Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I have been volunteering my time at the Sol Café Restaurant, one of Musana’s sustainability projects. All profits from the restaurant go directly back to the orphanage and help cover basic needs like food, utilities, books, clothes, etc., The Sol Café does pretty well and I was brought in to help get it organized and help with bringing in new audiences on slower days. It has been a challenge because business is not my forte and I am new to the culture and attitudes of Uganda. For the first two weeks, I have been observing and learning. I help balance the books and clean and occasionally serve. It wasn’t until this past week that I wrote up my list of recommendations. I hope these will help the Café become one of the best running businesses in town.

My true passion is health care, as many of you already know. I did my first health lesson with the Musana kids Sunday afternoon about hand washing. When I have an audience, it is my sole responsibility to keep them entertained and learning. We talked about what germs were, where we can find germs, and when to wash our hands. I know this is only the beginning for sustainable health at Musana, and it helps that they employee a nurse full-time. It was a lot of fun and all of the kids washed their hands at the very end. It was great to see them scrubbing in-between their fingers and under their nails.

We each have $500 towards a project of our choice at Musana. Already I have mine dog-earred; a second well with an electric pump to have running water to sinks outside of the bathrooms. The bathrooms at Musana need some work. Right now, there is a single building with 12 individual stalls that open to the outside. They sit on top of a cement slab. Each stall has a rectangular hole cut out opening to a deep black abyss, your typical pit latrine, a good bathroom in these areas except when they have no faucets/running water to keep them flushed and clean. The kids (and myself from time to time) aim for these holes and oftentimes miss. The feces and urine sit outside the hole, attracting winged friends and creating a most unpleasant smell (as you can imagine). It doesn’t help that one of the endemic diseases in our area is diahearria, possibly because of this cycle of uncleanliness and poor sanitation from the pit latrines.

If you would like to help contribute to my project (or any others!), you can donate online at Musana.org (make a note for it to go towards sanitation projects). They currently have one pump well where they fill up large yellow jugs and truck them around to various areas like the kitchen (doesn’t even have running water!), the showers (a good 30m walk away) or the bathrooms (which I’ve never seen done). The kids wash their own clothes by hand on Sundays outside with the older kids helping the younger ones. It is quite adorable. The staff at Musana have truly done a lot since starting. These kids go to school for free every day, any supplies/clothes/shoes they need they are given, they have three meals a day, clean water, matrons who look after them, beds and sheets and mosquito nets, a social worker, a nurse, and a lot of people who lose sleep at night thinking about their health, well-being, safety and education. We just need good bathrooms, that’s all, and considering that some households don’t even have latrines and go outside, we are already a huge step ahead.

UGANDA

I know I haven’t submitted in quite some time. To summarize, I ended my service a week late, on top of my month long extension. I was just too busy that week tying up loose ends and doing a few final health lessons that I felt that the next week would be much easier to navigate my trip to Rabat to COS. I got permission from our country director, and then we forgot to tell everyone else I wasn’t coming in. Fail.

Omar, Gala and I traversed the country for the next month post service and enjoyed our vacation/leisure time. We visited Omar’s sister and family in Khenifra, then headed on to Ourzazate, Essouaria and Imlil/Toubkal outside of Marrakech. I was in a new transition state and did not know how to feel emotionally. I was sad to be leaving Peace Corps for sure, my service was pivotal in directing my future endeavors. Not to gloss or glamorize, but PC has and will forever change my life in my perspective of other cultures, languages, and ways of living.
We left for Uganda from the London-Heathrow airport on June 28th and arrived the morning of the 29th. We exited the plane in Entebbe via a metal staircase platform into a beautiful and humid setting. When waiting for our luggage to come, I couldn’t help but notice the amount of large plastic containers. It seemed that they outnumbered regular luggage. I watched one man I picked for a southern Baptist missionary load 5 onto a cart and head out into the sunshine. Uganda was having an early Christmas.

We were picked up by Robert and Selima, two of Musana’s employees. Robert is a driver for Musana and takes kids to the doctors, employees to functions and people to and from the airport in Entebbe, a short drive past the capital of Kampala. Selima is the Ugandan volunteer coordinator, kind of like Sally’s counterpart. She lives in the volunteer house with us. Both have easy smiles and thick accents. At least I was on repeat, “What? Excuse me? What?!” in the beginning. I still have a hard time deciphering African English and do a poor impression of it (unlike my Moroccan English accent! It’s not too bad!). I had changed my way of listening completely in Morocco. It was a part of my survival. It is fascinating what body language and small clues you start noticing when you aren’t completely sure what is going on. You also pick up on normal every day greetings and questions, what question follows what answer.

