MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND

From Tanzania...To Brooklyn (BUY TIX HERE)

2008-11-22T09:33:00.000-08:00

PURCHASE TICKETS FOR DEC 8th EVENT HERE:

In 1969, founder of the Black Panther Party in Kansas City, Pete O'Neal, was facing imprisonment on trumped up charges from the FBI.

Over 40 years in exile later, his wife and fellow former member of the Black Panthers, Charlotte "Mama C" O'Neal touches down in Brooklyn for a night of poetry and music with poets and filmmakers from Lisa Russell's upcoming documentary film, MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND. Film clips from our visit to the O'Neals community center this past summer will also be shown.

Hosted by Carlos Andrés Gómez and beats by DJ Stone, this night will feature some of the best spoken word poetry from Tanzania to Brooklyn!

Tickets: $20 Regular/$100 VIP (includes dinner with Mama C) Profits benefit the O'Neal's UAACC Community Center and production costs for MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND.

Visit www.mythofthemotherland.com

There is limited space. Tickets are first come, first served. There will be no ticket sales at the door.

***

For more information, email Lisa Russell at lisa@governessfilms.com
For information about UAACC, visit www.uaacc.habari.co.tz/
For more information about MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND, visit www.mythofthemotherland.com

Photos from Poetry Africa

2008-10-13T05:46:00.001-07:00

Poem 1 (By Tahani)

2008-10-12T23:47:00.000-07:00

Like a piano lesson
Patience Passion and Poise
There is a woman’s in the distance
with words written down her face
that I can barley see them
I can close my eyes and see a reel of life’s dedication play for me
I know one day I will have to thank her
for teaching me to listen to the stories of my heart beats
I am grateful for blinking eyes and gods kiss of faith
I know I will be the one standing
When it happens
when chaos enters the room
I will be the one to protect her me you and us
Wind will force pockets of wisdom to live lifetimes in my blood stream
I am not vain
Nor
God complex
I am pen, paper and hope
I am no Barack Obama
Obama is no Barack Obama
To be honest
I cry when I think why really write
There is a chair that sits facing a wall in a corner
where no one looks
Like a neglected child
We scream words
That takes shape
Into bullets piercing the chest of the un-kissed by god
I am the sun rising
For those mother whose sons will never rise
This is an anthem
Of sunsets in thunder quacks
Of heart beats of a people
I write poems
I write to keep from going insane
I write poems so people know that I am sane
I write to keep my tears from falling
I write to keep your tears from existing

Tahani In South Africa

2008-10-12T22:23:00.000-07:00

As many of you know this is the first time I have left the states EVER!!!!. I cried because I thought that I would fall in love with the world out side of America … and ohhh boy was I right. I was taken back by so many things. The people, culture and religion of South Africa.. The first two days I tried to soak in everything and I swear by the third day I felt like I had been there my entire life. 28 hours on a plane was well worth it… but not worth coming back..lol.

This trip has opened my eyes to the way we communicate with each other. There are many hardships going on in the world around us and some of us take it upon ourselves to learn about these things. The issue of the South Africa apartheid is apparent but not spoken about in everyday conversation. Many of the South Africa people choose not to speak about it often.

I found myself related to the situation because of the issues in Palestine where my family is from. When asked to talk about the division on land destruction of certain peoples cultures, histories. It is hard to rehash things when half the world thinks it's over and half haven’t even seen the beginning of what’s going on.

I tried to learn most from the stories of the elders and educators we came across. I met so many wonderful people I can't explain how wonderful the people were. It was amazing how they address stereotypes.. It was almost fun for them to correct me in certain things. One of the most beautiful conversations I had was about how the people there get anger. How there’s lots of discussion and story telling as conflict resolution. Durban was very interesting and diverse. The Indian culture is one of the most surprising to me. I knew that there was population but not as apparent as it is. It is very beautiful yet challenging to understand, break down races and religion in South Africa. More race then religion obviously because of colonization…

Well the people helped me better understand what America really looks like from an outside perspective. I’ve learned to appreciate every experience I have whether in America or not.. We are not the richest country… We lack so much in so many ways here in the states… that all these other countries are so rich and thriving in so many other ways…One thing that strikes me was that people were saying how we should be proud to be Americans. Because we were the ones that could actually change what people think about the different countries of Africa. It is our job, because we care, not because any other reason. As humans we should know of each other as ways to coexist.

I spent the Muslim holiday Eid out there. It was one of the most interesting experiences ever. The way the city turns out for each other was fascinating. Even the non Muslim people were observant of the day. For example not in closing their shops but in being very welcoming and helpful in celebrating the day.

Ok so while I was out there meeting the people of South Africa.. We were part of a mind blowing amazing festival POETRY AFRICA… We met so many remarkable poets from all over the continent. We seen what their place is society and how their work really benefits their people. It was so cool because being an artist is commended out there..

My first poem was written after visiting a school in Durban and I was asked why I write?

This was after hearing a poem about heritage (By Tahani)

2008-10-10T13:29:00.000-07:00

Take shape!
We have watched the leaves of our lives taken shape
Lined with the journeys of our lineage
We are green
Mustered our way to brown
Life lines of wisdom have been spread across my face
By the whisper winds of grandmother stories
We are left wounded in the mist of life lessons we are lifted away by winds kiss
We have fallen from the finger tips of grandfather trees
Falling
Falling
Falling
Falling in to the abyss of life’s twists and turns
Drips of rain washing life’s grim and grime
Life as a leaf
Falling back into the hands of mother
Her earthier hands grip me solid liquid and ready
I am ready
To live.

Roxy from Egypt

2008-10-10T13:06:00.000-07:00

So i know this post is long overdue seeing as how I have been studying abroad in Egypt for a little over a month now. I have just been trying to soak in all of the information. And to be honest, I think the beauty of this country intimidated me from writing. I mean I definitely wrote but I think I was just scared to share my experiences publicly because it all just seems too precious to describe into words. This week however, it dawned on me that all the indescribable beauties that I used to admire have become just another aspect of my day and that I have become immune, or I guess naturalized to my environment.

I have only just come to terms with this immunity as I flip through the pages of my journal and read all of my entries from my first weeks here. When I first got here I took note of every single detail describing the houses and the faces of everyone I was encountering. My eyes were constantly observing everything and anything in front of me. I wrote a great deal about noticing the vast disparity between the rich and the poor- it is so weird to me to now become immune to the differences and just think of it as Egypt. I learned in my ancient Egypt class that the ancient Egyptians believed that you did not have to be born in Egypt to be considered Egyptian. All you had to do was live there and live like the Egyptians to be considered Egyptian. Is it weird that I almost feel Egyptian? I have gotten into the swing of things, and already have my routines and it scares me. I was going through old journal entries reading about all the little children that would come up to me at the beginning and ask for baksheesh (money). I wrote about all the conflicting emotions that where going through my heart. Whether it was wrong or right to give them money what was fifty cents to me? But was I only feeding into a horrible cycle? I would compare these little children to me as a child, and when I was six years old my biggest concern was what the colors blue and yellow made. I had no concept of money. Then I go to the university here and I see rich Egyptians wearing Gucci and Prada, and I was so flabbergasted at the vast difference between the two classes. Reading all my old thoughts saddened me because I no longer have this eagerness to observe burning within me. I think I have become so overwhelmed with my classes, friends, and exploring that I have forgotten to savor the precious moments that are building my experience here. I have let the normality of everyday life here consume me and have temporarily put out the fire within me that used to burn with questions. Now that I have become aware of it. I am going to pay close attention to the beauty of this gorgeous country and its people and start again from scratch, and in poet terms that would be a pen and notebook.

I think I will leave this post with something I wrote in my journal on on September 4th, 2008, not for those reading- but more to remind myself of the me that came to cairo and the me that has so much more to learn.

I am trying so hard to savor these moments
in a jar to place
within my heart
holding on with a tight grip
afraid to let these moments leave me
before I appreciate them
I don’t want this experience to become just another journal entry I refer to
when I’m nostalgic
So I watch the people pass
Every smile, every car, every cat-call,
And try and recall every detail
I don’t want this time to become a memory that seems so distant
I question if I’ve lived it.

Murambi Genocide Memorial & Nyamata Church (Gikongoro & Nyamata, Rwanda)

2008-09-25T06:29:00.000-07:00

Papi & Sarita - you were right. I was wrong on that one.

And I've grown enough since this summer to realize that.

What I'm referencing is an intense and heated debate I had with my father and older sister while in Slovakia in July - what started the whole thing?
I said I thought Austria has a rude culture and they disagreed. They didn't disagree that Austrians might be aloof or standofish, but as my father pointed out "most people aren't sure what to do in social situations more than they have a problem with you."

And he's right. I honestly believed what I was saying then but I don't anymore - building off of what my wise father and sister were trying to have me realize is the following:

human beings are much more characterized by their need to fit in with their peers and the insecurities that might come along with that than any inherent ill will towards others or malice that may lie in their bones.

It probably seems like an absurdly counter-intuitive conclusion to reach after one of the most inexplicable days of my life today as I visited the two most haunting places I've ever seen.

But that's where I am right now in my head and heart.

On the ride first to Gikongoro, we passed scores of "genocidaires," which are people who were convicted of helping to carry out the genocide in 1994. How do I know they were "genocidaires"?
Part of their sentence is that they must be outfitted entirely in bright pink so that everyone around them will know that they took part in the massacre.

As the vehicle slowly weaved through a crowd of these identified "genocidaires" I was struck by two things:
1. how young they were - all seemingly in their late 20s or early 30s at most - which would mean that they were in their early to mid-teens when they joined the interahamwe and participated in the Genocide in 1994
2. how normal they looked - I searched their eyes for the answers to the impossible questions that inevitably arise in this country, but I found nothing - no hate, no evil, no anger - none of the easy ways out that might have settled some of what's in my gut at this moment.

Most of the guys just looked very focused on their tasks - carrying bricks or cutting grass, helping to load a truck. Or, as I saw with a group of five, they just looked like a bunch of guys trying to fit in with the guys - could have been my crew in high school. And a lot of them just looked bored or lost in thought - sort of like everyone in the court room at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda that I spoke about when I was in Arusha.

What I struggle with is what that left me with:
the need to fit.
Which is not an adquate explanation, by any means, for the massacre of one million people, including babies and mothers, in just over 3 months.

Everything that has been coarsing through me since I've been here has only gotten more jumbled and complicated and unclear as I've gone along. A few things I'm sure of:

1. I don't believe that I'm above what took place here - either killer, victim, bystander - I know what I'd like to do if I had been there but I have never stared into the face of 1994's shadow, outside of these memorials. And a lot of people who stood by and watched genocides take place were the same people who said "Never Again." There is a danger in assuming you are above things other human beings do. And there is an even bigger danger in assuming that you are not complicit in faraway world events that you "had nothing to do with."

