Essays
Muslim-Christian exchange Day 1
Read more“I want others to know that Islam is not a religion of terrorism.”
Dr. Corbitt asked each of the participants today to write expectations of the coming week. What do you hope to learn? What do you hope others learn about you? One of the girls wrote the above statement on her card. It may be that she has come to this place to say this one simple thing, I am not the evil that others would have me be. And indeed, on this first day, I think we can see the beginning of this proven.
Evening in Antwerp
Read moreLast night, I went into Antwerp with John and one of the interns, Cammaria. We were to check out a youth hostel for the upcoming Muslim-Christian exchange. Ironically, the hostel is next to a synagogue in the heart of Antwerp’s large Jewish neighbourhood. John approached an Orthodox man on the street and asked if our group might meet with someone from the synagogue (one day in Antwerp is dedicated to a “faith safari;” the city has an extensive religious history). John first mentioned the youth were coming from Israel; however, when he clarified that the youth are from Jaffa and East Jerusalem, the man looked a bit incredulous. He said he would contact us though; hopefully there is an opening for discussion and some civility in the midst of all that’s going on currently in and around Israel. Unfortunately, conflict is a sticky thing that clings to the feet of those who travel. No matter how far one tries to walk away, there seems to always be some vestige of it left. In 1981, in peaceful Antwerp, the Synagogue was hit by a car bomb; I’m sure the wound of that is not forgotten or completely healed. I wonder how the Jewish people living there will react to a group of Palestinians coming into their midst; I wonder what will go through the minds of the Palestinians as they walk through the middle of the Jewish town, surrounded by Orthodox Jews and billboards in Hebrew, to get to our meeting location.
Congo 2005
Read moreFrom an e-mail shortly after my return from The DRC in the Summer of 2005
I’m back in the States and have somewhat passed the jet-lagged
stage…at least I’m not waking up at 3:00 in the morning now!Of course, when one returns from a trip like this, everyone either
- asks for every detail or
- doesn’t realize I’ve been where I’ve been and continues on as if I’ve been hidden in a closet for the past month.
I’ve thought about sitting down and writing a synopsis of my trip; however, it’s going to take some time to digest what I’ve witnessed. The people who want every detail can’t really comprehend the nature of what I’ve seen (I can’t imagine what it’s like for people coming back to a peaceful land after witnessing war…or maybe I can a bit better now). The people who don’t know I’ve been away tend to grate on my nerves; On the flight from Washington to Philadelphia, the person sitting beside me asked if I’d heard Michael Jackson got away without charges. I wanted to scream. I’d just returned from a country where more than 30,000 people are killed by violent acts each month and the world’s attention (or, pardon, America’s attention) is focused on a perverted rock star.
2003 Cuba trip
Read more**8th February 2003, Miami 4:00 a.m.:**Miami Police break down door to my hotel room. We awake at 3:30, pack our gear, and prepare to head out for the airport; however, the deadbolt on the door will not disengage from inside. Neither can the manager open it from outside. So, with tremendous clamour, an officer of the law makes entry.
A Nation Dreamless Sleeping II
Read moreDreamers
Dreaming everyday dreams—
Lost in mental alcoves,
Never shared never spoken
Never rising beyond orthodox sleep.
Together
Many multitudes of memories intertwined
Like wind whistling between buildings.
Something moving Chills the skin
But indistinct; en mass and lacking the distinction
Altogether felt.
Dreamers dreaming together
The blunt force of silence
Like the buzz behind background speech
From my Grandmother's house: 15 June 1999
Read moreThis is from my father’s boyhood room—the same furniture and some of the same decoration it had when dad was my age. I’m sitting in an old vinyl chair that has been in this same position for as long as I can remember.
The curtains are new though. I can remember looking far off through them into the ancient (Greek?) homes depicted on the lacy tossing loosely knit folds. Street light would filter in and illuminate the stone in my imagination. Somehow, vaguely, I remember a conversation with my cousin one night as we were finding dreams before sleeping; we wondered how far away were the fabric houses. They must be somewhere. Somewhere in dreams before sleeping.