed to play with a bright orange Frisbee so she can see it better. She is taking her friend who is fully blind to ski in Colorado. He will have a full time instructor the entire time to give him verbal instructions. Even though people had hurt her, like her recent boyfriend who broke up with her because it was "too difficult" for him, she is so kind and interesting and open minded.

I get off the train to change grains, and while waiting, I notice this other lady, average looking, even pretty. She has an interesting and very intellectual conversation with her friend about social work and health care services for the poor. When her friend goes on another train, she begins to talk to me. We talk about social work, and all of a sudden she is angry, about Boston being taken over by immigrants who refuse to assimilate, about immigrants who dilute our good culture, until "our water turns their color." Immigrants who have no respect for women, and think they can come here and continue to be abusive, she says. I recognize the problem of people coming from societies with high rates of abuse towards women, and that it is unacceptable to use the “culture card” to justify violence again women, but I am uncomfortable by her generalizations. I can't keep quiet, and talk back about balance. “Immigrants also bring good additions to our culture and we do not want to lose that. And besides, Americans do not have all the answers either… I mean we produce more angry young people who shoot their university classmates for fun out of any country in the world.” But she is stuck in her anger and continues with comments about Asians being like this, and Blacks being like that, etc etc. I am relieved when she gets off the train. I feel embarrassed to even be next to her. She seems normal but anger her made her crazy, she seem smart but hatred is stupid, she seems pretty but there is nothing beautiful about prejudice.

I do not know these women and so I cannot judge them. However, from these brief interactions, I appreciate the power of attitude. One woman has chosen to blame the world for her woes, and the other had decided to make the best out of everything in life. The difference is in their attitudes, the decision to make life happy, the optimism to believe that it can be happy. I’ll always remember my friend on the train; though life has taken away her ability to see, she dazzles the world with brightly colored sox.

This amazing sense of optimism, reminds me of one of my best friends, Lindsey. When Lindsey’s auntie Nancy died of cancer last year, I remember the sense of anger that it was not fair that a person loved by so many is no longer with us. Lindsey could have drowned in that sadness, but she did not. In honor of her aunt, Lindsey decided to run the Boston Marathon as a fundraiser for the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. We’ve talked about this often, and between her law school papers and other responsibilities, Lindsey is determined to support others to win the battle against cancer. In a few months, Lindsey raises over $10,000 in donations for Dana Farber. A few days ago, we have the privilege of watching Lindsey run a marathon. My dad made a lovely poster, Run Lindsey Run, and along with my mom we join the crowd of supporters on the course. Lindsey runs by us, and 18 miles into the race, she manages to smile, wave, and say “Guy, you are my hero.” My dad is very touched and happy, and I, the eternal sentimentalist, break down in tears of joy, and happiness, and sadness. I then rush to the T, to try to see Lindsey at the finish line. People are being super nice on the T even though we are cramped like sardines. A nice woman has her blackberry and is checking people’s time online for everyone. Lindsey is running fast and at the rate the T is going, she’ll get to the finish line before me! We’re all talking to each other about our friends and family who are running, and there is a sense of unity around this simple event of having loved ones on the running course. I wonder why we can’t find this unity every day. We all love our children and friends in their life courses, but somehow we find it harder to unite around our more abstract similarities. After the finish line, as Lindsey is struggling to step over the side-walk curb, I realize it is purely on the strength of will power that she ran the marathon. We often wave off optimism and something foolish, silly, perhaps even naïve. There is something incredibly real, inspiring, and foolishly powerful about positive energy that carries a person 26.2 miles.

The power of optimism is a good opportunity to update you about the Football Tournament for Peace in Kibera. Earlier this year, in the aftermath of post-election violence in Kenya, many of us watched Kenya with great concern. During one of many worried phone calls and text messages to friends in Kenya, a dear friend of mine shares the idea of a football tournament for peace in Kibera, as an opportunity to bring the community back together. From this conversation, the idea is written into a document, shared with other friends in Kenya and abroad, discussed over the phone again and again. Within a week or so, we decide to really go for it, to make this event happen. People in Kibera join the effort and soon enough we have an organizing team on the ground, with individuals whose commitment to this cause is phenomenal and whose creativity makes this idea their own. We ask for support from friends and family, and the response is overwhelming. People care about Kenya, about peace, about not watching suffering with indifference, about giving hope a chance. In less than two months, we raise $4,500 to support youth activities for peace and non-violence in Kibera. On April 17-20, the tournament took place in Kibera. In the days leading to the event, 100 students were educated on peace and non-violence. In the tournament, 640 youth, both boys and girls, played in football matches, watched by over 1000 community members who gathered from all parts of Kibera. The tournament brought together groups from various villages within the slum - in this way breaking down fears of moving outside their own “safe” areas which many residents have faced since the unrest. Local women’s groups, in-school youth, artists and musicians participated by performing skits, songs and poems about peace and non-violence at the event. The most amazing aspect for me has been the formation of a true coalition for peace in Kibera. The organization of this tournament brought together community groups and non-governmental organizations who after seeing the power of working together are considering continuing the coalition into the future. Thank you all for your support, this experience has taught me the force of optimism to turn an idea into reality.

And yet sometimes our optimism is challenged, and our hope humbled, and the world really is a tough place. I was recently in Paris, on a wonderful visit with Pierre and his family. We had a lovely time, a magical week, of meeting family and friends, enjoying art, savoring delicious food (and cheese!) and cherishing our moments with each other. In the midst of this joy, we come across a beautiful photo exhibition outside the Luxemboug gardens. The exhibit has pictures from the past 30 years of various events and places in the world. The mixture of spectacular places, beautiful people, and devastating events and circumstances is challenging to see. We live in such a beautiful world, and yet there is so much bad in it. I feel a bit silly, standing in beautiful Paris, hand-in-hand with my loved one, and shedding tears in front of a picture of mother and her son in a Darfur internally displaced persons camp. I realize in this moment just how much we need each other, all of us, loved ones and strangers; how we depend on love and happiness to protect our optimism and hope when the world seems so dark.

Here is Boston we are doing well. I am working on Uganda programs for the Bantwana Initiative at World Education, and it keeps me somehow connected the my beloved Uganda.

My father is continuing with his clinical trial and his numbers are improving slowly. On May 10, he will be walking 5 kilometers to raise money for the Multiple Myeloma Research Fund. You can support his effort at: www.active.com/donate/bos08/teamorbotech

I find it remarkable that through his personal health struggles, he can see with hope into the future, not only for himself, but for others, a world without cancer.

Gandhi said “be the change you wish to see in the world,” but perhaps before we can be the change, we need the hope to believe in it. So I try to be the hope I wish to feel in the world; to start each day with a desperate search for optimism, look for it like it is gold, search for it in people’s eyes, gasp for it like it is oxygen needed to breathe, and find it in the most unexpected places, a smile, an act of kindness. I savior it, hang on to it when I can. When a blind woman is knitting, admire her. When a friend is crazy enough to run a marathon and raise 10,000, support her absolutely. When someone shares an idea, act on it. It may seem desperate, but in the end, we are all looking for our own way to both save the world and savior it, and optimism is the fuel that keeps us going.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal

Pictures from the tournament in Kibera:

One of the girls teams, and the crowds in Kibera

Coalition members talking about peace and non-violence

Pictures from Paris:

With my dad:

The best we can

2008-03-09T17:09:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, after waiting with my mother in the kitchen and talking, I go upstairs to check where my father is? He has promised to make us his famous coffee, using the very loud coffee machine. I find him in his office, sitting by his computer, and looking hard at work. I glance at the screen over his shoulder to see what has delayed our caffeine intake, and I am perplexed by the different graphs adorning the computer screen. “These are all my test results, layered on top of the treatment cycles, and the other indicators.” I try to understand. “See over here,” he says while pointing at an intersection, “that’s now, when I feel pretty well.” Eventually, we get our coffee, and it is good, very good. In thinking about my dad’s graphs and enjoying his professionally brewed coffee, I think that he has responded to all of life’s recent mysteries in the most authentic manner, in a way that is so exactly him. When there is a challenge, he tries to understand, and this time around, he is trying to understand what is happening inside his cells. When we need support, he is always ready to give, a kind smile, an uplifting cup of coffee.

Just yesterday, I attended an event called “Crisis, Creativity, and Courage,” organized by Physicians for Human Rights (http://www.physiciansforhumanrights.org/), in honor of International Women’s Day. Throughout the symposium we hear from artists who share poems, stories, songs and music related to the challenges faced by women around the world. Two women with beautiful voices sing a song of solidarity for women in Darfur. “We are all connected,” they sing with confident and emotional voices that carry loudly across the auditorium and fill the otherwise cold room with emotions. Another artist reads monologues by women. Although she is portraying women from far away places with experiences that seem farther than imagination, her ability to act takes us all outside our homes, our skins, our realities, into the lives of these women: a young girl in Morocco who is forced to marry at age 15, an Afghani mother in Holland who is a refugee with her children. The author of Monique and the Mango Rains, Kris Holloway, shares with us her experience of living in Mali, and why 20 years later she still feels passionate about community work in her host village. She reminds us all that if we define community as the people we love and care about, than there is no reason to stop our caring at the end of our street, or town, or country, or even continent. Towards the end, a group of young women share their stories of human rights work, and I feel honored to be among them, sharing what I have learned from the girls of Northern Uganda: the importance of hope and livelihoods in a human rights framework. In the evening, we are all treated to beautiful classical music, played passionately by the Longwood Symphony Orchestra, composed of physicians-musicians who in their work add years to life, and with their music, give meaning to years.

Listening to the beautiful orchestra, I look at all the talented people around me, and I can’t help but be thankful for the diversity. We all deal with the good and the bad events in a personal way, in a manner that makes sense with who are, our talents, skills, and passions. We often think, desperate times call for grand measures, and I think that pressure can lead to inaction. The best we can ask of ourselves is to respond in the best way we can, in our individual way, which is unique, and different, and important.

In response to the post-elections violence in Kenya, I have been involved with amazing groups of people that in the face of crisis have responded with creativity and courage. With the power-sharing agreement signed between the government and the rival parties, it is more important than ever to keep the momentum for peace, non-violence, and reconciliation in Kenya. Kibera is Kenya’s largest slum and like other slums in Kenya, it has borne the brunt of post-election violence and destruction. Home to an estimated one million inhabitants of mixed ethnic descent, the violence has polarized communities that have lived in peace for many years. Youth in Kibera want to shine again in the best way they can. They want to play football (soccer) and run across the fields with joy that showcases that friendships outlast violence and joy resurfaces from the worst of times. They want to sing and dance and share messages of what is important to them, to their future.

In response to these needs, I have worked with friends to support the Coalition for Peace in Kibera, a consortium of community-based organizations and interested individuals, led by the Community Support Group, who are committed to restoring peace and multi-ethnic harmony in Kibera slum in Nairobi. The Coalition is organizing a football tournament for peace on April 17-21, 2008. The football tournament for peace will be a great opportunity to bring together residents of Kibera in the spirit of peace and reconciliation. Youth will play football games in mixed ethnic teams to showcase reconciliation and enjoying together. Most importantly, youth will not only play football, but also present messages for peace. Youth will be engaged before the tournament to design peace messages, thereby building their skills as mediators and representatives of peace in their communities. The event will also showcase leaders who promote peace, as well as provide an opportunity for organizations working in Kibera to showcase their services. The planning for the tournament is well underway, and we need your support, in any way you can, by making a donation, by telling your friends, by sharing ideas with us about peace initiatives and youth programs. To make donations go to https://www.kiberafoundation.org/communities_together.asp and make sure you write “Kibera Football Tournament” in the comment box to designate your donation for this event. Every little bit helps, and with your support, I am hoping to raise $1000 for peace education in Kibera.

When I think about my dad’s graphs or about people who have suffered in Kibera, I wish with all my heart there was more I could to help, that I could solve complex scientific questions or compose music of peace. But my way is to write, and it is the best I can do. And as I write, I hope that the words dance in front of your eyes with various experiences; that words sing in your ears memoirs of a distant friend; that these few moments of reading heal a hidden scar that perhaps we share. As I write, I hope that these words connect us, collect us from chair in front of computer screens, and transport us to a future where we dare to imagine the beautiful potential of humanity, and future where we all care about each other.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal

Some pictures from my time to Kibera in June 2006

Chemotherapy for the Soul

2008-02-12T18:04:00.000-08:00

“Cancer is a group of diseases in which cells are aggressive (grow and divide without respect to normal limits), invasive (invade and destroy adjacent tissues), and sometimes metastatic (spread to other locations in the body)” (Wikipedia).