2. The Germans initially, but more so the Belgians, and most of all, the French enabled, assisted, facilitated, and allowed the worst atrocities this world may have ever seen to occur - with the bloody glove of Colonialism blazing a trail forward.

Beyond those two things, I don't have much else.

A lot of today I thought about the interview I saw of this journalist with Jeffrey Dahmer - a serial killer from Wisconsin who killed and then cannabilized his victims - and how the whole time watching the show I thought, "He seems like just a shy, sensitive, kind of awkward dude...I'd probably be friends with that guy in school."

Of course, Dahmer was clinically insane but I remember feeling perplexed that, outside of him talking about the murders he committed, I couldn't see the monster in there. Seeing the "genocidaires" today was a similar experience - they reminded me of guys I knew. They reminded me of guys I love and care about. They reminded me of fathers of friends and coaches I've had and older brothers I've hung out with.

-------

Once again, both of the places I visited today were too much to try to capture in some sort of coherent and well-organized text - so I'm going to just give some impressions and thoughts on each...

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MURAMBI GENOCIDE MEMORIAL

After about a 3 hour drive from Kigali we arrived at the Murambi Genocide Memorial in Ginkogoro (which has been renamed since the Genocide like most places in the country).
Murambi was a technical college still in construction in April of 1994. As the Genocide commenced, local politicians urged everyone in surrounding areas to take refuge in its buildings for protection. However, their actual intent was the exact opposite - as the director of the memorial explained to me, "They said it would be for protection but really is to kill them easy," as he let out a painful, ironic chuckle.

The college is on this stunning hill surrounded by the most beautiful scenery you've ever seen. It looks straight out of "The Sound of Music," the same sprawling nature views you might see in Austria or Switzerland. The whole time I thought:
this road to hell is beautiful.

As the dirctor showed me to the buildings he began opening doors one-by-one. Onto the 3rd or 4th door before I had even looked into the first. What I found was inexplicable -- rooms full of bodies preserved with lime -

families sprawled out on tables with clothing still on them

hair still visible on a woman's head, her blouse splattered red with her arms petrified over her face

a baby in a soccer shirt with his thumb at his mouth, his skull shattered open, raw

siblings embracing each other

The director opened about 11 doors and then walked away and handed the keys off to his assistant who kept opening more doors. I told her it was enough. It felt like they opened 100 doors. I could smell the death in each room, feeling it creep into my mouth and burn my taste buds, as the creaking doors seemed to endlessly open and shut.

I was the only person at the entire memorial. Not one person came the entire time. The director hitched a ride with us as we left and they closed the front doors.

The only people there were the three of us and about 7 people with machetes
between the buildings - trimming the grass.

The director walked me out to the mass grave where most of the 50,000 people who were killed at Murambi are buried. A sign pointed out where French "peace keepers" with Operation Turquiose planted the French flag after they discovered the massacred hill full of bodies.

All I heard was the wind and a woman singing, the words echoing out of one of the buildings, as she cleaned the floor of a bathroom - my eyes seeing red as she pushed the soapy water with her mop.

Just in front of three signs that all identified the mass grave we were standing on top of was a final sign that read:
"Here is where French soldiers played volley" (after discovering the freshly dug, partially covered mass graves of 50,000 Rwandans who huddled together, waiting to be saved)

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NYAMATA CHURCH

A stone's throw from where 2,000 people were hacked to death with machetes as they prayed to God and sought refuge in Nyamata church is a massive elementary school.

I can't explain how haunting it is to hear kids laughing and squeeling in the background as you stand in a church with the clothes of 2,000 people who were massacred stacked onto the pews. There are still blood stains on the walls. Behind in the church is a mass grave with steps leading down into it, with skulls and bones piled floor to ceiling. The tomb is so packed I couldn't turn around without my shoulders clipping the shelves.

As I walked out of the site, I heard thunder in the distance, one loud crash, and then a light rain that fell literally until the moment we crossed out of Nyamata's town limits.

The enduring image I will never shake is the following, as I took one last glance before walking out of the church and all the pieces slid together in my mind:

On top of the alter -

overlooking the towering piles of stacked clothes of 2,000 people who sought refuge in what they thought was a place of God and were hacked to death, just above a basement filled with hip bones and red-tinted skulls and just beneath a baby-blue trim Virgin Mary statue frozen in silent prayer -

a blunted machete and a blood-stained Identity Card lying side-by-side.

We're off to POETRY AFRICA!!!

2008-09-23T06:41:00.001-07:00

Check us out at Poetry Africa - the largest poetry gathering on the African continent. Kesed, Tahani, Carlos and Lisa will be representing NYC and MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND.

Click here for more info: http://www.cca.ukzn.ac.za/images/pa/PA2008/img/PA2008-catalogue1.pdf

Lake Tanganyika (Bujumbura, Burundi)

2008-09-18T05:05:00.000-07:00

I kept hearing about how amazing the inland beaches are on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, that divides Burundi from the Congo. For quite a while the region has been very unstable, with a civil war that is now starting to calm a bit. I consulted with one of Guen's colleagues who works down in Bujumbura and she said that it should be okay to come down right now, so I thought what the hell and decided to swing down here for a couple of days.

Being here is REALLY stretching the little French I speak, but it's a fun challenge. I got a spot at this little hotel right on Lake Tanganyika - it's really cool. You see this beautiful beach and these kind of eerily empty bars/restaurants scattered around. I literally didn't see one person in the hour I spent walking down the beach and dipping my feet in the water yesterday afternoon. Then on my way back I ran into this waiter from the eatery near my hotel named Claude. With fragmented bits of Kiswahili, French, and English we talked for about 2 hours while I ate chicken and rice and sat next to the 30 foot snake they keep as a pet at the place. Then I went into Buj and got a chance to check out the town for a while. The lake is definitely the biggest attraction and the tourism industry pretty much died with the conflict over the past decade. There's this U.N. fortress on the way to the lake from town that makes most federal penitentiaries in the states look soft. On the bus ride down we saw a lot of soldiers or "rebels" as the folks around here call them with AK-47s and such. They warn about land travel but most of them seem more bored than anything else.

Something to note - folks here in Burundi refer to the Genocide as "the crisis" in Rwanda. Burundi has a very large population of Tutsis and still allows classifications of both Hutu and Tutsi.

Also, apparently the D.R. Congo is about 15 minutes driving from where I am on the lake. Really interesting vibe here. It's been cool.

I woke up early this morning at 6am and watched the sun rise. It was awesome. Standing with my feet in the water looking up at the mountains in the distance covered in mist as a bright red sun rose out of the clouds.

Kigali Memorial Centre (Kigali, Rwanda)

2008-09-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

"Look at your hands - are they red like mine?"
Marty McConnell, final line of one of her poems
--------------------

Superman sheets.

I remember my girlfriend coming over in 8th grade and the excruciating humiliation of her seeing the Superman covers I had on my bed. I part of me still hasn't forgiven my parents for not helping me update my bed sheets til high school. My mom had the same theory with bed sheets as she did towels (like the 2 bright pink ones she sent along with me for college) -- "They're in perfectly good shape - who cares what's on them?"

Superman sheets.

Today I visited the memorial centre for the genocide in Rwanda. I don't really have anything clever or insightful to try to capture the experience, so I'm going to do my best and pass along some things I wrote down word for word from the wall of the memorial at different points. I spent almost 6 hours slowing trying to absorb what is remembered in that space.

I got to the "personal belongings" room, where articles of clothing, jewelry, and shoes are displayed of people killed in the Genocide. Right in the center, stretched out, was my identical set of Superman sheets. I even walked up to it and inspected it with a sort of confused horror, a cold sweat and chills down my back, half thinking someone had borrowed my old one.

Then there was the "family photo" room. Thousands upon thousands of pictures of people before they were killed:

a middle-aged mother with her hair done, dressed up to go out

a daughter doing a cookie dance at a party

a father in his new jogging outfit about to sprint down a hill

a couple on their wedding day

an auntie laughing, holding a baby's hand as it took its first steps

a crooked, bucktoothed smiling big brother with his little brother in a head-lock

a sweet 16 party

a cocky teenage playboy in his new vest

a man bowing his head for communion in church

a graduation

a grandmother seated in a chair, surrounded by her son, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren - all of whom were killed together on one day of the genocide.

Then I went to the room for the children who were killed - massive blown up family pictures of the kids - towering above each viewer. Here is what I found written on the walls (with the photos above the writing):

Ariane Umotoni
Age: 4
Favourite food: Cake
Favourite drink: Milk
Enjoyed: Singing and dancing
Behaviour: A neat little girl
Cause of death: Stabbed in her eyes and head

Bernardin Kambanda
Age: 17
Favourite sport: Football
Favourite drink: Tea
Favourite food: Rice
Character: Clever at school
Cause of death: Killed by machete at Nyamata church

Irene Umutoni and Uwamwezi Umutoni
Ages: 6 and 7
Relationship: Sisters
Favourite toy: A doll they shared
Favourite food: Fresh fruit
Behaviour: Daddy's girls
Cause of death: A grenade thrown in their shower

Mami Mpinganzima
Age: 12
Favourite food: Chips with mayonnaise
Enjoyed: Traditional dance
Favourite song: "The Beauty of Woman"
Last word: 'Mum, where can I run to?'
Cause of death: Shot dead

Nadia Chanelle Ruterana Kanyange
Age: 8
Favourite sport: Jogging with her father
Favourite sweets: Chocolate
Favourite drink: Milk
Favourite song: "My Native Land Which God Chose for me"
Enjoyed: TV and music
Cause of death: Hacked by machete

Francine Murengezi Ingabire
Age: 12
Favourite sport: Swimming
Favourite food: Eggs and chips
Favourite drink: Milk and Fanta tropical
Best friend: Her elder sister Claudette
Cause of death: Hack by machete

David Mugiraneza
Age: 10
Favourite sport: Football
Enjoyed: Making people laugh
Dream: Becoming a doctor
Last word: 'UNAMIR will come for us.'
Cause of death: Tortured to death

------

There is no organized, neat, or adequate way to convey what's going on inside of me right now. I'm just going to paste these fragmented bits I wrote down today and you can do with them as you will:

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WOMEN AND CHILDREN
"Women and children were a direct target of the genocidaires for murder, rape and mutilation.

The killers were determined to ensure that a new generation of Tutsis would never emerge.

Tutsi women were systematically raped and sexually mutilated as a weapon of genocide. This was often by known HIV-infected males. They were then either killed or spared to suffer on another occasion.

Hutu women in mixed marriages were raped as a punishment.

Women and children were not only victims of the genocide, but also perpetrators. Children were frequently forced to participate, often by killing their friends or neighbors.

Victims were sometimes forced to kill their loved ones just before they themselves were killed.

Hutu and Tutsi women were forced to kill their own Tutsi children."

"The primary identity of all Rwandans was originally associated with eighteen different clans. The categories Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa were socio-economic classifications within the clans, which could change with personal circumstances. Under colonial rule, the distinctions were made racial, particularly with the introduction of the identity card in 1932. In creating these distinction, the colonial power [Belgians] identified anyone with ten cows in 1932 as Tutsi and anyone with less than ten cows as Hutu, and this was applied to his descendents. We had lived in peace for many centuries, but now the divide between us had begun..."

"The Catholic Church influenced education in Rwanda. Teaching increasingly conveyed the racist 'Hamitic' ideology, largely accepted by the Church. Hamitic ideology portrayed the Tutsis as a superior group."

"Genocide was being rehearsed. Massacres of Tutsis were carried out in October 1990, January 1991, February 1991, March 1992, August 1992, January 1993, March 1993, and February 1994. None of the massacres constituted spontaneous outbreaks of violence. Despite knowing about these atrocities, the French government continue to support the Habyrimana regime. French soldiers participated in identifying Tutsis on behalf of the government."

"We...say to the Inyenzi [cockroaches] that if they lift up their heads again, it will no longer be necessary to go fight the enemy in the bush. We will...start by eliminating the internal enemy...They will disappear."
-- Hassan Ngeze, Kangura, Jan. 1994

Radio Television Libre des Mille Collines (RTLM)

[Photo of beautiful church / Photo of inside of church with body parts of 2,000 corpses scattered over the pews]
"Nyange: Two thousand congregants were sheltering in the church when Father Seromba gave the order to bulldoze the church building. He murdered his own congregants in his own church."

"A tree can only be straightened when it is young."
Traditional Proverb

[Photo of a group of teens, hanging out and laughing]
"Muhingana George (first from right) and Mujawamariya Epiphaine (fourth from right) before the Genocide. Muhingana George and Mujawamariya Epiphaine were chained together with this chain before they were buried alive."
[Rusted chain and lock in glass viewing case]
"When they were exhumed their corpses were still tied together."

"When French troops arrived, there were still survivors in the hills. It is reported that they reassured the [Tutsi] resisters that it was safe to come out of hiding, then left. Thinking it was safe, the weak survivors emerged to be slaughtered by the interahamwe."

"The guilt of survival."

300,000 ORPHANS
"Many survivors offered to take orphans into their homes on the grounds that they would have wanted someone to do the same if their own children had been orphaned."

"When they said 'never again' after the Holocaust, was it meant for some people and not for others?"
-- Apollon Kabahizi

YAHAYA NSENGIYUMVA
"Yahaya Nsengiyumva was a Muslim living in Nyamirambo. During the Genocide, he is said to have saved the lives of over 30 people, whom he protected or hid in his outhouse.
'The interahamwe killer was chasing me down the alley. I was going to die any second. I banged on the door of the yard. It was opened almost immediately. He[Nsengiyumva] took me by the hand and stood in his doorway and told the killer to leave. He said that the Koran says:
If you save one life, it is like saving the whole world. He did not know it is a Jewish text as well.'
-- Beatha Uwazaninka"

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In a video testimony of one of the survivors, a woman spoke of how haunting the silence was when she first returned - even the birds were mute.

As I stumbled into one corner of the Memorial I found myself watching a 5 minute video, with no sound, of the mutilated bodies of countless people. Children with machete gashes exposing their brain. Churches turned into mass graves.

Then the power went out. And the whole hallway fell dark, like a ghost had just blown out a candle.

I crumpled down against the wall and cried. Dirty, hot, selfish tears.

And then I walked outside and looked over the hill, behind the memorial, where 250,000 people murdered in the Genocide are buried.

Election Day (Kigali, Rwanda)

2008-09-16T03:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a holiday -- election day. A day in many countries that warrants getting the hell out of town as quickly as possible. If there were elections in Kenya last week, for example, I think I would have skipped the Nairobi leg of the trip or at least skipped town before they took place.

Not here, though. The day was peaceful and totally calm. It was such a nice day so I decided to take a walk. A couple of hours later I ended up at this quaint little pond. I just took in the breeze and people watched for a while.

These little kids were screaming and jumping around in the water. I think it was pretty cold (even for them!) because they would dive in head first and then come squeeling out immediately.

As I walked by the houses, people would look at me so curiously and surprised. It kind of reminded me of my time in Zambia, in the township where I worked (M'tendere), where a lot of the folks were so shocked to see me walking through. Rwanda is very much like Zambia, and very different from Kenya, or even Tanzania, in that way. Kenyans and most Tanzanians are much more accustomed to seeing foreigners around. In Kigali tourists are totally non-existent so the only foreigners you see really are people working for different NGOs and such that are stationed here.

The little kids almost whisper as I pass, "Mzungu," (white person/one who travels) as if a strange festive float just rolled down their street.

And then I smile big and wave, "Bon jour! Sa va?"

And they blush and smile big too, as if they were just caught sneaking a cookie before dinner and respond, "Sa va bien."

There's a shyness, a curiosity, a gentleness that I sense here.

"'94" and the Hotel Des Mille Collines (Kigali, Rwanda)

2008-09-14T09:12:00.000-07:00

Rwanda is beautiful. Getting out of the airport and meeting up with Guen, who I'm staying with while I'm here, I immediately thought of Bogota, where a lot of my Colombian family lives or has lived - lights decorating hills like a Christmas tree on a Saturday night about to pulse to life.

And Kigali, where I am right now, is one of the cleanest cities I've ever seen. So much feels new or freshly paved, painted, just arrived. Guen says that there's always been a tradition of appearance being very important, whether it's the way folks dress, or the city's streets, whatever -- "it's something that was around well before '94," as she said.

This is the only way the past exists here. And the word used to describe it: "'94"

Today though - no one is Hutu anymore. No one is Tutsi. I still can't get a straight answer on whether any specific laws forbid the mention of either "arbitrary grouping" publicly (as a number of Rwandans I've met have identified them as candidly) but there are just things you don't talk about. There are other things you discuss "on the porch." A woman today told me that there's no tribal origin that explains the Hutus or Tutsis - she says the Belgians merely divided the population into those who owned "more than 10 cows at the time" - Tutsis - and those who didn't - Hutus.

All the districts have been renamed, as well as the cities, and, although most Rwandans in most parts refer to places with the old names, you can't find any maps or formal documents that mention them. There is a lot of strong negative sentiment against the French, although many still use French in their every day lives. I was told today that the French trained and supported the Interahamwe, who led the genocide that left almost 1,000,000 Rwandans dead.

Last night I had some great food and went dancing til 4am at a disco. We had drinks and had fun. I was captivated by the people I saw out. The women are stunningly beautiful. So are the men. I can't distinguish any two groups, although you'll hear a thousand different folkloric ideas about what "physical characteristics" separate the two. It makes me think of turn of the 20th century anthropology and other "science" that hierarchized the identified races.

I honestly didn't feel the heavy weight I thought I would have felt since I got here. It sort of felt like a dream - and a good one at that. Everyone seemed well-dressed and buzzed. Everyone was smiling. Lil Wayne bumped at the club. And everyone, whether they spoke Kinyarwanda, French, Kiswahili, English, whatever, they sang along to the song like they wrote it.

Everything was cool. Until 2 hours ago.

I went with Guen to have a drink at the Hotel Des Mille Collines - the infamous hotel talked about in the book "We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families" and in the film "Hotel Rwanda" that tell the story of a hotel manager, Paul Rusesabagina, who saved 1268 people by giving them refuge at the hotel on a hill in Kigali.

Today the Mille Collines is still a hotel. With the same name. No mention of Paul Rusesabagina. No memorial or monument. It's a slightly over-rated 3.5 star hotel. It kind of looks like a Holiday Inn in Boca Raton where someone would go with their grandparents for a weekend golfing trip.

I sat at a table and drank a sprite and Guen said to me, "The first 2 weeks it really weighs on you...and then you forget. It's fucked up but you do. I came here to watch music last Thursday, it didn't even cross my mind...and then you see a guy trimming a lawn with a machete."

"They still allow machetes in this country?" I asked, shocked.

"I mean it is a useful tool," she answered.

At the supermarket, after we left, she came up 100 Rwandan Francs short at the checkout counter. I remembered that I had been given two 100 Franc bills by Mrs. Mwinzi as a parting gift before I had left Nairobi. They were from her last trip to Rwanda.

As I pulled out the bill, something very abrupt happened - a sharp shift in the air. Everyone immediately stopped - all four cashiers in a line, the customers all turning around to look at me.

No one smiled. No one talked. The cashier carefully put her hand around the bill and rolled it over twice, a sort of weighted, slightly numbed nostalgia in her face - like she was looking at an infant handprint petrified in volcanic ash or an old photo about to turn to dust.

The bill was from 1989.

From the era "before '94," in a world where the past is like a forgotten dream broken down into increments that exist either "before '94" or "after '94."

This "land of a thousand hills," with a people described by most Rwandans I've met as a "fun-loving people who love to party."

For a few brief moments, today, I met Rwanda.

a night at the theater (Nairobi, Kenya)

2008-09-13T01:46:00.000-07:00

Last night I hung out with Mrs. Mwinzi (Mwende Edozie's mom) and a few of her colleagues. She treated me to a night on the town in Nairobi - I guess a sort of farewell tour to Kenya, for now, since I'm flying out to Kigali this evening.

Evening getting to our first location was quite a endeavor. We left at 5pm on a Friday (which is when they all had arrived back from work).

The traffic in Nairobi is an unreal. And on Fridays?? Wow. Nuts. Mrs. Mwinzi had gotten tickets for us to go see a play at the Phoenix Playhouse that was opening last night called "6 Characters in Search of an Author" - by a noted Italian playwright whose name I can't recall right now. So, after navigating the hour and 40 minute, 5 km or so journey we arrived at the theater. It was a comedy that was satirizing a lot of the theory behind acting and the theater I suppose, as 6 "characters" show up to a theater while these "actors" are performing and challenge the director to create a production where the "characters" merely relive portions of their lives instead of actors pretending to be them.

It seemed like folks were still working out the lines and the show (I don't think folks do previews here) so there were a few kinks but I really enjoyed it nonetheless. There was this really cute baby sitting right in front of us, name Kenyatta no less, who seemed to captivate our whole side of the theater...I can imagine that little man has a big future.

In any case, after the theater we went to this restaurant called Open House where I had, hands-down, the best Indian food I have ever eaten. Wanna talk about talking in hyperboles?? I'm dead serious. And I spent a month IN India in 2001. This spot had the best Indian food I've ever had. I highly recommend it.