Sometimes, on the long train-ride home, anonymous among a tight crowd of people that ride in silence, I think negative thoughts. Its sounds like an odd confession, but even the eternally optimistic have difficult moments. The “what ifs” and the “why us” and occasional the “it’s not fair” creep into my mind and with watery eyes I fight back the tears. Negative thoughts are a lot like cancer; they are aggressive, invasive, and seem to spread quickly in the mind. After a long day my mind drifts, and then, without warning, a negative thought appears, in the corner of my brain, a black spot. It is aggressive and moves all the other thoughts out of the way, worst; it invades the positive thoughts with doubt. Soon, the negative though is everywhere; it has taken over, ridiculing any attempt at a smile, a dream, or a joyful memory. I step off the train, and usually my father is waiting to pick me up with a warm car and smile, and I think, “we’ve survived to fight another day, and that is a reason to enjoy.”

Life has been about a lot of adjustments in the past month. At home, we are used to my father being the most energetic of all of us. As a kid, I used to tell my friends, in a state of bewilderment, how when my father walks next to candles, they blow out from the wind. In high school, my father and I amazed friends and family when we managed to see most of Los Angeles in two days; for us, vacation meant making the most of 48 hours. Therefore, it is hard to see my father feeling tired sometimes, not having the physical energy to keep up with his lively spirit. Though he has been feeling fine most of the time, it is even harder to see him sick, in the hospital. Despite these tough adjustments for all of us at home, my father has kept us all laughing. Those of you who read his blog (http://guyalon.blogspot.com/) know the jokes, about being a test-bunny in the clinical trial, about meeting a drug dealer in the hospital, about staying motivated at work so he could go to Italy for work meetings and enjoy the food. Laughter is perhaps the best medicine for pessimism. It does not simply fight back the negative thoughts; instead it takes the mind and shakes it all up, by the time the chaos of joy settles, you have a new perspective.

In development work, we tend to refer to working abroad as being in the field; not being in the field is hard for me. Though people often ask “how does it feel to be back in civilization” and with our many comforts, I often wonder why it is the most people don’t ask “how does it feel to be away from Uganda?” While my life in Uganda was certainly not glamorous, and at times even difficult, I loved my time there. I enjoyed waking up every morning and being around a family that infuses me with their support of each other, going to work with students who inspire me with their strength, and discussing with teachers who persevere in the face of tremendous challenges. There is a sense of satisfaction in the daily interactions with people, the small tasks, and the relationships. Being away from all of that is hard. And yet, I have been extremely lucky. In a city without a plethora of international development opportunities, I have been fortunate enough to work with Bantwana on issues regarding orphans and vulnerable children, a topic dear to my heart. Although I do not see the children daily, nor work with their caregivers, I find hope in the work that we do, in the belief that each small grant, each report, each document we write up, contributes to their well-being. It would be hard to see this big picture -- the children assisted by memos, the communities uplifted by long technical proposals for funding, and the lives changes among the mountains of paperwork -- were it not for my wonderful World Education colleagues, who support me in a steep learning curve and energize me with their own dedication to others. I’m also inspired by my work with the Human Rights Committee at Harvard. I’m working on a unit about children’s rights for a high school class at Boston Latin, and it is an interesting experiment for me in teaching about international rights frameworks, and indirectly, about compassion.

Among these ups and down, I find solace in books, in worlds far far away and friends who share fascinating stories. I recently finished, The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. In the book there is a character called May and in describing her the narrator says, "see, when you and I hear about some misery out there, it might makes us feel bad for a while, but it doesn't wreck our whole world. It is like we have a built in protection around our hearts that keeps the pain from overwhelming us. But May - she does not have that. Everything just comes into her - all the suffering out there - and she feels as if it is happening to her. She can't tell the difference."

At times I feel like May, like I can look at a person and share their stories. When I walk to the subway stop, I cross over the bridge and look at Boston, the high buildings with all the lights against the dark sky. I think about what those lights mean. Each light is an office, an apartment, a store. Each office, a person, a life, a story. I think of love, and I
imagine a couple holding hands and chatting in the office. I wish for them happiness, as much happiness as I know is possible from love. I think of my dad. I know somewhere in those tall bright buildings is someone who survived cancer. I admire that person, her strength, his resilience. Somewhere in those cold cubicle spaces is someone holding back tears, also thinking of a loved one fighting an illness. I want to give that person a hug and I hope someone will. I look at the lights and I see people, people I don't know, and yet I feel like I do. It can be beautiful -- the life in a city -- silent, organized, but with a bit of imagination every bit as real.

At times I feel like May, sharing the pain of the world’s troubles, and these days it is hard to be a world citizen. With Chad threatening to expel 300,000 refugees from Darfur, violence continuing in Kenya, and the ongoing turbulence in Iraq, it is tough to find hope. I talk to friends in Kenya who support their families through fearful times, who think about channels for peace, who wake up every morning and hope for a better day. I remember that hope is a choice and strength is practiced. There is something we can all do. If you feel the threat of being displaced, again, even after escaping genocide in Darfur, check out the Genocide Intervention Network (http://www.genocideintervention.net/) and take a stand. If you feel how fragile life is, that a country as brilliant and remarkable as Kenya can fall victim to political ambitions and greed, check out how the Stephen Lewis Foundation is supporting communities (http://www.stephenlewisfoundation.org/) or how Kenyans in the US are organizing for their brothers and sisters at home (http://www.vumakenya.org/). And there are other causes, and we all connect to humanity in different ways, the key is to connect.

Sometimes we all need a little hug, a smile, and encouragement to overcome the sad moments. People battling cancer, though strong in spirit, need a little bit of help from researchers and new treatments. My friend Lindsey is running the Boston Marathon for Dana Farber, in order to raise funds for cancer research. To find out more about her journey and to support her efforts, check out http://www.runlindsrun.org/

Negative thoughts are easy to drown in; they surround you and deceive with false promises of numbness and apathy. But you can fight these thoughts, with hope, support, and a little bit of faith in the positive. I think of you all, my friends and family, who have been so incredibly supportive and although I do not have a clinical trial to prove this, I know, you are chemotherapy to the soul.

And all of this happens in an instant, a brief moment on the train, and then I overcome, we overcome, and life goes on, as it always does.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal

Our cat, Shadow, in her favorite place

With parents out of dinner

With my sisters

At an art gallery in Western Mass.

With my dad

A time to share

2008-01-19T06:21:00.001-08:00

Hey everyone,

I hope you are well. I wish you a happy (belated) New Year. I have not written for a long time, and a lot has changed in my life, and so it seems this is a time to share.

A new café opened for the large (and rapidly growing) expatriate population in Gulu. I mean a real proper yuppie café, with beautiful decorations, wooden furniture, an espresso machine, movies on Friday nights, and pancakes on Sunday mornings. I wonder how that fits with everyone’s war-zone stereotypes of Gulu, and hopefully it is an indication of peaceful times ahead. All benefits from the café go to support a children and youth art centre, and in order to promote the work of the centre, there is a beautiful exhibition of photographs taken by children in Gulu. The pictures portray everything, from the home, to the farm, to the camps, to the schools, and in order to present them all together, the theme chosen was: A time to… Each photograph shows a time to: a time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones, a time to plant, and a time to uproot, and time to cry and a time to laugh, a time for war and a time for peace. It is a creative show, and it has really made me think, there is a time for everything in life.

At work we have been very busy with organizing one-day educational workshops for our sponsored students. The purpose of the workshops is to supplement the secondary educational programme with topics that enrich the lives of students and motivate them to stay in school. We invite a hundred students at a time, and it is so much fun to interact with them on a more personal level. A couple of the workshops focused on career guidance and future planning, encouraging students to think about their future in a positive way, and strive towards their goals. Students got to interact with professionals from many fields and it was amazing, with a little bit of support, to see dreams grow in their eyes. Another workshop focused on communications skills through debating and performing arts. Students got to go on stage and present their talents, and it was wonderful to celebrate them. The last two workshops were for girls, and we talked about career planning, staying in school, reproductive health, and women’s leadership. The girls were so enthusiastic. We had honest conversations throughout the day. The one that affected me the most was about motivating ourselves despite challenges. One of the girls, who I have known quite well and has had a series of bad experiences because of the war, says when she feels really down she tells herself, “suffering is not the end of me.” I was amazed that at such a young age she has so much wisdom, that life is not about avoiding suffering, but realizing there is more joy afterwards. At the end of the workshop, we play the girls a song by India Arie called Beautiful Flower; they listen and sing along, and the sparkle in their eyes makes me feel proud, that for a brief day, we’ve give our students a time to dream.

On another day, I attend a girl’s advocacy day regarding reproductive health. An organization called Marie Stopes Uganda has trained young women in the internally displaced persons camps to be counselors. As girls who live in the camp, they are much more trusted and accessible than organizations coming into the camps for brief visits. On the advocacy day, the girls prepare a variety of presentations, speeches, songs, dances, and a photo exhibit. Their main concerns are sexual violence in the camps, early marriage, and being forced to drop out of school. They remind us there is still so much work to do with girls, and to be humble, because they are the real heroes. It is their time to speak and our time to listen.

On another day at work, it is a time to learn. Colleagues from GUSCO, a local organization providing counseling services to children and youth affected by war, came to train our staff on counseling skills. The most interesting conversation of the day was about the differences between sympathy and empathy, and the importance of empathy in counseling. The differences are subtle, but they feel important. We can think of sympathy as feeling sorry for someone. Empathy is trying to understand what someone feels like in a situation that may be unfamiliar to us. Sympathy is feeling sorrow that someone has to walk a hard path. Empathy is putting on their shoes and walking besides them. Acts of sympathy are motivated by a desire to feel better, to remove our own sorrow at others’ suffering, and are therefore driven by our own needs. Acts of empathy are motivated by compassion and kindness to the needs of others. Sympathy dulls over time, the more we hear about difficult circumstances of others, the more we desensitize ourselves to the pain. Empathy grows exponentially: the more we can see the world through the eyes of others, the more we yearn to act. Sympathy often leads us to work on behalf of people, empathy to work together.

Out of work, I am still living at Betty’s and Mike’s house, and the time home is a time to love. On Sundays, I take Baboo and Samson to the pool. They learn to swim and play with other children, and it is so wonderful to enjoy special moments together. Marion and Esther, two of Betty’s daughters, teach me how to make beads out of recycled paper. We make a few beautiful necklaces. Marion has a new job, and we go to buy her a bicycle to get to work. At home, it is the new toy, and everyone takes turns riding around the compound. At thanksgiving, my friend Jessica hosts a lunch, and we share with our Ugandan friends some of our traditions. At the end of the day, despite the detailed explanations of the tradition of thanksgiving and the large amount of stuffing prepared, Samson still says his favorite part of thanksgiving is the unlimited soda and the cartoons on Jessica’s TV. One day, a small kitten arrives at our house. Everyone decides he is my cat. I name him Cooch, which means peace, and from that day on he waits for me everyday at the entrance to the compound. My Ugandan family thinks I am a bit nuts for treating this cat like a baby, but it provides good entertainment for all at home. We spend the nights talking and watching Pilipino tele-novelas. And into this mix of joy, one normal morning, arrive Lakot and Kilama, and change my life in Gulu. Lakot is the daughter of one of Betty’s relatives. She is a young shy girl, with curious eyes and a soft smile. She has dropped out of school in her fifth year of primary school, after getting pregnant. She stays at one of the camps with her baby, Kilama, a chubby little boy, with soft brown skin, puffy hair, and large eyes. They’ve come because he is sick. They go to the hospital and he is treated for malaria. In a few days, he is healthy again and full of smiles. He is such a sweet baby, even when he pees on me through the cloth diapers. I hold him as soon as I get home, I sing to him French love songs, I tell him stories, he learns to crawl and stands up when we hold him. It is hard for me to watch Lakot struggle to take care of baby Kilama. She has so few opportunities in life, and now those challenges are passing on to her child. After a few conversations, I decide to support Lakot to attend a tailoring school for one year. The school has a daycare and she can attend with baby Kilama. She is scheduled to start in February. When you love, and you can, there is always a time to give. One evening, my friend Jessica is hosting a Wangoo, an Acholi practice of sitting around a bone-fire and telling stories. I sit with my Ugandan family, and Mike is telling us all stories of joyous times, and times of war, of hopes for peace, and of past memories, and it is wonderful to have this time together.

It has taken a long time, but I feel like I have settled in Gulu, that I have a life here. But life is always unpredictable. I receive a phone call from my father who sadly tells me that he has been diagnosed with cancer. He is beginning treatment, chemotherapy and eventually a stem-cell transplant, but the road to recovery is a long one. I listen and though he is the one with the illness, he is comforting me. It is a hard night, a time to cry. But I learn from my father, and in the morning it is a time to be strong. I remember that suffering is not the end, and somehow the pain opens my heart to empathy, like a wound that’s open. It is a strange overwhelming feeling, like I can hear stories as people walk by, feel challenges in people around me. It is painful, but it is also wonderful. Happiness is often fleeting, momentary, and very personal, and we rarely understand what makes other people happy. But in suffering we find a common bond, a shared optimism, an ability to understand each other, and oddly, a determination towards shared happiness.

I know in my heart I need to be home with my family. Now is the time to leave. I leave Gulu with sad goodbyes and a deep feeling in my heart that there will be a time to come back.

On route to Boston, I visit family in Israel and learn the amazing bond that exists in family, how despite time and distance, you always have a credit for kindness with family. I stop in Nairobi, Kenya, on Christmas Eve and visit friends who are also my family. By the time I get off the plane in Boston, Nairobi is in chaos over a fraud election, and although all my friends are ok, I feel deep sorrow that such wonderful people have yet again been robbed of a bright future.

Setting back in Boston for the next six months is going well, mostly thanks to good friends and my incredibly resilient family. I’ll be working part-time with Bantwana, an initiative for orphans and vulnerable children in Africa, based at World Education, a Boston-based international organization. I’ll also be doing some work with the Harvard University Committee on Human Rights. Despite the challenges, I’ve learned that even a long a tough road, there are times to enjoy and a time to be thankful.

If you think of my family as we support my father through his battle with cancer, think of us with empathy and with a prayer for health. Mostly, think of us with smiles for the incredible lessons we are learning from my father about the strength of the human spirit.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal

Student workshops in Gulu and Kitgum

The market in Gulu

At home

The cows coming back from grazing and interrupting laundry day

My cat, Cooch.

Lakot and Kilama, and Kilama, Cooch, and I.

Learning to make paper beads with Marion

Samson and Kilama enjoying the new toy

Goodbye partys

A street view of Kampala

Friends in Nairobi

Knots and Beads

2007-11-11T21:19:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone,

I apologize for the long silence.

It has been a month and a half of intense experiences, some wonderful, others challenging. When I think about it all at once so that I can share with you, it feels like a journey to the highest mountains and the lowest valleys without the ascents and descents in between. Experiences have felt abrupt, like songs that fill completely the empty space in the soul and then go quiet.

October started with the plan to visit Pierre in Niger (yes, it rhymes!). After a long journey from Gulu to Kampala, I arrive at Entebbe airport in the middle of the night. I stand in line patiently, though inside I am overflowing with excitement. I go up the counter, the lady types on the computer, and types some more and a bit more and I wish she told me what is going on. She asks “do you have a visa for Niger?” I look at her with hesitation, “can’t I get one at the airport upon arrival?” For a moment, she looks at me with pity, but then with the long line behind me and departure time approaching, she is back to her job, and I am in the way. She tells me to wait for the manager. He is not as sympathetic. There are rules, and there are financial consequences to airlines that break the rules. In this age of anti-terrorism and anti-immigration, you are not really a human being without a passport and a visa. I plead and try to find different options, but after a while, I become easy to ignore. Eventually, I accept that I will not be traveling, and as I wait to find out about what to do next, the disappointment settles in and it is overwhelming. My mind wonders… and I realize that people seeking asylum must go through similar processes. They must get to another country to claim asylum, and yet it has become more and more difficult to travel without proper documents. I can imagine the fear of being sent away after you have used all your savings to arrange an escape, the hope that someone working at the counter will see you as a human being, and the reality that failing to travel results in harsher consequences than disappointment, a real threat to life. I feel sad, not just for myself, but that we live in a world with so many imaginary divides that set us apart from each other.

I go back to Gulu, immediately, in the middle of the night feeling sad and disappointmented, my instinct is to go home, and that ends me on a bus Gulu, and it feels nice. As Pierre is sorting out visa documents, I get lucky and a group of friends invites me to Murchison Falls. I have heard of this place since my childhood; my grandfather and father visited Uganda and the park during their two years in Ethiopia. I am excited to visit and be the third generation in our family to see the place. On the first day, we drive to the top of Murchison Falls. The Nile River is wide and mystical. You walk along towards the sound of water so loud all other thoughts stop. Then, the entire Nile merges into a thin gorge and the water swirls, sprays, and dances. It is an amazing site. We walk along and take a path down to the river, from there the falls are impressive, and below the river continues. Within a hundred meters of the falls, the water settles as if undisturbed by the impressive falls in its path. Perhaps, we can learn from the Nile.

On the next day, we drive around the park and see many animals. The elephants are impressive, the giraffe comical, the buffalos sturdy, and the large variety of antelopes, hearty beasts, and bush bucks graceful. The park rangers are setting some tall grasses on fire, in order to prevent natural fires, and the animals gather together. In the face of fear, the animals congregate, and it is beautiful to see them all together. Later in the day, from a boat on the river, we see hippos and crocodiles, the real owners of the Nile. We relax in the evening, a cold glass of passion juice by the pool overlooking the Nile and life could not be better.

Back in Gulu, work is at a difficult phase. Even a program as large as the Acholi Bursary Scheme cannot help everyone who needs assistance. It is difficult to say no to people seeking assistance, and often it breaks my heart, though I recognize that keeping the project under control also protects it and assists beneficiaries. When I arrived, sponsoring students to be in schools seemed like a simple idea, an easy path to reconciliation and reintegration. As I spend more time doing this work, the nuances are revealed, and I am filled with questions that keep me up at night. We help students with everything we can, scholastic materials, uniforms, medical treatment, and yet there are always requests for more. “But Madam,” has replaced “thank you” completely, as every gesture of assistance is met with continuing requests. I talk to students, trying to understand.

“How did you get shoes before we sponsored you to be in school?”
“Well, you know Madam, we really struggled, somehow we found a way.”

It saddens me that providing assistance has dulled this spirit to struggle, the creativity to find solutions, the dedication people have to improving their own life. There is power in helping yourself, and unintentionally perhaps, assistance has disempowered. This question lingers, painfully, without answers, how can assistance be empowering? Perhaps there can be requirements for receiving assistance, in our case, academic performance, and demonstration of effort. However, such requirements could also be problematic in that they may exclude the most vulnerable, those most in need of assistance.

“Well, you know, we are happy to support you, but it does not mean life becomes easy, you still have to struggle for some things.”

That’s the best answer I have for now, that assistance can support but also allow space for personal struggles, because without such struggled, do we ever really achieve anything?

There are also incredibly positive moments at work. We’ve been visiting schools, and as part of the visit giving students some information about human rights. The information is basic, a list of the most common human rights, examples of human right violations, and contact information for medical, social, and legal assistance. “Information is power,” I tell students whom I hope are listening. In the aftermath of war, there is still so much violence, especially against women and children, and perhaps the worst part is the normalcy around this violence, as if it is somehow expected. It feels significant to inform them that such incidents are not ok, that there are people who can try to help, at the very least; it feels like the first step. During these visits, we are also doing a survey, to see how students are doing in their lives, and their challenges. A simple survey can say so much, and it feels good to base program decisions based on the needs of youth. We are also referring some youth for counseling. I meet with bright young people, smart, beautiful, brave, and resilient, and yet their life feels on the edge; it could easily go either way, and it is without outmost concern and hope that we refer them to professional counselors, praying that with assistance they can overcome the trauma of this war. A young man shares he saw his father being killed, a young lady recalls how after surviving her abduction, the most painful experience was being rejected by her family. With peace on the horizon, there is an atmosphere of forgiveness, which is helping, and yet healing is personal, and it takes time. One day, I meet a group of nine students and we go together to the counseling centre. Our car is in Kampala, so we hop on boda-bodas, two on each, and set off. As our bodas pass each other on the road, we make jokes and wave at each other, and by the time we arrive, they are all happy, and seem comfortable to start what will be an emotional counseling process. Their smiles in those fleeting moments shine bright, so very bright.

Within a few weeks, my visa for Niger has been arranged. I set off for the long journey, attempt number two. This time I make it all the way to Niger. My time there is magical. It is a pleasure to see Pierre and to experience his life there. It is my first time in this part of Africa, and although it is very different, it feels oddly familiar, like the cousin of a best friend, new and exciting, but also reassuring and comfortable. Niamey is a lovely town. In the middle of the dry city, the Niger river sparkles, the green rich and lush against the sandy backdrop. The people are kind, and French language along side the local languages, Hausz and Zarma, sing in my ears. The culture is rich with nomadic tribes, most notably the Tuareg, whose ability to outlast the desert is legendary. At the museum we marvel at silver jewelry and leather boxes carved to amazing details by local artisans. The food is delicious, both the local dishes, and the French cheese and baguettes. We make a few day trips, one to see wild giraffes among millet fields, another to see the sand dunes, and yet another to the river bank. We meet people and walk around the city. The heat is so strong it guides everything, when to walk outside, when to be near a fan, and when it is time to rest. One afternoon, we wonder to the main market. We purposely get lost among isles of perfumes, jewelry, cloth, vegetables, meat, plastic, home accessories, and toiletries. The colors and smells all mix together and it feels like walking through a surreal painting. In conversations with friends and colleagues, I find fascinating the diversity of influences, French, nomadic, traditional, west African, north African, Muslim, linguistic, and tribal. Pierre’s kindness to others is reflected in their hospitality to me, and at the end of a short visit, I feel sad to leave what feels like yet another home.

On the way back to Uganda, I spend a day in transit in Bamako, Mali. Bamako is a lively huge city. It is bustling with people and cars and colors of women’s bright dresses and men’s elegant West African clothes. At the national museum, I am amazed of the intricate wooden carvings of the national animal, the gazelle, which rival Chinese dragons in their mystique. The woven rugs would shine with skill even next to the best of Persian carpets. The buildings, of which the mud-brick giant mosques are the most famous, withstand the test of time, in both strength and elegance, and stand beautifully as surviving testaments of an ancient civilization. I like that pre-colonial history has been preserved in this part of Africa, that it is remembered with pride. It makes me even more proud to love Africa.

Back in Gulu, I have the unpleasant experience of meeting one of the former commanders in the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), the group that has been involved in the twenty year conflict in the north of Uganda. As part of the amnesty act, he is now an ordinary civilian, free to live his life in Gulu like the rest of us. I look at this man, who has caused suffering to thousands of people, and I can’t help but think that he is pathetic, an old broken man with little charm, charisma, or skill. If people here who have lived through this war are willing to forgive him than so am I, what makes me sick in my stomach is that this pitiable man was capable for causing so much harm. In him I see the overwhelming sad truth that it is so much easier to destroy than it is to create, that any pathetic man and his buddies can start a war, but it takes a visionary leader to reconcile and reconstruct after war. He comes to represent all the sad times that as humanity we have allowed the bad minority to overwhelm the complacent good majority.

Meanwhile, the peace talk consultations have started. The LRA representatives are here in Gulu and discussions about justice and forgiveness are ongoing. Overwhelmingly, people are willing to forgive in order to have peace. As I sit on our veranda and write to you, I watch the road, people walking in the evening sun, children laughing, our growing herd of cows coming back from grazing, people hanging laundry on the line, and the normalcy of it all is overwhelmingly joyful. Everyday, I watch colleagues, friends, and strangers rebuild their life from experiences most of us can’t even imagine and the loss of loved ones, which we all dread. I learn here that happiness and sadness are not opposites.

I think of a quotation from The Red Tent by Anita Diamant: “the painful things seemed liked knots on a beautiful necklace, necessary for keeping the beads in place.” Perhaps that is why experiences have felt abrupt, the knots next to the beads, the songs interrupting the silence. Continuing along the journey, I hope that the promise of more beads will make the knots easier to accept, though more likely both joy and sadness overwhelm us and it is only in retrospect that we recognize the tight lessons we’ve learned from knots and the immense beauty and fragility in delicate beads of happiness.

Thank you for being in my life.
Inbal

More Pictures

Student answering the survey

Views from Murchison Falls, Uganda National Park

Views from Niger

Pictures from Niamey

The Niger River

The Sand Dunes

Experiences of the World

2007-09-26T23:49:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone,

Last update I wrote to all of you about explanations of the world, as a bit of a continuation, this time I want to share with you about experiences of the world.

Beyond logic, we understand the world through our own experiences. Our perceptions are tainted by the past, our emotions by our insecurities and moods, and our judgment by previous lessons. Yet at the same time, we do not live in the world alone, and sometimes in order to understand our common experiences with those around us, we also need to internalize the stories of others.