A few hours from now I'll be hopping on a RwandAir flight to Kigali. I feel like since arriving in Africa I write and talk differently. Do these journal entries seem like my vernacular is a bit different?? haha

Hope this finds whoever is reading this healthy and well. much love.

Twana Twitu (Migwani, Kenya)

2008-09-12T01:15:00.000-07:00

Most of my time here in Nairobi has been connecting with and spending time with the incredible crew that works for Twana Twitu (www.twanatwitu.org) here in Nairobi - Wamaitha, John, and Raphael. A couple days back I got a tour of the town with Wamaitha via matatu (a.k.a. dalla-dalla in Tanzania a.k.a. mini bus) and saw a bunch of the sights around town.

Twana Twitu is an organization seeking to fight the HIV/AIDS pandemic by supporting and finding stable housing for children orphaned by the virus. Their belief is that these children will have a much healthier and stable development as they grow older if they are situated with relatives or other close family relations as opposed to being put in orphanages with other parentless children are housed. Their belief is that the orphanage system should be a means of last resort, as it often fragments the family structure and can have detrimental effects on the child's social development. The work they do is fantastic. And the non-profit was founded by Mwende Edozie, with who's mother I have been staying here in Kenya.

Yesterday Raphael (the program coordinator) and I drove out to Migwani district, where Ms. Edozie is originally from, to visit the Twana Twitu site out there and visit some of the families and kids. It was about a 3 hour or so drive each way but it's such a beautiful trip you kind of forget you're in a car as the time passes.

We stopped by a few different families and hung for a bit. We stopped by one house where the grandfather and uncle are caring for an 11 year-old girl whose parents both passed away as a result of AIDS. It was a crazy shift from my usual thinking of things. In the U.S. and most places there is so much made of single mothers and other extended family women rearing and caring for children that may or may not be their own. But here's this 84 year old grandpops talking about how much joy he has (but also how much work it is) to raise this granddaughter.

We met the uncle on our way out, who had just walked down to the girl's school to bring her her lunch. We mentioned to him how different it was to see two men raising a child who wasn't their own, to which he responded, "Of course I will care for her. It is our duty and I will do it to the max!" - with a big warm smile on my face, equal parts warm-hearted and mischievous. Awesome.

I spoke with a few different folks about the play I've been doing interviews for, "A World Without Fathers." Man, have I met some characters. I spoke with Mwende's, the founder of Twana Twitu's, grandfather who is 112. And this dude looks great! He was cleanly shaven, well-dressed, and joking non-stop. He had these bright blue eyes, I think since he is losing his sight - not because he is sick (as he told me) but because he so old. haha

On the way back it rained and this rainbow came out. We pulled over the car and just took it in for a few minutes.

It's been a lot of work and traveling and absorbing since I've arrived here and I'm pretty exhausted but I feel great.

U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (Arusha, Tanzania)

2008-09-10T04:16:00.000-07:00

I guess the point of any journey, literal or figurative, is to disrupt or shatter or undo all previous preconceptions. To see the gap in what really exists out in the world and what we are told exists. This whole trip has been saturated with that realization.

Right now I'm back in Nairobi but still very much thinking about the day I spent yesterday in Arusha, while still in Tanzania. I went to the U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, where almost 60 people have been or are in the process of being tried for participating in the genocide in Rwanda that left close to 1,000,000 Tutsis and (moderate/sympathetic to Tutsi) Hutus dead in just over 3 months in 1994.

From previous experience, I know that court proceedings don't have the climactic arc or drama of Law and Order - often times, they're pretty boring to be honest. This was no different, except what distinguished this case was the seeming boredom of all involved in the process. That and them looking absolutely exhausted. Burnt out. Nothing left. It seemed like they'd all been in this room for the past decade or so having a cyclic discussion with no end.

The way the court room is set up is in a rectangular shape with a glass window making up one of the four walls - this is called the "public gallery" where anyone can come and watch the proceedings with a headset (that translates into about 5 or 6 different languages). Three cases are convened simulataneously, so one can travel between the three rooms and watch each for as long or little as you like.

If someone has been a victim of the genocide (or was there during the genocide) they are surrounded with a curtain, and their identities are kept anonymous for their protection. This was the case in the first court room I went into. A woman was behind the curtain being asked if she knew of, or was familiar with, any of a long list of names being read off to her.

The majority of my time though was spent in the 2nd court room. It was eery. As I walked into the gallery almost everyone in the court room glanced over at me. You'd think that with all the people moving in and out of the gallery that such an occurrence wouldn't really warrant much attention. I soon began to understand why.

An Italian priest, who was visible (not behind a curtain), was being questioned by the prosecutor about one of his parishioners (please excuse my ignorance on all the religious labeling with this...which I'm sure is quite inaccurate). In any event, one of his parishioners, who was a noted local politician, was being accused of coordinating the mass killing of Tutsis. One example I heard about, which included a number of local Hutu religious figures was the murdering of classrooms full of school children who were promised safe refuge in churches only to find armed infantries of Hutu soldiers who hacked them to death with machetes or locked them in the church and set them on fire.

The Italian priest being questioned was very stoic throughout. Never looked up. Thought before answering each question and hardly acknowledged anything or anyone. The only time I saw the priest show any emotion was the only time I saw anyone else show any reaction to much - when the translator stopped translating into English, when the priest was told he was speaking too fast and giving answers that were too long by the presiding judge, and when the lead defense lawyer objected to a certain line of questioning by the prosecutor. With the objection, the prosecutor slammed his mic off and seemed to curse profusely down at the floor and at his team, threw his hands on his head, breathing out deeply and staring at the ceiling. Neither the objection nor the prosecutor's response seemed to have much to do with the actual matter at hand, but rather ego. It seemed more like a pissing contest. Both sides of their exchange seemed equally absurd and misplaced. It was like anyone was looking for anything to diffuse the exhaustion, frustration, tedium, whatever.

After the priest was told that he was being too long-winded by the judge he pretty much answered mono-syllabically. At one point the prosecutor had asked the priest why his parishioner had said that he moved out of politics, to which the priest responded:

"The political atmosphere."

I was like...huh? So was everyone else. And the prosecutor responded,
"And to what kind of political atmosphere are you referring? Please be more specific in your answer."

And the priest answers, "Please be more specific in your question."

It was really intense to watch all these incredibly loaded and haunting layers unfold. Everyone had so much underneath everything they said or did, it was amazing to see how they each coped with it. Some of the lawyers, like that previous example, seemed to act out - almost like a bratty teen. Some chose to choke everything in and remain almost robotic - like the priest. Others seemed petty and easily distracted - like the presiding judge who constantly seemed to stop and intervene on silly small things that were happening.
Others just took a whole other approach - like most of the security that worked at the U.N. I.C.T.R. - who were some of the most casual and jovial, fun-loving folks I came across in my entire trip to Tanzania.

Walking through security initially, this dude with a huge smile says, almost playfully taunting,
"Do you have a camera?"

To which I replied, "No, do I need one?"

He giggled at my response and pulled out two sign in books.

"This one is where you sign in your camera. And this one is where you sign in your gun" - and he falls out laughing with his head back as if he said the funniest thing of all time.

I sort of looked quizically at him and laughed nervously.

"Just playing my brother!" he said as I passed through the metal detectors, "Have fun!" he said with a parting smile, as if I was about to get on a ride at Disney World.

Wow.

Anyway, I'm back in Nairobi. Recorded 2 more songs with Kamikazee and Mama C. on Sunday night and had a nice bus ride back yesterday. Have plans to visit the Twana Twitu AIDS orphanage tomorrow.

I'll write again soon. Much love.

Carlos in Tanzania

2008-09-07T09:44:00.000-07:00

It's funny how life works out. I always make fun of the absurd fetishizing hyperbolosity of going abroad. Everyone always talks about the inspiring and life-changing moments that happen. It's inevitable. As if foreign countries were built to have these life altering exchanges and moments to be shared at dinner parties and look "cultured." And then I'll talk about the people I met - the guy who made me a mango smoothy on the sidewalk in Puerto Plata with the eyes of a voodoo Orisha sage who probably couldn't give a fuck about me. How a little girl pressed her delicate hand against the window of my cab in Calcutta and how it made me...blah blah blah blah

I hate that shit. All that said. I am all hyperboles right now. As I've come to realize though - every moment of life, wherever you are is full of the beauty, humanity, and inspiration that we often only allow ourselves to feel while we're abroad or on an "adventure" - we seem to put our kid glasses on then. Maybe we should do it more often.

In any event, right now I'm in Imbaseni, Tanzania, a village just outside of Arusha, staying with Mzee Pete and Mama Charlotte O'Neal. Two Black Panthers who have been living here for almost 40 years since Mzee Pete was forced into exile after a trumped gun possession charge. He was the founder and chairman of the Black Panther Party in Kansas City, Missouri.

This community center they've built is a dream. No other words to describe it. There are murals snaking their way around all of the seemingly endless walls, with drawings of Malcolm and Martin shaking hands smiling, east African emcees and Masai families, inspiring words, and a red, black, and green painted recording studio with egg crates sound-proofing it. When I got here from Nairobi on Friday, I went into the studio with Mama Charlotte and her producer, Kami, and we cut this crazy track with Mama C chanting, singing, me emceeing, and Kami laying down one of his ill beats. Today I hung out with Mzee Pete for a while in the afternoon and he told me all kinds of stories from his youth and childhood and what life was like growing up in KC. Tomorrow I'm planning to watch one of the trials of the U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda that is convened in Arusha to try accused war criminals of the Rwandan genocide.

Being here gives me some real hope after a summer filled with some sobering reminders of the less inspiring character or settled-for mediocrity that seems to plague adulthood. It's made me less enthusiastic about growing into this supposed "man" that I'm viewed as.

But then I meet Mzee Pete and Mama Charlotte on Friday.

And these two revolutionaries (and I really mean it when I use it for them) LIVE what they speak. And 40 years since almost having their lives taken away for what they believe they are enacting all the things they spoke about - workshops for the local community on everything from computer science to reading and language study to dance (and everything and anything in between), a water purification system they have set up that is accessible to everyone in the surrounding villages, and a space where creativity and well-informed ideas are not only nurtured but constantly demanded of those who stay here. You should see Pete's book collection - insane. Stuff out of print, stuff just printed - I have no idea where he gets all this stuff. And then the photos of Pete and Mama C in their hey day - with rifles in their hands and berets. Wow. I know how cute and fun it is for folks to romanticize all that shit and all the "crunchy grassroots activists" (like me) back home who put on a cool t-shirt and yell loud and think we're "revolutionary," but they lived in a time where it wasn't halloween or a costume ball party folks called a "protest."