The recent floods in Africa have been devastating. The physical damage is easy to understand, see, and explain. But the emotional response is not as obvious, though equally as important. Rain is usually a blessing in many parts of Africa. In many of the places I have visited in Africa, the sound of water falling from the sky has inspired songs and dances in honor of the water that gives life. People pray for water and when it comes in its spectacular thunder and lightening, life is on hold while everyone hides under the nearest possible shelter. The calendar is based around water: rainy season and dry season. People’s lives revolve around the rains, deciding when to plant crops, when to harvest, and etc. And so it seems a cruel game of nature, or perhaps a retaliation to our cruel games with nature, to pour so much water on Africa in one short month that the dry land typically thirsty for a drop is now flooding.

Due to a few hills and good natural drainage, Gulu town has remained dry. Perhaps dry is not the correct word; it is muddy but thankfully has not flooded. I try to keep everything in perspective when I complain about having to scrub my clothes after yet another embarrassing fall in the mud.

Outside of Gulu, many of the roads are severely damaged and some of the bridges are covered in water. The main bridge going to Kitgum, the district north of Gulu where many of our students study, now looks like a waterfall. The students were on holidays when the floods began and the final term of the academic year has started two weeks ago. We found ourselves with hundreds of students at our office, seeking assistance to get back to Kitgum for their studies. Many had to wait days before we could find enough trucks that could go to Kitgum via a route that bypasses the bridge, but is also in very bad condition. They stood in the sun for hours, patient and anxious to get on the next truck. Until transport could be arranged, our office became a storage space for all their belongings: mattresses and boxes filled with few clothes and books. To other children around the world to whom free universal education is obvious, taken for granted, and almost an annoyance to their thriving social lives, it must seem absurd. I remember celebrating snow days back in high school. The only way to explain this incredible drive in youth to return to school is by understanding what school means to people in Northern Uganda. Beyond the pride of being a student, the joy of learning and being with friends, and the acquisition of new skills, school here means hope. Young people in Northern Uganda will likely have to work hard for very little their entire lives. It is not an easy place and there are no magic solutions, not even education. But having an education gives hope, that through hard work you can look after yourself and your family, that you can live and not merely survive.

The District Education Office decided that student preparing for their exams (the national exams are in the 4th and 6th years of secondary school) need to return to school immediately. They arranged for army helicopters to fly students back to school. One morning we were taking students to the air-strip, already going an hour late and hoping to find the helicopter is still there. We’re about to leave and a young student jumps out of the car and says she forgot something at home. She disappears for the next forty minutes and when she comes back with a bucket of odi (the equivalent of peanut butter), I am perplexed that she almost missed her only ride to school, to hope, for some grinded peanuts. A few weeks later, on a quiet weekend at home, Sharon, one of Betty’s daughters is sitting on the veranda peeling peanuts. I offer to help, and we sit for many hours peeling peanuts, an entire large sac of them. Sharon is making odi to take to school. It lasts for months and keeps away the hunger between long classes. We finish peeling and the peanuts are laid out in the sun to dry. A few days later I find her roasting them in a small sauce pan on the charcoal stove. I leave for a few hours and when I come back she is still roasting. A few days later, I join her on the veranda for peeling the thin brown skin off the peanuts. After a few hours we finish, and while I go to town, she stays to remove the bitter peanuts from the others. Eventually, weeks after our original session of peeling, she takes her large bucket of peanuts to the grinding machine, where she waits in line, but the power goes out and so she returns the next day. Finally, a few days ago she arrives at home with a small container of peanut butter. It tastes nice, especially with bananas for breakfast, and she’ll eat it slowly over the next few months. I think back to our student who nearly missed the helicopter for her bucket of peanut butter, and I understand. What seemed perplexing, even ridiculous at the time, makes sense because I see the process behind it.

I recently visited my friend and our office assistant Brenda at her small home and spent the morning with her frying dough into triangle-shaped donuts. We had a nice time, cooking outside and talking to the kids around. She sells these cakes at local shops for extra income. We worked the entire morning. As we left and I bought a few cakes to bring home so my family begins to think I have some domestic skills, I ask how much profit she makes? Very proudly, Brenda says she usually makes about 2000 Uganda shillings: a meager dollar and a half, and it means a lot to her and her family. From now on 2000 shillings to me means those few hours with Brenda. I can see her smile and the sweat around her hair from standing in the sun all day whenever I think about the number. It makes me so much more appreciative of what I have, and so much more willing to share.

At work, I have continued to work on the protection policy for the organization. In order to get the staff committed to the idea, we had a 2-day training about human rights and protection. Once we all understood the importance of rights and the vulnerability of our beneficiaries, committing to the protection policy seemed obvious. The policy went from being a boring document adding to the heavy work burden to part of a more exciting story: preventing harm to youth. Similarly, setting up referral system for counseling and mental health services has changed the lens through which schools and teacher view students. Students are not simply stubborn or undisciplined (though some are…), but may also have stories that explain their behaviors and problems that may require some guidance or extra support. Getting teachers to seek these stories is challenging but is also helping us to identify students who can benefit from psychosocial support.

So whether at work, at home, or with friends, I feel like I am collecting stories. I am learning to see the world from other perspectives. I am storing in memory images, feelings, and ideas that allow me, not only explain, but to feel the world differently. Whether it is sitting on the floor on a bus to Kampala, visiting Makarere University for the first time, sitting around with 10 brothers and sisters and laughing at jokes, enjoying caramelized bananas at a café in Gulu for an evening chat with my manager, or talking to students at work these experiences become communal, not only mine, but ours.

Sometimes I wish that we could understand immediately the stories that shape a life. That you would shake someone’s hand and know their sad smile is the result of a complex relationship with a sibling, or touch a cup of tea and see the smiles of all the people cultivating for long days on the beautiful hills of Uganda. I think there would be a lot more empathy in this world if these flashes of feelings, stories, and humanity came to us as we interacted with the world. So I share with you, and I hope the flash of my story is pleasant, and that it encourages you to share yours and seek to hear others.

Thanks for being in my life.

Inbal

Our office as storage space and one of the trucks going to Kitgum

A picture from the BBC website of the Aswa River on the way to Kitgum

Views of Kampala

Sharon peeling peanuts and Brenda making cakes

Around Brenda's home

Our team outside the office.

Explanations of the World

2007-09-09T22:14:00.000-07:00

For centuries, humans have searched for explanations about the existence of the world around us and our role within it. Some have found faith in religion; others discovered reason in science, and still others relied on cultural stories and practices passed through the generations. Though different, these avenues all serve a similar purpose in providing some comfort, understanding, and, often, happiness as the search continues for answers. Initially, adjusting to a new place involves simple adjustments: the tastes of new foods, finding a route for work, learning to co-exist with bugs (though I don’t think I’ll ever grow to like the cockroaches in the bathroom), and planning your day around the rainy-season daily down-pours. As time goes by, the adjustment becomes deeper and transitions to reconciling parallel explanations of the same world. We often get caught up in the names. But whether you call this universal human desire to understand the world around us the human spirit, mind, soul, psyche, essence, heart, inner force, intellect, brain, will, strength, none of these or all of the above, both the most enriching and the most challenging aspect of life at the intersection of cultures is picking treasures along the road without dropping your own essence along the way.

I had a beautiful afternoon a few weeks ago. I had been working in Kitgum district, which is to the north of Gulu en-route to Sudan. I am mesmerized by the hills and mountains in the distance, and on a sunny Sunday I convince a few friends to join me in climbing one of the smaller hills. We drive for about an hour and a half to get there, and find a medium-sized internally displaced camp at the bottom of the hill. We walk through Lagoro camp looking for a volunteer to take us up the hill. With the exception of small children waving at me and saying “Munu bye,” the equivalent greeting to foreigners of Mzungo how are you?, the camp is quiet. The huts are very close together and people sit around quietly, men discussing in small groups and women cooking. We climb the hill slowly and enjoy the beautiful views of the Agoro mountains on the border with Sudan and the endless green valley below. From above the camp looks so different, a complete change of perspective. I am surprised that while we were in the camp it seemed quiet and calm, from above we hear a loud sound track of camp life. All the conversation, jokes, radios, laughter and cries join into a loud and somehow beautiful human symphony. We sit at the top of the hill for a while, and my friend Sylvia tells me about her childhood growing up in Kitgum. There was a time when the rebels came to attack the part of town where her family stays. She was at home with her sisters and mother. They heard the rebels shoot at the door of a house and all the kids inside screaming, after which the rebels entered and abducted the children. The same happened at the next house. Sylvia’s mom told them to stay quiet no matter what happens. The rebels came, shot at the door, and when they hear no sound, they decided the house was deserted and moved on. That’s one of Sylvia’s stories, the strength of her mom, which she attributes to God. I look down at the camp below and think that each of the individuals there has a story, a quiet story. Together all the stories in the camp make legends, which are shared proudly and loudly. Even further, across the green valleys and mountains, as far as the eye can see, all the legends create the spirit of a place, the underlying beliefs, tradition, reasons, and habits that are so constantly in the background, we no longer hear them unless we’re new, and I’m still new, so I listen.

My work with Windle Trust continues to be very interesting. On of the advantages of working for a small, under-staffed NGO is that I have a lot of responsibility and I am learning so much. In the past few weeks, at different times I have been the psychosocial coordinator, field-office manager, accounting assistant, protection officer, and monitoring and evaluation consultant. I really enjoy the work and am getting a lot of support from my work colleagues. One of the highlights of the past few weeks was organizing a two-day teacher training for fifty-five teachers from forty-eight schools. The training was about teachers as actors in the provision of psychosocial support to youth. Topics included trauma and depression among youth, peace education, guidance and counseling, and monitoring of students’ well being. The teachers were eager to learn and participated with amazing cooperation. When I was not running around worrying about the logistics of the next session, I learned a lot. The session about guidance and counseling emphasized that although it is easier to give people answers in the form of advice, a much more helpful method is facilitating the personal search for solutions. I’ve found that extremely helpful in my work, and really see the difference when I treat beneficiaries as the responsible young adults we expect them to be. Making plans for the psychosocial support programme has been very fun. I feel like I made a wish-list of all the interesting projects I would like to work on, and have been approved to have a budget to implement them. In addition to continuing with the teacher training courses, we’ll also be creating a mental health referral system, youth groups, student workshops, and community meetings. The work on psychosocial support in consultation with many local experts has been a positive experience in how often beyond cultural difference hide complementary explanations of the world. The psychology language is laden with technical terminology: post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, inter-personal group therapy, networks of social support, etc and etc. The local explanations of youth affected by conflict sound drastically different. When a person kills another he is forever followed by the spirit of the victim. The spirit causes nightmares, strange behaviors, and even violence. The community responds by conducting traditional ceremonies including cleansing that pushes the evil spirit out and community discussions for reconciliation. The terms seem worlds apart, but beyond the language, they are quite similar. Possession by a spirit explains similar symptoms to many psychological disorders, cleansing is a process of dealing with guilt, and reconciliation is like counseling to find a way forward together. Perhaps psychologists are the spiritual healers of our times with similar potions and medicines and the ability to guide our feelings and thoughts.

Many aspects of the conflict in Northern Uganda which I did not understand before begin to make sense when I look at the situation through the local explanations. I’ve often wondered how people could forgive Kony for all his rebel activities and atrocities. A friend doing research on spiritual practices explains to me that many people think Kony is possessed by a spirit. He’s only agreed to peace talks because the spirit has left him, and in someway people see him as a victim. On the other hand people are extremely angry at the government for failing to protect them. Perhaps politics is beyond the realm of spirituality and without explanations for the hardship suffered at the hands of the government, people cannot forgive. When people talk about local justice and using reparations as a form of punishment, my initial reaction is how can a cow or the first harvest of maze replace a child killed or injured? On the surface, it is easy to ignore the spiritual consequences of these punishments: the local perceptions of working your own land for others as a debt for your crimes, and so they seem too weak. However, if peace is going to be sustainable, these local perceptions are as important as our international standards of justice and accountability. Perhaps most perplexing to me has been the mix of traditional beliefs and Christianity. On Sundays, any street leading to a church is flooded with people in their best clothes. To my close friends I ask tough questions, about how they can believe God looks after them when so much war and misery has happened? Their answer is simple but makes sense: among all the bad things that happened, they survived, they endured, and they are thankful. We define the world around us in contrast to our immediate surrounding. My immediate surrounding are spread out, and so I compare, and I feel sad that these days children here are thankful that finally they can sleep without anxiety of abduction. The sadness is because the gratitude reflects a tough reality that existed before which I wish no child ever had to go through. In Northern Uganda, people are thankful for improvements; they compare to the past and pray for a better future. As I discover local perceptions, attitudes and practices around me begin to make sense.

One of the things that frustrates me about some of the schools I visit is that I don’t sense the joy of education in the air. I think that education should be an opportunity to learn about the world and about ourselves and it should be fun and exciting. Instead, some schools are run like prisons: strict rules, rice and beans to eat everyday, being told when to read and what, and very little time for personal discovery. I recognize the importance of discipline, but I also think students would be more motivated if school was an encouraging environment. I am most surprised when I talk to students and they don’t expect any better from the schools. Through conversations I realize that education here is such a luxury, a privilege that so few can access, that the hardship at schools is viewed as the fair price to pay for education. I am touched by this dedication, but I continue to expect more. I believe that assisting students to think about their goals for education can happen without disregarding local practices but walking side by side. After all, I learn so much from adjusting to life here, and perhaps speaking out on some important issues can make that enriching cultural learning bi-directional.

I’ve also been working on a protection policy for our beneficiaries. Protection is an incredibly complex field of work and when successful in preventing harm to vulnerable people, it is almost impossible to measure or see. As I spend hours by the computer writing staff codes of conduct, reporting procedures, and plans for education and training, I start to ask questions. Protection from what? I’ve always had a view that childhood and adolescence are precious times in life and children and youth deserve to have happy and love-filled beginning to their lives. When I look around, this view of children is challenges. Children are always working here, whether it is at school or at home, they’re always cooking, washing, taking care of siblings, sweeping, digging in the field, and fetching water. It is rare that they just get to play. Although children are extremely precious and loves, adults are harsh with children, often reprimanding them for not doing enough work or not being obedient all the time. Most difficult for me is when children are punished physically. When I hear children crying, even screaming, I cannot understand how a parent can inflict such pain on his or her child. I find it difficult to understand how loving parent-children relationships can develop when children live in fear of being beaten by their care-givers. When I voice my opinion against beating, I am told that it is a tough world out there, and out there misbehavior has much more serious consequences. Unlike my view of children as special members of society with special privileges and rights, here children are mini-adults in training. I see there is some value to the local perspective of seeing children as capable members of society who contribute meaningfully to their families and are raised to be independent and strong. But I can’t make the leap to the other side, I still think there is value in protecting the joys of childhood. I stand at the intersection of cultures, and I feel lost.

I’ve really enjoyed my time in Kitgum. I made some new friends and got to know more family members, as Betty’s husband stayed in Kitgum with another an entire crew of children and youth they support. I shared a room with the girls, and the first night I could not sleep, being unaccustomed to the constant traffic in the house. A few weeks later, back in Gulu, it feels oddly quiet sleeping in my own room, and I miss the sounds of not being alone. I am amazed at how much we can get used to if we open our mind and heart. Probably my favorite aspect about Kitgum is the view from our office. Around five in the afternoon, when everyone is finished work and school, the field and the road to town fills with people, bicycles, cows, children, and motor cycles moving back home, sharing with others at the end of the day. It is a beautiful painting of life and oddly it reminds me of the crowds on the T in Boston or the Ottawa market on a busy summer day; human life is strangely similar. It has been raining a lot for this time of year (it is even cold at night). People are thankful for the rain, but are also weary as this unusual amount of rain goes against the seasonal cycle of planting and many with lose their crops. The river has come up higher than usual and there are always crowds around the river, making use of the additional water for washing, bathing, and the occasional group of kids having a fun time playing. At the same time, people tell me that when the river is high and helps people, it will require payment, and when it goes down it will take someone with it. Sure enough, life is both blessed and cursed by the rain. The valleys are amazingly green and some crops are flourishing, but others, like millet and sorghum are unable to cope with the water and wasted seeds litter the fields. People are saving the rain water and there are basins everywhere to ease the daily journey to the bore-hole, but at the same time, diseases like diarrhea, and even cholera, increase when water floods the densely populated area which lack proper sanitation. There is so much life around, from the cat that sneaked into our room to give birth, the tiny goats I helped feed at Sylvia’s house, and plants that are thriving you can almost see them grow. Yet, sure enough, in a few days, I hear a young boy has drowned in the river. Despite our efforts to control the environment around us, life, anywhere in the world, seems filled with good and bad, blessings, and troubles, birth and death, and the story about the river seems as good as any to explain these mysteries.

At the intersection of explanations, I chose not to chose, to accept parallel stories when I can, and to contribute to discussions when I disagree. Perhaps it is the strong religious and spiritual essence of this place, but I often find myself thinking of a prayer my mother told me once: “God, give me the courage to change the things I can, the strength to accept those I cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference.” A recent musical version of the prayer by musician India Arie adds a final line. As I think about the moments of pure magical happiness and the times of intense frustration that are
both baggage on this road of cross-cultural explorations of the world, I join her in asking beyond differences and similarities to also always have “the serenity to love [those around me and these fascinating experiences] with an open heart.”

Thank you for being in my life!

Sylvia with Children at Lagoro Camp

Lagoro Camp from Above

The view from the top of the Lagoro hill

Enjoying life with family and friends in Kitgum

Balance

2007-08-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

August 19,2007

Hey Everyone.

Thank you for your continued support and encouragement. Here are some more experiences from the last few weeks.

One of my favorite aspects about traveling to rural schools or between towns is the views along the journey. Although travel is often tiring as you bump along dirt roads, there is something really exciting about speeding down a red-earth path, twisting and turning among the green crops, with no end in sight. There are always people along the road moving crops, water, and firewood to and from markets and homes. As we drive though these scenes, pictures are blurred by rain, dust, and speed, and I often feel like I am driving through beautiful paintings. This is the East Africa I love: the harsh elegant beauty of the people and the land. One day a few weeks ago we drive by a UNICEF distribution of mosquito nets for mothers of young children. Hundreds of women and their babies are gathered under some large trees. For the rest of the drive, the roadside is adorned by women walking as they carry their babies on their backs and some food and water in baskets on their heads. On second thought, walking is too simple a word to describe their movement. They sway elegantly, they dance to the rhythm of walking, and they balance to keep their lives together and the journey moving forward. As I observe them – the small movements of the head to keep heavy pots of water steady – I am intrigued by this balance.

A few weeks ago Betty asked a few of us to deliver some food items to her mother’s place, about an hour walk from Gulu. We walked for sometime and enjoyed the cool evening breeze. When we arrived, we were surprised to find Betty and about 40 other guests at the small village. Betty’s father passed away about two months ago, and this was an occasion for some friends of the family to come together to remember him. The girls and I quickly went to work, making fire, cooking rice and meat, and serving food for everyone. For the first while everyone was rather quiet, talking in small groups, and allowing the sadness to settle in. After the meal, two elderly women picked up a wooden log and a calabash, and began beating and scratching the calabash against the wood and earth, creating a drum-like music. Within seconds all the other women were up and dancing in a circle, stomping their legs to the music and singing in high-pitched voices. I observed in curiosity as I was not expecting dancing at a memorial service. The younger girls explained to me that when a man dies of old age, despite the sadness of losing a loved one, the funeral is a celebration of a long life lived. So many people here die young, whether due to violence, poverty, or disease, and so it makes sense to celebrate a life fully-lived. I danced for a few songs, before returning to checking on the fire, and from the fire-side, watching these women dressed in colorful fabrics dancing to a sad-song in the moonlight, I felt that happiness and sadness were in balance.

My work has been very interesting. We are very busy as the school term is ending and we need to provide all our students with transport money to go home for the holidays (most are at boarding schools since the insecurity has caused all the schools to shift to the towns). Running around to all the schools is tiring and it is difficult because you can never meet all the needs of students, and often assistance is met by requests for more. I wonder sometimes what are some of the negative consequences of this financial assistance and the dependency it can create? I ask students what they did before Windle Trust came to help, and many explain they really struggled to pay school fees and some were not in school. I believe education is a right and the assistance is not out of kindness, but responsibility, but I also think that students and families should be partners in the programme. The arrival of an NGO should not replace the local struggle for a better future, but complement it. I often tell students, we want to help them, but we can only do so if they also help themselves.

Yet among the long days and having to say ‘no’ to most requests, there are small moments of joy. The other day, I got to tell a student that we found space for him at a new school. I was going to the school that day, and offered him a ride if he could come back within the hour. Thirty minutes later he was back, with his mattress rolled up and all his life possessions in a small box. He had never been more than thirty minutes out of Gulu, and yet for the opportunity to go to a better school (2 hours away), he packed his entire life and moved towards the unknown with a huge smile on his face. On another case, a girl came to the office crying because she cannot see well enough to read. She had already missed three exams in her first year of school. Fortunately our programme also gives medical care to our students, and so we drove to the clinic, got her a pair of reading glasses, and as she read the very small text in front of her, she smiled shyly and said she is really thankful. I’ve also learned from some amazing colleagues at work that often endless requests from students are simply because they want someone to talk to, someone to care about them. Due to the long war, there has been such a breakdown in family, community, and social structures, that young people often seek guidance and care, and perhaps requests for new shoes or a better dormitory, are also pleas for attention. When we are not swamped with students, I get to talk to some of the youth, and in a playful conversation, we find a balance between listening to complaints, being strict, and encouraging them. Often, despite not getting what they came for, they leave with a smile.

The other day while I was walking to work I got caught in a huge rainstorm. It is rainy season and at least once a day the sky opens and the entire town floods for a few hours. As I walk quickly in the rain trying to get to the office before being completely wet, I notice a young girl walking behind me without an umbrella. I stop and wait for her. She joins me and we walk together. We walk slowly trying to fit under my small umbrella. The umbrella is too small, and we both get even more wet then we would have if we just ran, but at least we are both smiling. When I arrive at the office, as I look for creative ways to dry my sox, I think about the girl and the rain. In a way, experience with the young girl in the rain is discouraging; a picture of the futility of good intentions in an incredibly complex and overwhelming environment. On the other hand, there is a sweetness to the picture of the two of us in the rain, the human side of doing humanitarian work, of taking a moment to share with another human being and find kindness among challenges. As I begin what I foreshadow will be a life commitment to education for all children, especially those in difficult circumstances, I realize the critical view is necessary because it pushes us to do better work, and the positive view inspires us to keep going. I watch the rain and think about the hardship it causes, especially for those living in crowded camps, and also the life it gives, as the soil is nourished and food grows. I watch the rain, take a deep breath, and I feel in balance, I can accept the good and the bad, and I love being here.

One of the responsibilities I have at work about which I am most excited is developing a psychosocial support programme for our beneficiaries. In an effort to work with other NGOs and not duplicate other efforts, I’ve been meeting with many of the NGOs who work in Northern Uganda. The meetings have been interesting and I am learning a lot. While school has incredible potential to reintegrate youth into their communities and restore a sense of pride and working towards the future, there are still real challenges, both past and present, that youth face and that need to be addressed in order for them to fulfill their potential. The challenge with psychosocial support is that it has many aspects and identifying the combination that is most meaningful is not easy. Psychosocial involves both psychological and social support, and knowing which is necessary for what students is a key part of the programme. Support can also be school-based or community-based, adult-lead or youth-lead, inclusive to all children or focused on specific needs of certain groups. I try to balance all these considerations in creating a programme. Needless to say, the work is fascinating.

On a quiet Saturday morning at Betty’s house, while we wash our clothes and clean the house, I talk to Claire about her dreams of owning her own business, and we joke about Maria sleeping in late (anything after 7 am is late). I think about an interesting conversation about personal space with a colleague from VIVO, a very cool organization working on trauma in post-conflict situations. Often when I ask young people about what they want to do in the future, I am met with blank stares. Perhaps it is the effect of the war, but many youth here don’t think about the future, or at least they don’t think they have choices. It concerns me, because being able to envision a positive future is incredibly motivating and a strong protective factor for young people. As Maria and Claire get hassled in a laughing manner for their strong individual qualities, I realize that living in a community-oriented society does not eliminate the possibility of individuality. It just makes it harder because without the private physical space to protect the intellectual and emotional self, you have to believe more in yourself, to believe in your dreams badly enough to take the jokes and real challenges. Claire and Maria, much like their mother Betty, have not given up neither the community nor their dreams. They find themselves in a mix of both, and they are graceful enough to balance. People who succeed in this modern Africa – and it is modern, despite the condescending Western perception that progress is becoming more like us – are amazing at this balance of old and new. Modern simply means ‘new’ or ‘current’ and African is extremely modern. In response to humongous challenges, survival requires continuous new ideas. But there is also an attachment to the old, and it ought to be valued. We forget that this so-called ‘modernity’ has introduced new social problems and challenges, and that without ‘traditional’ values of family and community, we can often feel lost. I think of development as balance between the old and new, and that implies respect for both.