To see the peace and careful listening of two people as imperfect and human as Mzee Pete and Mama C really teaches me something. I don't even know right now what the full scope of it is, but these last few days I've been feeling like someone reached into my ribcage and sort of washed off my dusty heart. The stars really sing here at night. I feel like I don't look up enough.

On the horizon

2008-08-18T09:51:00.000-07:00

We've been sitting still for a minute but that's only because we're getting ready for a few more big trips.

In September, Carlos Andres Gomez will be going to Rwanda and then will meet up with Tahani and Kesed in Durban for the 2008 Poetry Africa festival.

We're ready to start showing you what we've been up to. If you're around September 4th, we'll be showing some images, spitting a group piece and hearing some amazing African tunes from DJ Ital Stone from Botswana. Location TBA but it will be in Fort Greene, BK.

Photos from UAACC

2008-06-22T09:51:00.001-07:00

What A Night (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-09T10:18:00.000-07:00

June 8th, 2008
Mambo mi gente? (“What’s up my peoples?” in Kiswahili and Spanish) ;)

Now let me begin by saying that I did not think that yesterday could be topped. The rush of hanging out with Mzee Pete, Mama Charlotte, and the crew was unreal, but wow… was I wrong.

Today we started off at the community center, eager to finish recording the track we had begun. I had yet to get in the booth and record my verse, one I felt confident they would enjoy. I was so inspired by their presence, their energy, and their message that the words flowed easily and straight from the heart. Our song was about the sounds of drums resembling heartbeats and bringing music back to the roots of upliftment and consciousness. Mama Charlotte sang about music that moved her in spirit and inspired action. Nakaaya, an amazing sister who is well known here in Tanzania, sang about the “fire of our fathers” and the legacy we are challenged to live up to. After her, I spit my verse.

When I came out of the booth, I was received with hugs and pounds all over. Mama Charlotte’s sweet smile filled my heart up. Love was alive and present. The day was followed by an evening of music and laughter. The Stonybrook students who had been having their study abroad at the United African Alliance Community Center were putting on a show for all the community to come out and see. Pete laid it out plain. He said that there needed to be a cultural exchange, not just some locals dancing and singing for the foreigners. So Stonybrook stepped up their game and delivered a really dope show, even learning and performing the Tanzanian national anthem as well as some of the cultural dances.

Next it was my turn to step up to the mic. Although Mama Charlotte had heard me spit in the booth earlier, Mzee Pete still hadn’t even heard of what I do. Earlier, when I had gone to Arusha market with him in the UAACC van, I had mentioned that I was eager to “spit”. About an hour later, he said:

“Brother, let me tell you how much of a square I am. You mentioned earlier that you really wanted to ‘spit’ and I thought to myself, ‘Well dam, why doesn’t he just crack open a window and do it already?’ I didn’t realize you were talking bout rappin’!”

Dude is hilarious. But still, I must admit that I was a bit nervous to perform in front of him and the entire community. Mama Charlotte kindly introduced me and I went up on stage. I was about to perform “So So Revolutionary” but something told me to do “Love Still Lives”. So I did…

Man, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I was to hear Pete and Charlotte ‘yessing’ and ‘hmming’ all throughout my poem! It felt great to be in a place where I truly know that love still lives and will continue living due to their work and devotion. It was an honor to have them hug me after the piece.

After that, we celebrated like no tomorrow, with dancing, singing, and just plain out enjoying one another’s company. I found a guitar in the recording studio and felt like I struck gold. Lisa laughed as I serenaded the Stonybrook students late into the night with revolutionary ballads and love songs. "What a scally...", she later said.

All I have left to say is…

What a night.

What A Day (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-08T02:07:00.001-07:00

June 7th 2008

Hujambo from Tanzania!

Where do I even begin?! Today was by far one of the most exciting days I’ve ever had in my entire life! Seriously… I can’t begin to express my excitement and appreciation for the day Lisa and I have just passed. It all began this morning bright and early. We knew we were up for a long day hanging out with Pete and Mama Charlotte at the United African Alliance Community Center so we had a huge breakfast of eggs, bacon, mangos, watermelon juice, etc. The works! We expected to have an adventurous day, being that we were about to chill with two heroic Black Panthers in Tanzania, but had no idea what was in store for us.

After arriving at the UAACC at the bright early hour of 9am, we decided to start filming the space right away. The ENTIRE space is decorated with murals of revolutionary figures, words of power and encouragement, positive quotes and the like.

One wall reads: “You could kill the revolutionary, but you can’t kill the revolution.”

Images of civil rights heroes, jazz musicians and community color the gardens and bring life to an already lively place. It really goes to show the power of art that is meant to uplift.

Hanging out with Pete feels like a glimpse into history. He asks us if we want to join him on his journey to the market. He has a large shopping list that will feed the center for the next 4 or 5 days. “Try to keep up now!” he tells us. And man, was he right.

In Arusha market, I dodge and weave through the crowds in attempt to keep the camera focused on Pete. His dance must be choreographed as he glides effortlessly through the stores, pointing at food as clerk boys hurryingly stuff his cart for him. He is the elder so they treat him with the utmost respect calling him “Mzee” (elder) as he passes by. Everyone greets Pete with a huge smile. They respect him out of love for what he’s done in the community.

Later on, after countless jokes and amazing tales, we head back to the studio at the community center. Various Hip-Hop artists are gathered here working on a project with Peace Power Productions, UAACC’s very own studio production company. The recording booth is lined up with egg cartons, making it surprisingly sound proof. It reminds me of how the guys and I use to record with a paper towel as a pop filter and a hanger as a mic stand. Gangster.

“Brother Frankie 4! You have to write a verse to this song we are working on!” says Mama Charlotte.

Oh…my… god… is all that runs through my head.

“Do you realize you’re about to record a track with a Black Panther?”, Lisa freaks me out by stating the facts.

I write my 16 bars with the biggest smile on my face. Mama Charlotte gets in the booth and I show Kamikaze, the beat maker and producer, how to work Protools. Mama Charlotte breaks it down, harmonizing like I’ve never heard it done before.

We have an amazing time and plan to shoot the music video the next day since the whole community is coming out to dance and sing and share art with eachother.

Wow… a music video… featuring Black Panthers, East African Hip-Hop artists... and me.

It’s unreal. What… a… day.

Good Morning TZ! (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-08T01:48:00.000-07:00

June 6th, 2008 – Rise and Shine

Lisa and I awake to our first morning in Tanzania! It’s very exciting and we’re hyped to check out of the Kia Lodge and into our new spot at the Ngordoto Mountain Lodge. The day is spent packing up, driving out and waiting in the lobby for our room to be ready. Apparently a huge conference had been the talk of the town for the last week and we were just catching the tale end of it. At least 100 bags of luggage lined the lobby floor and folks were checking out by the dozens. It took us a couple of hours, but we finally got our room.

Next step was to attempt to call up Pete O’Neil, a Black Panther whose been living in exile in Tanzania for close to 40 years. He and his wife Charlotte moved out here after Pete was found guilty on a trumped up gun charge. After making their home in the village of Imbaseni, they founded the United African Alliance Community Center, a place of positive growth for the youth of Tanzania.

They offer education, recreation, and a safe space to all those who wish to be part of a loving and giving community.

Our hopes were that Pete would schedule with us a meeting for the following day and allow us to come into the center. The calls however did not go through and our day was winding down to a wait-fest. Now tired and concerned, Lisa and I decided to go have dinner and then try again on the internet to see if we got a response by e-mail.

Low and behold, before we take our first bite in the lonely dinner hall of the hotel, Pete O’Neil comes rushing towards us with arms wide open!

“You must be Lisa! And you must be Frank!”

We were beyond ecstatic and our energy went from 0 to 100 in a heartbeat.

“Pete!!!”

He quickly invited us over to the center. We took our dinner to go and headed out towards the UAACC. When we got there, we met some of the Stonybrook students who are currently doing their study abroad in Tanzania. Pete got us some drinks and we had so many laughs. He had us tearing! We met Mama Charlotte who was a bit ill but still came out of bed to meet us. They are both as beautiful as we thought they were. Finally we decided to head back to the hotel and get some rest for the next day.

Before I came on this trip I was concerned that they would be so busy with their other guests that they would not make the connection Lisa and I were hoping to make with them. I guess living in America made me feel as if the first thing people do when they meet is doubt each other. I cannot begin to tell you how untrue and unnecessary that concern was. But Pete can…

“You’re my kind of people! Have a good night ya’ll!”

Welcome Home (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-08T01:46:00.000-07:00

June 5th, 2008 – Tanzania

I made it. After filling out immigration forms and grabbing my visa, I meet my bag at the carousel. Lock is missing, it’s dusty as hell and it has a huge red ticket that reads DO NOT LOAD. I don’t bother to look inside yet. (Later I discover that somebody snagged some of my Keebler crackers. Not all. Just some. But hey, can’t blame customs for loving some tasty treats.)

I head out and realize that regardless of where you are, there will ALWAYS be a swarm of taxi drivers ready and eager to take you to your destination. So I arrive at the Kia Lodge after Gilbert drops me off, but not before he offers me a tour to the Mountain, Waterfalls, etc. Hard to turn down, but I’ll manage.

At the Kia Lodge I get into my room, drop my stuff and crash.

3 hours later, I find out I’ve been initiated. My left arm has a nice big fresh mosquito bite.

“No turning back.” I think, “Welcome home Frankie.”

Gate to Kilimanjaro (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-08T01:44:00.000-07:00

June 5th, 2008

At the connecting flight gate I meet Simba. A dude from England by way of Zimbabwe who is heading back home to the famz after 5 years.

“Excuse me,” he says, “do you know what time it is?”
“Dam bro, you’re asking the wrong guy.”

After figuring out what time our flight is boarding, he lets out,

“Hmm, that means we still have about an hour and a half.”

Hardly felt like it though after we started talking about Obama’s victory, American politics, English society, universal healthcare, Black Panthers, Cuban embargos, the World Bank, the IMF, etc.

Ha, I almost have no idea how we got into all of that, but it was dope and by the time we knew it, we were on the plane.

Next stop. Tanzania.

Big Hugs (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-08T01:39:00.000-07:00

June 5th, 2008 – Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

This is my 2nd morning in the last 12 hours. Now I’m confused. I meet a beautiful Ethiopian woman on the flight from London named Mekdes who ended up scolding me for changing the time and my watch.

“You’ll drive yourself mad!”

Oops.

During our conversation I tell her about the MYTH project. We speak about the apathy and disconnect we experience in the U.S. and England and share stories of how we attempt to break it down. She tells me of how different it is in her birthplace of Adis Ababa and how kind she feels people are all over Africa.