I am still traveling a lot for work, going back and forth between our two offices, one in Gulu and one in Kitgum (the district on the border with Sudan). In many ways I still feel new, getting to know this new family that has welcomed me so openly, my colleagues at work, the language, the culture, and the places around me. I think of the women walking along the road. When the pot of water starts to fall in a certain direction, they tilt their head in that same direction, moving along with the water, before swaying back in the other direction and stabilizing the load. It is an interesting perspective about balance that diverges from the typical image of the two-sides scale, balanced by going against the flow. As my skin becomes tougher from the sun and I need less time for being alone, I realize that despite common misconceptions of ‘you’re becoming African,’ I am simply becoming myself in the Africa that I love. Sometimes going along with the local culture and traditions, and other times in my own way, and certainly in a much less graceful manner than those beautiful women on the road, I am discovering my own balance.

Thank you for being in my life.
Inbal

PICTURES

Pictures from home: the road to the house, washing clothes on a quiet sunday

In my room, and one of the boys taking care of the baby chickens

Washing dishes, and two of the young boys

Some of us at dinner

The UNICEF distribution for mothers and babies

Blurred views from the car

Talking to students under a tree

Gulu in the rain

Pictures from Betty's father memorial service

Sweeping Dust

2007-07-30T08:43:00.000-07:00

July 28th, 2007

Hello Everyone,

I hope you are well. Thank you for the kind responses and interesting updates from your parts of the world. As usual, I have a few administrative notes. I now have a phone and if you need to get in touch with me you can call +256 774906653. Pictures are the end of this update. I am now in Gulu, Northern Uganda, which will be home-base for the next long while, so this update is the first of many from this new home.

When I wake up each morning in the small room that Betty has kindly set up for me in her house, I stay in bed for a few minutes and listen to the morning music. From under my mosquito net, I can hear the chickens twittering outside, people talking as they do their morning chores, water running from the tap filling in yellow Jeri cans for bathing, washing, and morning tea, and the occasional boda-boda driving down our dirt road. I get up and look out the window, and the sun is coming up between the two large trees outside my window and it paints everything with a pink glow that reminds me of hope and new beginnings. The man that comes to take the cows to the grazing field is gathering them together. The road is already busy, small children walking to school in colorful uniform, men on bicycle, and women carrying water. Before starting to get ready for work, I spend a few minutes helping with the morning chores. All the children have something to do. The younger boys are by the water tap washing the dishes from yesterday’s dinner. The girls are preparing water for bathing, heating water and then putting it in basins which they carry to the latrines behind the house, and making tea for breakfast. I do my small part by sweeping the living room and entrance to the house. We sweep with a bundle of straw that is neatly arranged and tied with a cloth at one end. As I bend down and start to swing my hand back and forth, and the swish-swish sound of straw on concrete begins to make a rhythm, I am always amazed and how much dust we find each morning. We sweep in the morning, and often once more during the day, and yet the next morning everything is sprinkled with red dust. It is as if nature continuously struggles to reclaim her land, covering our additions with her red earth. People struggle back, shining shoes every morning, sweeping the dust back, washing the floors – a constant struggle for cleanliness and dignity.

My walk to work is very pleasant. We stay slightly outside of town and work is on the other side of town, so I cross all of Gulu each morning, which takes about 40 minutes. The walk into town is along a dirt road, and often a group of curious children walking to school accompany me. There are some fields next to small groups of tukuls, small round structures with grass-thatched roofs where many local people stay. Women are setting up small coal stoves to roast maize, which has become my favorite snack. The working class is impeccably dressed in business attire or colorful African fabrics and is riding boda-bodas to their offices. Some white NGO vehicles are driving around collecting staff. I walk into town through the second hand clothes market, where men and women are hanging clothes on their wooden stools, setting up for the day. As I reach town, the dirt turns to tarmac, and the streets are busy. Gulu town center is a grid of 5 horizontal streets and 5 vertical streets. There are small shops all along the street, though the goods they offer are fairly basic. I found one supermarket, and its most exciting offer was Pringles and some chocolate. There is also a big market with many small wooden stalls, piles of plastic shoes, a very organized fruits and vegetable section, and a rather chaotic fish and meat section. There are many schools, as many of the rural schools have been displaced by the war and have shifted to the town, and so there is always an ocean of children dressed in the same color moving towards or from a school. When you cross the street, you weave between bicycles and motor cycles, as there are so many in this lively little town. Everything is colorful, from the plastic basins sold for washing, to the fabrics people wear, and the buildings cell-phone companies paint for advertising in either blue, red, or yellow.

At work things have been very busy; this for me is a good start. A quick reminder, I work with Windle Trust Uganda, an NGO that is implementing the Acholi Bursary Scheme, which provides vulnerable youth in Northern Uganda with bursaries, scholastic materials, and medical care to go back to secondary school or vocation training. We sponsor 3500 youth, including formerly abducted children, child-mothers, and orphans, as part of a larger re-integration strategy that values the restorative power of education. For the first few months of my time here, I will be acting as a project officer, since we are under-staffed. As a project officer I have different responsibilities, including distribution of materials at schools, verification that our students are attending and doing well, meeting students to address their problems, and attending NGO and government meetings about education. The work is busy, involves a lot of administration and logistics (stock requests, distributions lists, working with the database), but for me it is a great chance to do some hands-on work and get to know the project, the schools, and the students, before I shift gears and begin my more strategic work on psychosocial support, human rights, and protection issues.

One school I went to is Atiak Secondary School. Atiak is a larger village about two hours from Gulu along the road to Juba, Sudan. We drive towards this school with a pickup truck full of exercise books, pens, pencils, rulers, black shoes, materials without which many of these students would be forced to drop out. We zoom through tiny villages. A few minutes before we reach a small village, I start to see women with small babies on their back carrying water or heavy piles of firewood on their head and men on bicycles transporting crops or walking with a herd of cows. Then we reach a small collection of tukuls, a few small shops, and a market, and in 30 seconds we are back on the open road. In 30 seconds I get a snapshot of a life, an entire village that to the people there is the centre of the world. I think of a conversation with Nicole about how fragmented our society has become for the young cosmopolitan generation, with social network across the entire globe but lonely evenings in front of the cold computer. I laugh to myself as we pass these villages at how maybe we got it all wrong. We’ve mad life so easy that we get bored with luxury. Communication has become so easy for us with phones and the internet that trendy coffee shops in Harvard Square force people to turn off their cell phones so we remember to talk to those right in front of us. Yet at the same time, as we drive onwards and pass a few internal displacement camps, huge areas with hundreds of tukuls only meters apart from each other, I wonder at the irony that sometimes poverty looks beautiful. These internal displacement camps were formed by the government in an attempt to protect people from attacks by the rebels. The camps have been so underserved and crowded, that at times it was reported more people died from disease and lack of basic needs in the camps than in the war. Yet when you drive through the camps, from the road they seem beautiful – small tukuls to the background of green trees, red earth, and the bluest sky. Beautiful children and women idle around as men play cards. Perhaps it is this romanticism we attach to simplicity that allows those of us who have been more fortunate in life to turn a blind eye to the hardships of those in poverty. If you stop, beyond the initial beauty, there are real challenges: the children with bloated stomachs should be in school, the women yearn for land to grow food, and the men are disgruntled by how this war has disabled them from the male dignity of providing for your family. At Atiak we distribute materials, and working with youth who have been affected by 20 years of war reminds me of working with refugees in Lugufu. I am overwhelmed by their needs, both materials and emotional. We could never give them everything they need, nor provide all 3500 of them with the type of support and kindness they yearn for, yet they expect it, and deep inside I feel they have the right to the same high standard education I was so fortunate to receive. I understand the bigger picture that in this resource-poor, war-ravaged area, we have resources and that creates conflict, but on a personal level it is frustrating that after you spend the entire day in the sun handing out materials, you are chased by complaints for more on the way out. I am frustrated by the constant asking for more, but I am also deeply saddened by the fact these youth have suffered so much, the extra notebook really is worth the argument for them. I continuously have to remind myself of the power differential, of the vulnerability these youth feel, as their dreams of education and a better future depend on our administration of the bursaries. I remember a young girl in pink uniform that came to our office because we had not yet paid her school fee. There was a small mix up with her name and I had to tell her she was not on our list of students, as I explained this to her I could see her entire life falling apart in her eyes. A few minutes later, the mix-up was cleared up and I got to apologize for the mistake and inform her she can continue attending school. With those few words, the brightness came back to her eyes. I remind myself of this power all the time, not because I like it, but the opposite, I am scared of it, it terrifies me the impact we have on these students, and the responsibility that comes along with this duty. I remind myself continuously so that despite this power differential, I respect their rights as human beings, as young people who have endured more hardship that I will ever know, and who I truly admire for having the energy and will to go back to school and move on with their life.

Sometimes when I am busy with work or walk around lively and colorful Gulu Town it is easy to forget that this area has been affected by twenty years of war, by a history of child abductions, atrocities, and painful memories. With the Juba peace talks between the government and the rebels progressing well and the cessation of hostilities for the past 8 months, people are moving on with life. Like the dust we continuously sweep, people clean their mind everyday and attempt to move forward from a difficult past. They sweep those memories out and aim for a clean future. However, much like the dust, the memories come back, and from time to time, the reality of this place hits you like a gush of wind bringing dust and tears to your eyes. I did a series of interviews of some of our beneficiaries. I talked to 19 students in two days to learn about their lives and how school is helping them. The students walked into my small office, courteous, looking sharp in their neat uniform, smiling and excited to meet me. As we talk the stories come out, some were abducted by the rebels and were forced to kill people and beaten severely. Some of the abducted girls were given to commander as ‘wives.’ Many still suffer health problems from bullet wounds and mortar fragments. Others were not abducted but their parents were killed by the rebels and as orphans they have been moved around the extended family to whoever can afford to care for them. One young girl who is an orphan has a child already. She is a parent, yet as I talk to her she expresses that she feels so alone. Some families are so poor as a result of the war, children have worked for months, laying bricks and planting maize, to pay one term of school fees. They all have difficult stories that so painfully mismatch their young beautiful faces. On another occasion, we went with the Netherlands’ ambassador to visit a girls’ school where we are constructing a dormitory. The girls welcomed us warmly, singing songs about love and happiness. Among this joy, the head-teacher who welcomed us, mentioned that the school has overcome difficult times, including 3 attacks by the rebels during which many girls were abducted. I look around this nice school and beautiful girls in pink and red uniform and realize this is where this long war took place, among these kind people, and these beautiful places. Everything I have read for the past year preparing for this experience really took place here, and although it is swept under the rug, it comes out when you least expect it. People here are remarkably strong and resilient, and they are good sweepers. Before you can dwell too much, the memory is swept away, and in our case we move to another school, a girls tailoring school, where we are opening a daycare centre so children of child-mothers can learn alongside them. There is an elaborate ceremony with singing and dancing and long speeches. As the speeches discuss the value of education and the children play on the brightly colored playground, the hope for the future is stronger than memories of the past.

As I continue working and living here, I realize that I am only beginning to understand the complexities of this place. So much has been swept away and the dynamics create an intricate web of conflict, peace, justice and politics. People here are so sick of war; they want peace, even at the price of justice. The international criminal court indictments for some rebels are controversial here. I wonder sometimes if peace without justice is sustainable, and how we define justice anyways. Relationships between the national government, the local government, and the international community are complicated. It has been an Acholi conflict, and the suffering has been inflicted on people by their own people, which they despise, yet there is some sense of admiration towards the resistance to the national government, which people here feel has marginalized the Acholi people for decades. In the mix of these complexities, the NGO world is a chaotic scene of good intentions; too many brooms sweeping in all directions. I attended an interesting meeting about psychosocial support and care. After hours of discussing trauma, mental health, and services provided by different NGOs, a bright man stood up and reminds us to include the local culture. There is no word is Acholi Lou for trauma; people are either mad, or they suffer from Chien, an evil spirit, often of a person killed or harmed that possess others. Dealing with the consequences of war in a way that is culturally sensitive, psychology appropriate, rights-based, politically acceptable and economically feasible is not an easy struggle, and I reluctantly add my broom to the effort.