“I went to Kenya with a coworker of mine and we couldn’t believe how friendly people were. We didn’t have transportation and had to ask two guys on the street to drive us to Nairobi. I was very scared at first, but all of a sudden, I trusted them. I still don’t know why. Anyways, my coworker kept in touch with one of the men and ended up getting married to him! And I told her, ‘Are you crazy?!’, but I couldn’t change her mind. She was in love.”

After telling her about my poem, "Love Still Lives" (hear it on our myspace page!), I tell her about our blog site.

“I’m going to write about our conversation Mekdes.”
“Oh how sweet, I’m just sorry that we didn’t speak sooner.”

I extend my hand, but instead she drops her bags and gives me a big hug.

One down, so many more to go.

Break of Dawn pt. 2 (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-08T01:35:00.000-07:00

June 4th, 2008 - London – (12 hours later, but really only 8)

So apparently I just chased the moon around the globe. I try hard not to confuse myself, so I sit back and relax. I land in London and I swear, that for a second, I almost pick up an English accent. It’s very catchy. I meet a woman at the connecting flight’s gate, heading to her hometown in Uganda with her son.

“Ah! Tanzania! I remember studying about it in school. I only hear good things. They are very much a community.”

Her smile begins to bring me home.

Break of Dawn (Frank López - Tanzania)

2008-06-08T01:32:00.000-07:00

June 4th, 2008 – New York City

Frankie 4am… I feel like I’m leaving half of myself behind and heading out to find the other half on the other side of the world. I don’t think the feeling of being unprepared will ever go away.

“What am I missing?”

For one, a sense of peace. But you can’t pack that underneath your pressed shirts and your mandals. Nah.

Be still homie, you’ll get what’s coming to you.

Africa is Beautiful (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-14T05:30:00.000-07:00

From the glory of it’s ocean to the broken hospital windows, Africa is Beautiful. From the cloudless sky to the amputated leg of a guy who hates to beg but has to eat. Africa is Beautiful. Futbol in the streets, families sitting down together to eat, and a young man singing as he speaks. Africa is beautiful.

The atlantic sits calmly just beyond the shanty towns. Africa. The dust covers bare feet playing amidst the burning trash. Beautiful. Palm trees sway in the breeze. Africa. Crickets beatbox heavy in the evening to accompany the buzz of traffic. So Africa. And radios rumble jubilant sounds slowly waving away the day. Beautiful Africa. A mother in a doorway calls her children inside from where they run and laugh. It’s a soothing tune, a restful moment that fits together like sand. For Africa is beautiful. A grandmother stirs the fufu and listens to her granddaughter’s stories of another day at school. You are Africa’s. There is always time. Beautiful. Fences are falling into crumbling streets. Africa is Beautiful. From open door you can hear faith flow out, gospel congas and the people saying, ‘amen’. Africa. And yes, those busted out, cracked and broken windows of the hospital are caked with dirt and beautiful as a girl sings hallelujah in a high pitched voice as she walks by them. Africa is beautiful.

And just in case this seems as complex and unclear as life- and you perceived some sarcasm or poetic irony. Sorry. Its just true. Africa is beautiful.

Liberia Poem (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-14T05:25:00.001-07:00

Liberia

Liberia sticks to my skin
Hot thick dusty air and the gangster stare of five year olds cover me
And I can’t see past Pangaea-
Cuz the connected soul of la tierra entera is all up in my face here
I peer into pages of palm trees, dirt roads, and bloodlines
Find myself sitting around laughing with young cats in the earth’s womb
As normal as fries with a burger
As Liberia as potato greens with enormous fish heads,
As “my parents are dead”, as telling me that Jesus said, ‘Love your enemy’
I’m drenched in Liberia and I’m ready
To let this be what it is and not act like my opinions are epically informed

This layer of Liberia, feels endless in my pores
Like Mildred’s sisters baby and what Stephen lost to war
Ends been cut off along with electricity, innocence, and limbs
And the day’s last light dims Monrovia golden
A mother holding her child nurtures hope
She the turner of pages, the book of life an Atlas
Carries worlds up on her shoulders and laughs

I’m near collapse
Cuz Liberia is pressed into my chest
So tight I can’t even get an ‘I love you’ out my lungs
Liberians could answer all my questions but they’d rather have me guess…
If I can show ‘em love with a hug? I’m gonna have to go with Yes
Cuz unless mama earth tells me no,
I’m gonna join the Youth in planting seeds and wait to see what grows
In Liberia
Things are 1822 times more complex than they appear
90% indigenous population saying, “love of liberty brought us here”
Fufu on the table, Usher on the radio and cousin’s in staten island,
Reverence for the states that don’t even know you’re here singing, dancing and dying
Ready to sell your gold coast for a visa but where’s the silver lining?

Finally, I see it at a youth group meeting in a hood called soul clinic
Keeping it realer than their tin roof they push aside the pain
Young women and men waging an anti-rape campaign
Planting season over, they know damn well they are the rain
Wearing fearlessness and t-shirts that say my body is mine
They own themselves and the future and right now is their time

Suddenly, I realize I’m seeing tomorrow being born in Liberia
Breaking day in Daniel’s voice, Woloquoi’s eyes, and Fatumata’s song
And in Liberia, it’s rude to simply hum along,
this is survival music, head just above water, fresh out of the fire,
you still alive so you inspired music,
belted out with our hands held tight,
for healing and for food, for rains and human rights…
Liberia like liberation, Love sung in desperation
Sticking to my skin, sweating and letting go
The last note has to say it all, but I can’t hit that key
The song of Liberia- endless here within me-
Will it echo inside my mind like the gunshots in the dream
Plastered to my skin, will you see it when you look at me
Liberia’s dust, sun, and broken hearted glances
Sticking like memories and the smell of the streets
To my skin,
To my heart,
To all my days to come.

Eyes Like a Lighthouse (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-14T05:19:00.000-07:00

Daniel.
I wouldn’t trust a picture or a thousand words to tell my brother’s story. I wouldn’t even trust a thousand pictures. He is a survivor of chaos and conflict but his is not a war story. Despite it’s pain and trauma, it’s not a tragedy, but a song of joyful possibility. Daniel tells it to me sitting on a porch next to a dusty road in the community of soul clinic where he is widely known and loved as a brother, friend, activist and organizer. Our conversations are interspersed with a steady flow of greetings from people passing by- he’s a politician but not at all. And without asking, his story starts to flow out gently.

One of five kids born to a mother and father who were police. Come war time this made the whole family targets for torture and murder. So when the rebels came and his parents fled, he was left alone with his brothers and sisters. When they had to run, he recounts, they went in all different directions and he kept running until he found a house where he was taken in by a woman who cared for 20 children. This became his home. The woman could only afford to send five of the kids to school so Daniel couldn’t go. He articulately describes the frustration of being deprived of the learning he so boldly advocates for today. Daniel says he ate anything he could find and somehow persevered as one of twenty kids in a time of desperation. A child separated from his parents and all his siblings. Eight years later, his mother returned from a refugee camp and found him. He smiles, looks at the ground and says, “oh yes, we cried that day.”
And now, here we are in the thick heat of a Liberian afternoon, speaking of collective struggle, of nonviolence, of organizing the youth to lead their nation toward a better future. His posture, calm and confident, is so clearly heroic. I’m inspired to the point of tears by his faith in hard work. He volunteers his time, day after day, traveling all over Liberia to educate people about Gender Based Violence in an Anti-Rape campaign. As the Deputy Director of the United Youth Movement Against Violence, he works tirelessly for his people. He laughs and tells stories. He is gentle but ready at all times. Ready to keep loving, keeping fighting, keep writing his story of hope.

I look him in the eyes. Twenty three year old eyes that have witnessed more death and birth than the eyes of most elders. Eyes like a lighthouse. Eyes that write stories, better than any words or pictures. I’m watching him write in bold, on streets, against all odds. He writes with that idealism that youth have the audacity to carry between our shoulders. We hug goodbye. Not one of those is-it-ok-to-be-hugging-? hugs- We hug like life is fragile, beautiful, and worth every single sacrifice we make. We hug because we trust each other to keep making sacrifices, making change, making peace. We hug to remind each other, that despite any distance, we work together. And as we walk down the dusty road together, I realize the best part of the story: it’s just beginning.

Pictures from Liberia (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-05T01:52:00.001-07:00

Poker Faced 5yr Olds (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-04T11:36:00.000-07:00

The streets of Monrovia are busy. Kicking dust up onto the brilliant colored clothing and radiant black skin moving in every direction under the booming sunlight. Its seriously hot. Liberians are doing their thing- ducking in and out between cars, pushing carts of plastic water canisters, walking down the streets in business suits, school uniforms, and sunglasses. and making it look good. -not easy, but good.

In spanish we say, 'sigue luchando!' (keep struggling!) - No need to remind Liberians. One look at the streets pulsating with every kind of hustle and its clear: Survival must be searched for, faught for, and attained by constant efforts. And it shows in the people's eyes.
I feel like I’m been either grilled or laughed at from all directions. Yet I’m comfortable. I quickly realize that the most gangster poker face is instantly transformed into a dancing smile by me giving a nod, wave or pound. But the eyes of infants and elders both, inspire in me a feeling of humility. Like everywhere, Women carry, balance, manage, and overcome to a mind-boggling extent. Try raising that many kids. Try carrying that many plaintains on your dome. Try overcoming statistics like 90.8 percent of females were sexually assaulted or abused during the war. Try maintaing up in here. But don’t try this at home.

By the way, Liberians put the rest of the world to shame by using two hands to wave hello. I’ve decided the rest of us are lazy and that they are right to recognize a first encounter with so much enthusiasm. Two thumbs up. Get outa here with your one hand... Hopefully, I remember that next time I give a straight faced head nod to somebody on the street. So if yall do see me give you a real enthusiastic two handed wave when i get back- Don't be thinking i lost it when i went to Liberia. Cuz actually, I think I found it.

Where Brooklyn At? (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-04T11:25:00.000-07:00

WELCOME TO BROOKLYN…
Brooklyn, Liberia. Fill Fulton St. with sand and watch waves crash down on Flatbush and Nostrand. Take off your shoes and most common (mis)conceptions. ---Where Brooklyn at?... More places than you thought my people.

Out here it’s where universes get up as the sunset illuminates young people doing what they do. If beautiful could mean countless colors bumping floating and flowing into loud laughter, swaying hips, splashing ocean water in the golden warmth of a brave sun- then this is beautiful. Beautiful and Brooklyn. And Harlem and Lagos and Santo Domingo and Accra and absolutely Monrovia. So it turns out maps, like schools and declarations of independence, only kinda work.