Gulu these days has been relatively cool since it is rainy season. Every once in a while it rains, and I mean, really rains, an absolute opening of the sky and a down pour of fresh water. When these heavy rains come, all the dust is washed away, and everything is absolutely clean for a few hours. Similarly, there are moments of absolute joy that wash away all the memories and difficulties. At night, back in Betty’s house, we sit around in the tukul next to the home, where we eat our meal. We are about 11 young people, (we are usually 21, but Betty and some of the older children are in Kampala during the week), and we enjoy a good meal of posho (which is made from maize flour) with a good sauce of beef, or fish, or groundnuts. We sit around and talk, laugh, and listen to music. They have all been so kind to me and accepted me in their family. On weekends, Betty is around, usually with a few women members of parliament, and they arrive dressed in Gomes dresses (large brightly colored dresses that are tied in the front with a large silk bow that reminds me of a Japanese Kimono), and they bring an aura of respect, dignity, and responsibility to the room, as they discuss politics, their children, while drinking tea and fixing each other’s hair.

I hope that gives you a good impression of my first impressions as I begin to feel settled.
My thoughts are with you, and I wish you health and happiness.

Thank you for being in my life.
Inbal

Filda in the kitchen at Betty's home

Behind the house - the latrines and cows

Betty (in a Gomes traditional dress) and I

The Netherlands' Ambassador opening the St. Monica daycare centre for children of child-mothers

The children playing on the new playground and waiting with their moms to enter the new school

Sister Rosemary and I, and the dance celebrations for the opening.

Our dinning room outside of Betty's house

The morning sun coming up through the trees outside my window

A busy street in Gulu Town

Lunch with new friends, on the right Brenda from work

Women carrying firewood to the IDP Camp

The IDP camp from afar

Getting closer to the IDP camp

Girls at a primary school

Women carrying loads on the road

The scent of transition

2007-07-14T04:11:00.000-07:00

Update #2: The scent of transition

July 13, 2007

Hey dear friends,

I hope you have been well. Thank you to those who have been in touch through these two weeks of transition, your kind words and exciting updates always make me smile. Thanks for visiting my blog. Since I am incapable for formatting all the pictures are at the end of this update, so read, and then scroll down for some images.

Hope you enjoy this update from the last two weeks in Kenya and Uganda.

Airplanes have a sanitized smell, a combination of rubbing alcohol, dentist office, and perfume at the lobby of a fancy hotel. It feels almost as if before you travel to another place you must be sanitized of past memories, prepared to face new realities. The hours on the plane, engulfed by perfect strangers, recycled air, salty food, and movies, act as a buffer zone between realities among which we travel. It is a strange sensation really. Slowly the smell of sweetened coffee and library books fades, and I start to think about returning to East Africa. The nice Canadian woman next to me is going to Africa for the first time, and since I have been a few times, she asks “is it true, that once you go to Africa, you always come back, that it is in your blood?” I look around the plane and think to myself that on this full flight to Nairobi, each person has a very different reason for going. I am reminded of an interesting conversation with Pierre that the so-called “Africa bug” really misses, the point, we all have our own reasons for going places, and simplifying the reasons is like erasing stories. I also remember the saying that foreigners in Africa usually fit into three categories, missionaries, mercenaries, and misfits. And so I try to think of my reasons. I come here because I love it. I enjoy the challenge, the raw humanity, the realness of it all. And perhaps I fit in all three categories. My mission: the reintegration of former child soldiers into happy and healthy communities. The payment: a sense of self-worth, of deserving all the love and wonderful people in my life. The feeling of not fitting in because sadly we live in a world where idealism is naïve and criticism is applaud above the struggle for solutions. I think of my reasons. Some are altruistic – helping children, others are selfish – I feel more alive, some are brave – I want to face trauma alongside those who have no support, others are cowardice – it is easier to run away than risk losing real happiness. And so, on the plane, over the endless sands of Sudan, I say thank you for the opportunity to return to Africa, and hope to learn and learn and learn, and also to serve.

A few hours later, I arrive in Nairobi and my dear friend Rochelle and her house-mate Abdi pick me up at the airport. As we drive around Nairobi, there is a citrus tinge of nostalgia in the air. You peel an orange and for the first few minutes there is that invigorating strong smell. I have so many good memories of this city, and it is both wonderful and challenging to start my journey here. I spend a lot of time in Nairobi doing errands and meeting friends. I meet my dear friends Ruth, Carol, and Tasiana. It is always so lovely to see them, all three are so hard-working and intelligent and contribute to their society is such meaningful ways. We sit around and chat for a long time and I am intrigued by the conversation. The girls explain to me that some young couples in Nairobi have started having “invitation only weddings,” in attempt to prevent having to feed and entertain two villages, which is quite expensive. This makes a lot of sense. Yet, a few minutes later, when we discuss the possibility of the girls coming to visit me in Uganda, a suggestion that they can come in December, is completely over-ruled: the holidays are time for family, to be spent in the village, as dictated by tradition. This conversation over soda and chips in the bustling modern metropolis that is Nairobi is a small window to the delicate balances, complexities and intricacies of ongoing cultural and social change. Besides learning so much, I mostly enjoy being with the girls because we talk about the news, work, love, families, and who has gained weight and why…I love these times because beyond circumstances, color, and experiences we can sit for an hour and share so much in common. At night, before I go to sleep, I feel this deep connection to family and friends I love, new people I will meet, and wonderful people that are out there I will never know. While all alone in a place far far away, I feel oddly together, instead of feeling alone amongst company. I fall asleep smelling jasmine (though I know there is no Jasmine anywhere since Rochelle told me she plans on planting some), and it is a comforting, an over-powering scent of love and longing that puts me to sleep with a smile and a sigh.

Throughout the week, I have meetings with different people at Strathmore University in Nairobi. A friend of mine, Martin, is working there for the summer, and has put me in touch with some key leaders in the university to discuss a potential education project in Kibera, East Africa’s largest informal settlement, where despite being right in the heart of Nairobi there are barely any sanitation, health, and social services. The main aim of the project is creating a mentorship program for youth in Kibera. The idea is that instead of preaching prevention of negative behaviors, which often encourages youth to rebel, we can facilitate positive experiences that enable youth to envision a better future for themselves, one that inspires them to take care of themselves and each other. A mentor in a young person’s life can provide that support, encouragement, and opportunity for positive experiences. People at Strathmore are wonderfully cooperative and we begin some serious discussions about a potential project. One of the days I am at the university, a group of high school students from Kibera is graduating from a short course about writing business plans, offered to them through the community outreach program at the university. I am introduced as the guest of honor from Harvard, and I feel incredibly silly, as I am in complete awe of these young people. I know the challenges they face in Kibera, and yet here they are, smiling, dressed in their best clothes, proudly presenting business plans for a video shop, a juice company, a recycling initiative, a fashion store. I try to express my honor for being in their company, and I hope they see it because words are not enough. One of the students says he never imagined he would step inside a university, and I smile, this is exactly why a mentor program would be great, to help them dream of a better future. In a conversation with my friend Dan, who runs an NGO in Kibera, we ponder at the possibility that motivation, activated by the ability to envision a positive future, can overcome all the other difficult realities in their lives. A guest speaker inspires them by his own success story, from humble beginnings to a successful businessman, and encourages them to always give back to the community.

The next day I visit Kibera. Walking around Kibera I am reminded at how people here live. The tiny tin houses, the garbage, the smell of sewer, the crowds everywhere… and yet beyond all of it the beauty of the place. The kind people trying their best to make it in life. I remember what I told the youth from Kibera when I met them the day before: you can clean a place, build sewers and paint the walls, but what’s harder to change is people, character, motivation, values. People in Kibera, in general, are stripped of life’s luxuries and comfort, but are filled with experiences that build character, and that, no one can eve take away from them. While in the area, I visit the Kangata family and I am touched by their warm welcome, hospitality, and kindness. So much of the desire to do something meaningful for youth in Kibera comes from the love and respect for this family, and again, at a loss for words, I spend a few quiet hours, wonderful hours, and hope the joy I feel in my heart is contagious.

As I get on the bus to Kampala, Uganda, I say good bye to Rochelle and spend the first few hours processing the past week in Nairobi, a city that is vibrant and lively and entrepreneurial and changes every second as it grows with confidence. As Nairobi fades in the distance, and I begin to think about Uganda, a new place for me, and the many fascinating conversations with Rochelle and Abdi about the challenges of working in conflict situations with youth. I am both excited and anxious about the unknown. As I fall asleep on the bus, I sense a new and intriguing smell in transition. A smell one wishes to identify but can’t quite pinpoint, like walking into a perfume shop and not being to locate the heavenly smell that drew you in, or driving fast by a restaurant and never knowing what delicious meal is beyond the tantalizing of the senses. The smell lingers in uncertainty and as you struggle to remember it, to capture it, the scent has already passed, creating a liminal space for the imagination to bloom.

My reception from Windle Trust in Kampala is absolutely wonderful. Everyone, and especially Karen, my new colleague, is kind, welcoming, and patient. I spend most of the week doing errands, getting a bank account, my phone to work, documents for a work permit, etc. I also begin to learn more about the project and am getting very excited about the work to do in Gulu. People in Uganda are incredibly friendly and also very proud, and I like the combination. Already in my first week, I have the very cool experience of visiting the parliament building. It is a modest building and security is lax. It is actually nice for a government building to be accessible, I mean, why should a government for and by the people not be accessible and humble? I meet Betty Ocan Aol, the parliament member from Gulu, and she tells me about her work, her family, and the situation in Gulu. She tells me about more sons and daughters than I can remember, and although she already takes care of her late brother’s and sister’s children, she has absolutely no question in her mind that from today henceforth I am also her daughter and there is always a place for me in her home. I am humbled by her generosity.

On the way back to the office from parliament, I take a boda-boda, which is a motorcycle taxi. In Kampala there is always a traffic jam, and so an alternative to the shared mini vans that act as busses, are the boda-boda, which avoid traffic by squeezing between it…
It is still early morning and the sun is coming up over the Kampala hills with a kind pink light that adorns the hills and the people, before the sun intensifies and all the details are washed in brightness. Children in pressed uniforms walk along the sidewalks, as do adults looking sharp and smart, some in Western business attire and others in colorful African fabrics. The fancy new cars share the road with a boda-boda that speeds by me carrying about 40 live chickens, sticking out from all sides of the motorcycle, just as outside the fancy modern supermarket in town, young men on bicycles offer fish and sugar cane. There is dust, smoke, exhaust, and morning freshness in the air. I look around and I feel great. I love the warmth here, and not of the weather but the people. I admire the resilience, and not against change, but instead along side it. I take a deep breath, in this beautiful and kind city of contrasts and change, and I recognize the mixture of scents: the smell of possibility.

On Tuesday, I will travel to Gulu to begin my work there, and I am excited to begin settling in and working. I am lucky because traveling awakens the senses, and for me in the past few weeks, has introduced the scent of transitions. I hope that wherever you are, you can take a moment to feel, to smell, to taste the world around us.

Thanks for being in my life,
Inbal

Pictures

Youth from Kibera and I at Strathmore University - Nairobi, Kenya

With the Kangata Family in Nairobi

The hills of Kampala, Uganda

The new super market in Kampala

The 'old' supermarket - fish aisle

Betty Ocan Aol and I in Parliament

The Ugandan Parliament

A friendly face while on errands in Kampala

The drive to town and the smell of possibility

Small Hours

2007-06-28T20:57:00.000-07:00

June 2007

Hello Everyone,

A few introductory and administrative notes before I begin.

If you are writing to me at any other address than inbal.alon@gmail.com, I am not getting your e mails, so please change your address books.

You are all on this list because at some point you expressed an interest in my work and/or where in the world I am. As many of you know, for a few years now, I keep a journal when I travel and share updates with friends, colleagues, and family. I feel fortunate to see so much of the world, and besides enjoying this experiment in creative writing, I also feel that it is my responsibility to balance the overly negative and simplistic portrayals of developing countries and global problems with more personal, complex, and optimistic narratives. So every few weeks you can expect an e mail from me, and this year you can also read the mails and see pictures on my blog (http://inbala.blogspot.com/). If you enjoy reading, I ask that you forward the updates to others, as the purpose of this is to share ideas and get more people to feel a personal connection to different parts of the world. Also, please feel free to post comments on the blog so that you can discuss with other people reading.