The energy glistens off the water and reverberates in madd hearts beating strong and close together. Straight up dance party in the sand. Big speakers pump the beats and fresh-ed out young folk are getting down. Akon, Alicia Keyes interspersed with African Hip Hop keep us all moving. Knicks Jerseys, Yankees hats, fitteds worn just right…and if anybody was wearing kicks…they’d be fly for sure. But that wasn’t everybody. Others were just rolling in their tattered shirts, ripped jeans or soccer shorts and some plastic flip flops. But it flowed into what it was: BK remixed by West Africa.
I can’t help but wish so bad that Tahani and Jamila and Janine and Kessed and Gaby and Waddada and Shaun and Swift and Native and James and all my Bk fam were in this Brooklyn with me. What would your eyes see? Words say? Reflections ignite?

So there is an area outlined by some string for dancing. But you couldn’t contain this throw down with a thirty foot brick wall let alone a string. There's people grooving right in the ocean with the waves crashing over them. There's drinks in hands, bare feet in sands, and a distinct lack of tension. Young lovers cover each other with their arms and besitos. This many hugs simultaneously has a magical effect on a place. But, I remind myself, because it is necessary, that this is real.

This Brooklyn consists of about fifty yards of Beach with three walls made of interwoven leaves and some scrap barbwire. The other wall is the Atlantic Ocean. The floor is sand. Population: Liberian Youth. As we go in a young friend we just met in the streets takes note of Brooklyn’s vibe: “it is a nice Sunday afternoon. Everyone here is happy.” Word to the 3rd. I seriously can’t ever remember thinking that about one place in one moment in New York. Even on the first day of Spring people got issues. But to throw the breaks on idealizing Brooklyn, Liberia- a seven year old gets sand thrown in his face and a loud Hey! We turn to look and little man is holding a ‘drug needle’. He is scolded fiercely by the nearby teenagers because the needle has been used. He runs away. Bed-sty, East NY streets flash through my mind. It’s more like the hood than I thought.

A wave crashes, the music cuts to let the crowd sing out “Hearts all over the world tonight…”, and I look up- straight into the eyes of a five year old girl. Again, beautiful won’t suffice. She stands like a ballerina with a filthy thin cotton dress hanging precariously from her little shoulders. She smiles, outdoing the sun. The music comes back on, the boys playing futbol by the water yell goal, and life resumes its journey. It keeps on moving, taking time to dance to hug to feel to heal to forget to ignore to drink to believe things can be better to breathe to be together and alright. It’s good to be in Brooklyn.

Still, I turn to the young Liberian next to me and inquire: ‘Excuse brother, where’s the Bronx at?’

First Day with Chernor (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-01T06:02:00.001-07:00

Now it's Real (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

We step out into the thick warm night of Liberia. Liberia, land of freedom. Land of life and war. Land of African American Hip Hop Rebellion Villages Tupac Civil Conflict Dead and Born Again. Land colonized by the freed men. Land shredded by ethnic violence. Liberia, right here right now. March 29th 2008 year of Liberia, Land of anything.

Life is here. Liberians walk or stand by the side of the one lane highway, waving for us to stop as we pass. Looking for a late night lift toward the capital. Dark skin, bright eyes open wide glisten in the headlights. Children skip as they walk. young men chat as they wait. Women carry heavy loads. Some walk. Some wait. Short hair, long thin legs. Colorful t-shirts, shorts, skirts, and dreams.

Inside the truck, we discuss how rape is the most common crime in Liberia. Its lamented that even to advocates it’s practically accepted as normal here. My heart hurts in my chest. Tears being made.

We roll and bumble down the road into the capital city of the land of freedom. Monrovia’s streets are pulsating slowly by the candlelight of small food stands and headlights of the passing traffic. Many young people fill the streets. Moving, walking, heads held up. Moving.

At the entrance to the parking lot, David smiles like the world is a just place. We shake hands. Watch the traffic go by on foot, motorcycles and cars. A girl walks by and looks at me with one eyebrow up like I was a possibility of some sort. She is wearing her work clothes. Short skirt, tight tank top, and her hair down. She is sad and beautiful through my tired eyes. David smiles his smile. We agree that Liberian women are beautiful. Quiet.

I notice David furrow his brow. What’s wrong man? - “ahhh, the electricity. Its liberia’s biggest problem.” He points out that the hotel and the supermarket across the street are the only places with power. I look farther down the street and see he is right. People walking, waiting, moving in the glow of candles and cars. Across the street young men sit amidst the pitter pattering illuminations with their backs against the wall. One plays a smooth rhythm on a plastic barrel. Laughter and conversations bounces off the wall and over to me and David. Why is there no electricity? I ask. –“It was destroyed by the war.” The smile is gone. “Everything was destroyed by the war.” Quiet. Now it’s real. I am in Liberia.

My eyes are on the ground where dusty feet track home or away from home. Moving. I try to sum things up with David, so what’s up with Liberia?
-“Oh, Liberia, well… it is free.”

Welcome to Liberia Sir (Luke Nephew - Liberia)

2008-04-01T05:26:00.000-07:00

“Welcome to Liberia, Sir.” Even though it’s weird to be called sir, I feel that strange anxiety in my chest start to come undone with the warmth of his smile. We’ve just landed in a small country on the west coast of Africa called Liberia. It was ‘founded’ by freed slaves from America in 1822. The lineage of these ‘Americo-Liberians’ runs clearly into the present day as they control most of the countries economic and political power, despite constituting only five percent of the national population. Even today Liberians of all ages show an intense interest in all things American. The country was recently ravaged by a 14 year Civil War that ended in 2003 after taking the lives of 300,000 Liberians and displacing 1 million. The country only had roughly 2.1 million people. But five years later, Liberia is bustling and moving forward, and here we are to sit and listen.

"in retrospect" and whatnot

2008-03-25T13:15:00.000-07:00

hey its bekah, i forgot to say bye in the land of internet so i'm pirating luke's beautiful writing for a quickquick minute to spit out a poem

i think you would like

the sounds people make

sometimes the sun was

inside me & it was good

the hot blood thing

like Butterflies

in earwax

who took shits wherever they

wanted took the Beast

to the roof which was

fingertips of children

Bladed-pupils Nothing but

the singing mountain between us

A house of monks throat-pore

with paper-kites for lungs. Houses

stuffed in their Holes with

Newspaper. it hurts. Awake. Reckoner

spells made of dust. slow. Hello. to turn

to the eyes of Lions &

become water

slick thud down

the stones to

a house made of candles &

the shadows steal u for a joke.

Nose picker, Love

Medicine

for the women who fly

backwards on broomsticks. you will call yourself back from stone soup

"u know i told him

feel free

& tings

that"

Medicine Man

2008-03-19T22:48:00.000-07:00

While we waited for the medicine man to come we sat in Jimmy's room and listened to Michael Jackson. (Don't you like that sentence??) so Micheal is going Thrillllerrrr....Thrii-ii---lllerrr....and then he comes in and was very serious in the face sometimes glaring his eyes in this way that makes you sit up straighter like you're a kid and you did something wrong and your moms mad... He had a priest's hat and a fancy coat that he kept adjusting. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed folding and refolding his white scarf under his coat. We all drank cokes together and clanked our glasses...so it was a real funny set of worlds all brought into this blue-blue room with a quote from the bible in Amerik on wood behind a dangling nintendo controller and the flies buzzing around us. Music from next door was blasting and a little black cat kept poking her head under the door.

He took some herbs out from his bag and through translations and a lot of hand gestures, told us what he uses them for. One for stomach ache, which was a stick that you chew on. Another for pains in the ears. One plant you boil in a pot of water for half an hour and a woman will sit over the steam to cure an infection. He gathers the herbs himself in the countryside. He said people come to him for breast cancer too and for curses and things like this. He practices abortions which are illegal...in hospitals here the traditional medicine men have a really bad rep, because a lot of girls and women are dying from their practices. Sometimes with an abortion a woman will end up bleeding too much. Its a catch-22 because a lot of these women can't afford to go to hospitals and the traditional medicine man is cheaper and easier to reach and less scary than a big hospital with doctors and paperwork and all that mess. Lisa had the idea to try to contact a medicine man so that she could hear their side of the story...and also cos we never met a medicine man before

After showing us his herbs he performed a ritual. All of us had to stand while he read from a book. He read low, sometimes whispering or muttering sing-song sometimes almost laughing. I liked how he read, he held my focus in a good way if that makes sense...In between he spat on his pile of herbs. He came to each of us and slapped us on the head. Lisa was so shocked when he slapped her she started hysterically laughing! Then he started to laugh also but said "SHH!" He came around again and kissed our hands and gave us his to kiss and then sat back down and it was done. He said whenever he practices he does this first. He said he wished we could have met his father because he had a lot of knowledge but his father is dead.

He was asking us whether people like him existed in our country. We told him how in America there is a lot a lot of pills, a lot of chemicals and machines that make you sicker than you were even. He said that his is the original, the best. I think I wish that the world of hospitals and traditional medicine men like him worked together. I think a lot more people could be helped if we took from both worlds.

Mountains

2008-03-17T07:39:00.000-07:00

So I've been wanting to talk to somebody about the trees that live in the desert here. They're so

beautiful!!!! I swear to you they look like upside down storms because they wear their roots on their heads. Also, its been really funny for me and Lisa to see all these animals walking around. People here think we're real crazy because we're amazed at the cows crossing streets between cars. There are lots of donkeys and large birds with swollen pink necks that eat the little birds for breakfast (the big birds, not the donkeys).

Here is something like a poem for you:

The bowing noises

Of wing-things and trees

Carry miles on their backs

Somehow I buried

The beatboxing Atlantic

In the dirt of my poems

& found her

In the trees of the desert

Yesterday I climbed (meaning walked a long long road uphill) the Mountain EnToto (sp?) in Addis Ababa. I guess because im a new york city-kid (or maybe I'm just ignorant) I thought, you know, mountain....Bear mountain...that kinda thing....I didn't know people really lived on the mountain.

There are all these patches of trees that look like the land of the elves cos of the green color of the moss. Many rows of slanted houses and a lot a lot of kids looking for water. While I was walking they were asking for plastic bottles and for pens, because their parents live far and they want to write home.

Because yesterday was Sunday, the holy day, people were singing their prayer on the mountain but I didn't see them so I said to Jimmy (as in Jimmy Carter from a few entries back) that it sounded like the mountain was singing...and he said "Oh yes! all by itself!"

Also, yesterday I met Jimmy's brother, David (yes, these are their real names) who is a poet. He read me some poems in Amerik. My favorite one was about a girl who comes from the countryside to the city looking for a better life but her dreams end up broken. I like how you can talk to a poet anywhere you go...I asked him why he writes and he said, "You know, I just write...how I feel..." Each of us is the same-same-same...