Around this time last year I was packing my bags to leave Lugufu, the Congolese refugee camp in Tanzania where I worked after Zanzibar, and to come back to Boston. As I look at the piles of paper, books, handouts, posters, tickets, and notes that cover my room and start to think about packing again, it is hard to believe that a year has gone by. The year has been so rich in friendships, experiences, learning, and reflection that it feels like a long time, and yet it went by so fast, sometimes I can close my eyes and still see the smiles of children in Lugufu, not to mention I still have not gotten around to unpacking some of those old suitcases. I knew when I left Lugufu that I had found something special. We all search for perfect-fit; a profession, a hobby, an activity, a discussion that fills our soul, while stretching our intellect and exciting the heart, something that awakens all our senses of being human. I found that in Lugufu: the joy of working directly with children and adults, the challenge of making ‘temporary’ conditions in camps conducive to long-term development of refugee communities, the promise of education, the urgency of current needs, and the inspiring perseverance of the human spirit. In a place that most people consider depressing, I found hope and I found myself. And so, it was hard to believe that leaving would enhance the experience, but it did! Taking a year to study, a time-out to reflect, an opportunity to learn new ideas in the context of previous experiences has allowed me to unpack those experiences, memory by memory, question by question.

It would be impossible to share with you all of this year at the Harvard Graduate School of Education, but there are moments that stand out, and even those are too many, so I pick and chose as things come to mind.

Early in the year, while I was still overwhelmed with my new classes, delighted by wonderful new friends, and adjusting to spending long hours in Gutman library, I had the opportunity to go listen to Stephen Lewis give a lecture on his new book, Race Against Time: Searching for Hope in AIDS Ravaged Africa. Stephen Lewis, the former UN special Envoy for AIDS in Africa and the director of the Stephen Lewis Foundation for AIDS in Africa, is a wonderful speaker who can juggle words into intricate stories of humanity. He spoke of many stories and lessons from his many trips to Africa, and a few really stayed with me. He spoke of responding to the AIDS crisis as an obligation to respecting the human right to health. The response to the AIDS crisis, including prevention campaigns, treating the sick, taking care of orphans, and searching for a cure is indeed noble, but it is not charity. It is work people often support from the kindness in their heart, but that the international community must recognize as a responsibility and duty to the promotion of universal human rights. ‘Rights-based development’ – I have heard of the concept before but in his words it makes sense. The integration of human rights to international development framework has the potential to create accountability mechanisms, and facilitate development assistance in a manner that respects local knowledge and culture and builds local capacity. And all of a sudden the decision to study international development and human rights of refugees at an education school makes sense, and I smile, and Mr. Lewis keeps talking, and the small moment passes. Stephen Lewis also talks about grandmothers in Africa who take care of orphans as their own children die. He has pictures of beautiful old women whose wrinkles, bright eyes, and shy smiles hide lifetimes of joyous and sad stories, surrounded by children whose young faces are already cognizant of the challenges ahead. He speaks of women as the foundation of hope, and I remember all the strong women I’ve come across in my journeys and wish they could all hear this oration of respect that is really about all of them. Mostly, the lecture is a complex combination of a realistic understanding of very tough challenges and a hopeful, positive tone. That too makes me smile. I have often wondered how adversity and perseverance are so often found together, and have tried to share Africa through my eyes, which despite the poverty, disease, etc etc, have always seen beauty, strength, courage, and hope. Human rights, the role of women, and hope… not bad for an afternoon, and as the year continues to unfold these three topics continue to guide me.

The human rights community at Harvard is wonderfully plentiful with professors, students, and visitors studying human rights and its many intersections with other disciplines. There was so much to learn and absorb and as always in human rights so much work to be done that it all happened simultaneously. It felt like learning the moves to a dance while performing on stage and trying to teach the audience to dance along. Professor Jacqueline Bhabha provided much of the foundation, linking human rights to children, refugees, and other vulnerable populations in a style that always pushed me to think critically and question. Professor Bhabha has a way of explaining the most intellectually challenging dilemmas in a very real and human way that elegantly presents human rights as both an academic topic and a very emotional experience. The University Committee on Human Rights Studies organized a series on Darfur advocacy, an effort to increase awareness about the ongoing genocide in Darfur, and the complexity of rights-based responses in a world of politics and economics. I was not really sure where I fit into the pictures, but somehow between the events, talks, and getting to know people, I found my role. I started working on educational resources for high school students about advocacy and social change, using Darfur as a case study. As part of this ongoing project I had the honor to interview a series of Darfur advocates. It was fascinating and inspiring, the different attitudes and motivations, the diversity of people around a common cause. Bec Hamilton is a fellow student but her accomplishments in Darfur advocacy are numerous. The Harvard Darfur Action Group, which she helped start, convinced the university to divest from oil companies in Sudan, starting a national movement in the US against investments that directly support Sudan’s oppressive regime. Bec can move mountains with her will and dedication, and her message is that as the genocide continues, we can’t give up, but need to be more innovative, more bold, until we find something that works, that stops that atrocities happening on our watch. Omer Ismail is a dear friend from Darfur who guided me through much of the process. He is a man of many trades; an activist, an academic, a lobbyist, a journalist, and a teacher. He does what he can and adapts to the challenges. Between testimonies for the UN and the US congress he finds time to have lunch with me every few months, living his principle that every person counts, that advocacy is not about convincing the masses but about making friends, adding one by one people who are aware and care. Gloria White-Hammond is a pastor and an activist who has been a Sudan activist since the wars in Southern Sudan. She has been to Darfur many times to listen, to bear witness, to be a friend in a time of need. She finds inspiration from Nelson Mandela, whom in the midst of Apartheid found hope in his belief that things will change in his life time, that such evil cannot continue. Gloria speaks with similar conviction; the genocide is Darfur will be stopped, she is sure of it, and she plans to help speed that process. Sifa Nsengimana is from Rwanda; she was studying in Canada when most of her family was massacred in the Rwandan genocide. She can’t let that happen again, to anyone, or else the death of her family was in vain. She gets tired from time to time, as we all do, but than she remembers the plight of others and she keeps going, for her family. And there are others, Sarah-Catherine Phillips who continues the divestment campaign at Harvard, Daniel Millenson, a university student who is one of the organizers of the national Sudan Divestment Initiative, high schools students already taking a stand, and others, each inspiring and driven by his or her own story. I listen to the stories and think of ways to share them with students in the U.S, to facilitate a process of personal reflection about what it means to be a global citizen, an advocate for human rights. In essence this experience is part of a life quest, teaching compassion. I discover the power of storytelling, of giving people voice and facilitating sharing, and in a very small way for a fleeting moment, I feel like part of a community of people who will, I most sincerely hope, change history.

One of the fun parts (though it was stressful at the time) was the plethora of courses from which I could chose to study. With not many electives, it was always though to decide between the many courses that sounded fascinating. Clicking through the internet catalogue for the Kennedy School of Government, I would have usually skipped over the international security policy section, but I stop at a course being offered with Ambassador Swanee Hunt called inclusive security. Ambassador Hunt was the U.S ambassador to Austria during the conflict in the former Yugoslavia and has been a leading voice for the inclusion of women in security, conflict resolution, and post-conflict reconstruction decisions. The course is a once-in-a-lifetime experience; it happens simultaneously with a training program for women from around the world, called women waging peace. This year we are honored to meet guests from Sudan, Uganda, Liberia, Iraq, Iran, Colombia, and Nepal, all countries affected by conflict. There is a lot to be learned in the classroom, but there is nothing like having breakfast with a group of Ugandan parliament members and listening to them talk about how they created a non-partisan women’s caucus to address issues of education, peace, gender, and livelihoods. In between morning lectures, a frail woman from Sudan, about half my size, wrapped head-to-toe in a light pink fabric, and with large, dark, bright eyes tells me how she has traveled hundreds of kilometers, at times on foot, to show up at peace negotiations and demand women be allowed to participate, in the same breath, she also mentions when she goes for a long time, her young daughter misses her. These women are parliament members, wives, mothers, sisters, friends, professionals, and everything else. We all watch a movie about parliament members in Rwanda, the only parliament in the world that has almost 50% women representatives. The women explain how after the genocide president Kagame made a rule that 30% of the seats were reserved for women. The women saved their strongest candidates for the regular elections and ended up with almost 50% of the seats. The visiting parliament members smile at the possibilities in their countries, and the sharing of experiences gives them confidence and hope. We observe, students from countries where women still represent such a small percentage of elected leaders and we’re in awe of what we can learn. I sit back and admire the accomplishments of these women, soak in the energy in the room, the beauty of the exchange, the humility. Swanee is a wonderful facilitator, she creates opportunities for exchange with such ease and fluidity; she is a living testament that elegance and strength can be bundled together. She is so beautifully comfortably in her femininity and justly unapologetic for demanding the inclusion of women in decision-making. In these days, I also meet Betty Ocan Aol, a lovely plump woman with the most beautiful kind smile. She is from Gulu, a district in Northern Uganda, and in her house she takes care of 27 children who are orphans of her brothers and sisters who have died in the conflict there. She is dedicated to the rehabilitation of child soldiers and the education of children who have been hurt by the 20 yeas of war. She invites me to meet her family, to join her effort, ‘there is so much work to do in education,’ she says. When I hug her to say good bye, I say I hope someday I can come see her, and at the time we both do not know how soon that is about to happen very soon.

Throughout the year there are many more moments of learning, and there are too many to recount. I was fortunate to meet friends like Rochelle and Iva who through their work on human trafficking and child soldiers taught me so much about the power of good research to help us understand complex problems, as the first step to exploring solutions. At the beginning of the year, I thought it would be nice for a group of graduate students to share and discuss ideas about how education can foster global citizenship. To my delight, a vibrant and dedicated group of people came together and organized many stimulating events. A wonderful panel organized by Tanya discussed the power of information technology to connect young people in meaningful ways and enhance their understanding and caring about the world. Another event, put together by Layli, brought a pair of Israeli and Palestinian friends who work with history teachers from both sides of the story to build the capacity of the next generation to recognize there are two sides to every stories and both can be correct. A representative from the United Nations Association of Greater Boston shared with us how their global classrooms program allows students to negotiate world issues.

Another key highlight was with another student group, Voices for Africa, where with the help of Emily, Kamille, Sarah, Kalpna, Bisola, Rachel, Crystal, and Pierre we put together a conference for 180 participants. Our aim was to create discussion around education issues in Africa and to do so in a way that portrays the tough challenges while also celebrating the beauty, resourcefulness, and resilience of the continent and its people. The conference was a great day, good discussions, inspiring speakers, good Tanzanian food, and even some lively African drumming and dancing. I learned a lot about leadership from these groups and experiences. In the past, I have thought about leadership as leading from the front or from the back. Now, I feel that people don’t really want someone right in front – you block the view – and having someone pushing from the back can throw off the rhythm. Instead, people need a friend to walk besides them, and when you really collaborate with people and give everyone a voice, good leadership is all about trust and honesty.

I learned the most from my friends, whether it was late night discussions with Sholeh about ideas in our upcoming papers, long chats with Pierre about the role of foreign aid in Africa, sharing experiences with Junko, or getting some encouragement from Ben. There was always a great friend to talk, to process ideas, and to learn together. I learned from my teachers, from professors in the university to teachers at Monument High School, where I did part of my work-study, who taught me about the challenges of teaching in contemporary society. Mostly, I learned from the children, whether it was the kids at Brandywine, a community center where I did the second half of my work study, or the small children of the Somali women I tutor on Sundays, their smiles, questions, curiosity, and beauty reminded me all the time about why I care so much about education.

Many years ago in Ghana, I realized the importance of celebrating small victories along the way. Perhaps, it is not the lesson one expects out of a masters degree, but this year I have learned to appreciate the importance of small learnings. Beyond the big frameworks and complex theory, there are ahhhh-ahhhhh moments where something small makes sense, and perhaps the most important aspect of this year has been learning to ask questions.

And so in the honor of small victories and small learnings (and also the many small hours in Gutman Library), a brief quotation from a song by Rob Thomas:

"our lives are madein these small hoursthese little wonders, these twists & turns of fatetime falls away, but these small hours, these small hours still remain..."

Thinking about Lugufu, the small moments there, having tea and listening to laughter, I realized the immensity of truth in the UNHCR slogan “it takes courage to be a refugee.” I think about the million of children who have had traumatic experiences because of conflict and how remarkable they are for moving on, living life, being members of their communities, and I admire them. I want them to have an education that admires them too, that recognizes their resilience, that assists them in rehabilitating and reintegration into a peaceful society. With the support of the NGK fellowship and the University Committee on Human Rights, I get a chance, and I’ll spend the next 15 months in Gulu, Northern Uganda, working with Windle Trust, an NGO providing scholarships and educational services to former child soldiers…. and now that we are all caught up, I hope you will stay with me over the next 15 months and share this experience.

Finally, the most sincere of gratitude to my family and Pierre whose support not only made this year possible, but also extremely happy and enjoyable.

To all of you, thanks for being in my life,
Inbal