Water

2008-03-17T07:38:00.000-07:00

In a community kind of near (in car-speak) to Zeway, we met a woman in a pink dress with bright eyes and tattos on her cheeks. I saw a lot of these tattoos in Zeway, they are really really beautiful, sometimes patterns of lines, or a moon. The woman invited us over to her house so she could tell us on film about the problems women have where she's from.

We drove through sand or dust off of car roads to come to the hut which was made of sticks woven around and around. The half-built houses look like huge bird nests because they are upside down like a round cup made of wood. Inside the house, tied in the corner were baby goats..I never saw a baby goat before so I had no clue what they were, but I was all excited because they looked like sweet-faced tiny aliens.

The woman sat with her mother and a circle of men including her husband and some of the little kids. They told us how its hard, its common for women to die in childbirth because the hospital is so far away. They also told us the main problem they're having is with water. They had sent the rest of their kids out to find water early that morning and they hadn't come back yet. Again with how generous everyone here is, they apologized for not offering us water, but sometimes they didn't have any for days.

I noticed even though they are having this....hard time (an understatement- but phwoooshh I'm trying to make my words fit their meanings), theres so much laughter and light between them. It made me think of how a few days before a woman in that same community had spoken about America, "We are poor," she said, "but I think they have a different kind of starvation."

Tigist

2008-03-17T07:37:00.000-07:00

On our way to the hospital she had asked if the sky was touching the land and that it looked like it was going to fall…I think that for this place maybe she was right, I think here it would.

She is Tigist. She is 17 years old. She has a soft face, one of the sweetest I've met. Hers is the kind of face that makes you want to go to long lengths, jump a mile, make it rain…whatever you can do to get a smile. At the safe abortion clinic in Zeway she was the first girl to volunteer to tell her story.

She wore an orange skirt with flowers sewn in and the traditional white veil on her head for the heat. While she spoke she watched her feet move like mine do when I'm nervous. She has no family, she told us. She had gone to work as a maid and ran a man's house just by herself. He asked to marry her and when she said no, he raped her. She said all this in a simple, factual way. She had already come to the free clinic in Zeway for 3 days and had been turned away, so you can imagine it was…even harder when they told her she was too far along to have the abortion done at the clinic, because they don’t have the right materials. They told her she would have to go to a hospital, and she started to cry because she didn't have the money. She also hadn’t gone to the police about the man who raped her, and so they say they would have no way of knowing if she was in one of the "legal categories" for getting an abortion, one of the categories is rape. ((I’m sorry if I’m talking kind of like a robot but its hard to pin words on all this)

She has a friend she grew up with, they were neighbors in the same village. Her friend, Belaynesh was in the same situation, also too far along to have the abortion at the free clinic.

We shared a life-span of a few days with these girls. It’s crazy to me how well you can communicate when you don’t share a spoken language with somebody. We had a translator, Asnagatch, who helped us for more wordy things…which is you know, mostly everything that can’t be communicated in hand gestures, hello, goodbye, thank you, I love you...Something I realized though, is that body language and wanting closeness are more than exact words. I think the true language is laughter and stomach growl, that’s the real poem; everything in between can be a lesson in grammar. It was arranged for us to go with them to a hospital where a doctor who knows IPAS (the organization that does research and gives training on safe abortion procedures) agreed to perform the surgeries. (theres my inner robot again) They were scared because they had never been to a hospital before, or in a car. They are so brave… I don’t have a true enough word for it, but they’re safe now and it’s a big breath to be able to say that. After the surgery between lying down Tigist sat up fast, "so no more baby??" and then started crying, they kept saying "we are so happy now, we are so happy.."

A day before the surgery they brought us to their home. They live together in a compound in Zeway. It struck me as funny (again with laughing like hydrogen peroxide for the pain-wound) how welcoming everyone in the compound was to us. They had never seen us in their lives and brought out chairs for us and all of us focused on laughing at the toddlers, probably because it was the most obvious thing we could share. Imagine some Ethiopian women with cameras walking into some random apartment in NYC or into white picket fence-land in middle America, I really don’t think people would be pulling out chairs and letting them play with their kids.

I hear that these girls’ story is common here. One thing Belaynesh said was, "I never regret for anything I am…God has created it." So that sentence kind of shattered every organism in my chest……From what I’ve seen, the people here have been open-open-open and giving, so my brain hurts from trying to understand why it’s so hard to be a woman in this place.

Bekah in Ethiopia 3.10.08

2008-03-10T12:35:00.000-07:00

Hello world! Or, Salaam as they say here. So....we have arrived. Its been real crazy so far & also beautiful, spinningly. Outside the window is green & green & mountains & stacks of houses. Birds are diving kamikaze-style. Somebody is singing from the back of their throat and it sounds like water ripples that he's moving up and down to make the sound. I wish I could sing like that... Roads are packed, color-swarms. I keep wishing I had 10 or 20 more eyes to look at everything with. Inside the taxi we were just in the driver had a photo of Haile Selassie and a teletubbies sticker. A boy reached in to try to sell me a 50 cent tape-I thought that was hilarious...

I keep getting struck (as in-Arrow to the heart) by how crazy-beautiful everybody is. Ugly people are really hard to find...I swear its something in the water (I know, I know I can't help it I'm corny :) ) ...Everyone is so proud of their history, it really makes BE-ing in a place. Within the first few minutes of talking they tell us about how Ethiopia was never colonized and that all of us have this great-great-great (times a million) grandma who lives here. Her name is Lucy and I hear she's really small.

It has been a brain-squeeze (the kind that ouches and messes up your chest) to be put up in the fancy Hilton hotel while outside little kids are hustling hard for their money. Their hustle is....guess what...us! Or, guiding us foreigners round town. Our first friend is also a guide. His name is Jimmy (after Jimmy Carter). He wears a rainbow one love bracelet on his arm. He was telling us some funny stories (funny, like how ignorance is funny because it makes it swallow-able) about foreigners who come here with ideas about how Ethiopia is starving...apparently this one business man came and his wife had packed him all this food because she thought there wasn't going to be any here. While we were walking with Jimmy to share some pizza (yes, pizza) I saw this graffiti somebody had scrawled on a wall "my name is love"- thats the big feeling I've gotten from the people here, and it gave me a small poem in my head that goes like-

us of one heart
us of the dirty planet
all belong....

Today we met with the IPAS people, and tomorrow we're moving to a "countryside location" where Lisa is gonna start filming about unsafe abortion. The meeting was intense but not scary like I thought. I got to watch Lisa do her thing, and she does it very fancy. The woman was talking about how illegal abortion here is a huge problem..a lot of women are dying because of it. Also I found out that a lot of abortion here is done without anesthesia or pain killers (I can't even say ouch or make a noise to describe that)....so thats really horrifying to me..but also I see how this film is even more important than I thought...

I don't think I'll be able to write for the next 4 or 5 days....
so in the mean time
love-love-love and hugs and uhhhh...all things fuzzy,
-Bekah

ps. apparently in Amheric one of the languages here, "Be-kah" means "Enough!"...
just thought that was funny
pps. Lisa says hi!
okayokaybye...for real now....

I Am & I Am Not African...

2008-03-10T12:31:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, February 16, 2008, the MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND crew reunited to discuss our future goals and aspirations regarding our beloved project. It was an exciting time; about 6 or 7 hours of non-stop productive and thought provoking discussion. One of the highlights of the day was the free-write exercise provided by our brother and mentor, Carlos Andrés Gómez.

"I don't want you to think too much for this exercise. Just write whatever comes to mind. Start it off with the words... I AM AFRICAN because..."

Simple enough. We all got down to writing. Scribbling as we went, smiling about making the connection with our family abroad. Many of us wrote about our ancestry and descendency, our complex lineage, but common humanity. Others wrote about what defines connection and family, how even by relating to another's pain and joy bonds you to them by spirit and experience. It was a great success.

"Now, I want you to write another poem... I AM NOT AFRICAN... because..."

The mood around the room went pensive. We knew that a truth that so often we refuse to acknowledge would manifest itself in our words. For the next 10 minutes, we wrote. We wrote in silence, expressing our disconnect from a peoples an ocean away. We wrote the very words that our society acts on every single day. "I AM NOT AFRICAN..."; and most of the time we don't even care to explain or reflect on the "because" part of it.

After going around the room, reading our perspective on the topic, we had a great discussion relating both exercises; connection and disconnection being the central points. In our poetry, we took time to elaborate and create a dialogue amongst ourselves. So often, we choose to disassociate with what's going on outside, and not just outside of our country, but even outside of our communities, outside our blocks, outside of ourselves. By speaking to one another and reconnecting through this exercise as well as highlighting the ways that we so often DISCONNECT from our outside communities, we found ways to further combat this phenomenon that is today so common within our society.

I believe that essentially that is our goal with this project. To reconnect our global community and to further develop mutually respective relationships abroad as well as right here in our own country. We are all extremely grateful to have had Carlos help us to elaborate on that shared sentiment through our love for poetry. Peace familia. Love. ~ Frank

*Frank's Poems*

(I AM AFRICAN...)
Because I am human.
Because I eat, sleep and breathe just like you.
Because we all love our mothers and anticipate out first kiss.
Because we are all made out of pain and joy, fear and sorrow.
I AM AFRICAN...
Because I am Dominican because I am Spanish...
Because once upon a time a slave master fell in love
or fell in, or inside a slave...
So I am, so we are, as much oppressor as we are oppressed.
I AM AFRICAN...
Because I am tired of thinking that way,
divided inside by blood and tribe; by myself, BY myself.
SO I AM AFRICAN...
Because I simply am.
And nobody, not even I, can tell me otherwise.

(I AM NOT AFRICAN...)
Because it is simply not that convenient.
Because my taste buds are accustomed to first-world McDonald's
and so is my wallet.
Because I cannot possibly fathom being the richest kid on the block,
or wearing no socks... and that's a lot, coming from a Dominican...
...Because sometimes, I rather crack jokes about it,
than really think about little barefoot kids surrounding me asking for change...
"Homie, I am not the Ford Foundation and do not work for Make A Wish,
but bust this, let me spit you a verse instead, rap thoughts around your head, and make it easier for me to go to bed..."
I AM NOT AFRICAN...
Because to even begin to relate would mean civil war with myself,
every day of my existence... like...
"Damn, I'm so lucky,
Damn, I'm so blessed
Damn, what have I done today? and...
Damn, I'm so stressed."
Because to relate, would mean to contemplate
my place in your existence...
and to do that... is not convenient in this instance.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE POEMS!

MYTH OF THE MOTHERLAND's Blog

2008-02-19T11:01:00.000-08:00

We're off to Africa!

Stay tuned as Bekah and Luke report from Ethiopia and Liberia. March 7th, we're off...