We stopped on the way in a small roadside town and were immediately flocked by people selling all sorts of goods to us through the windows. Beat that McDonald’s! They were literally RUNNING to meet cars pulled over. They sold us roasted salty chicken on a stick (which we sucked clean), whole baked bananas (hard exterior, warm soft interior), soda, samosas, chapatti (fried bread similar to Morocco’s lmslmen), and bottled water. We had shit food on the plane so these unexpected tasty treats were a great welcome!

Some of my first observations were that both men and women were out and working. Whether it was selling us food, working in the fields, behind cell phone counters or hanging clothes up for sale, it seemed as if the workforce was on equal footing. The verdant rolling hills sometimes broke away into sugar cane or tea leaves fields. Water seemed to be everywhere. Whether it was stagnant run off in ditches, small streams, irrigation in the fields or whole rivers we crossed over. There seems to be persistent, stolid clouds. The sun comes through occasionally but it never seems to be as oppressive as it was in Morocco despite our proximity to the Equator. People over the age of 15 seem indifferent to us. The younger kids point at us, yelling out and sometimes running full distances to come greet us, “Muzungu! Muzungu!” (White person! White person!) and come and give us only what can be described in our culture as “dap” or a knuckle bump called a “bunga,”. Sometimes they walk with us, holding our hands. Most the time it seems as if they had only gotten half-dressed that morning, their little cheeks a fun goodbye when we part ways. They also seem to have done some morning exfoliating, their faces and exposed skin caked in the red dirt. I tell you what though, despite the dirt and nudity, they are about as cute as you can get.

Breast Cancer Screenings: Inappropriate Time for Battle of the Head Voices

My work here has changed dramatically these past two years. With the number of good work contacts, language improvement, new or reoccurring opportunities and different venues, I've been able to do lots of different projects and programs. Within these past few months, I've been talking to women about their health, covering topics like breast cancer, STIs, common complaints concerning headaches and backaches, menstrual cycles, and hygiene.

I am almost embarrassed to have doubted and questioned not only my ability but the value of talking to women. A few bad experiences at the beginning of my service set me back in developing and pursuing work with women's groups. I had unfortunately tried my hand in women's health classes at a bad venue, at a bad time, and with a bad accent.

Now, with my confidence at an all-time high, I might think twice about doing a condom demonstration, but depending on how my audience is responding to my pictures and content of conversation, I'll don one on. We all know now how to check the expiration date, how to open it properly, what it looks like and how it is supposed to be used. I am trying to empower women by telling them that their health comes first. They are to give themselves time every day to exercise, stretch, massage sore muscles, and bathe. They are in charge of not only their health but the health of the household especially their children. They establish the rules. If one of the rules is that in order to watch TV after lunch you have to brush your teeth, all the better to start these habits early.

Recently, I worked at a small festival in Agdez, just south of Ouarzazate. Part of the activities put together by an association there included a trash pick up, mural paintings, 10K race, eyesight screenings and fittings, and a team of doctors to give free consultations and address women's health. Guess who called in absent?

My previous work with this association involved me speaking to groups of women out in smaller douars (villages) about previously-stated health topics. These talks were successful in dispelling myths, providing easy solutions for common problems and bringing awareness about the importance of women's health. The association appreciated my work and somehow construed my meager but important position as an educator to that of a doctor.

"Can you check women for breast cancer?" asked the association's president on Saturday, the day the doctors called in absent. "Yes, yes. This is important. They will come to you and you can do this,"

"I am not a doctor! I talk to women about breast cancer, how to check. We can talk about women's health."

"Ok, ok," He responded, absently nodding his head. Did he understand what I just said?!

One of the many reoccurring themes I feel most PCVs find in a country where English is not the first, second, or third language learned: problems communicating. This is perhaps why the first two ladies who came into the small office in the back of the Dar Chabab (think Boys' and Girls' Club but gov't run,) started pulling up their long house dresses as soon as we closed the door.

"Whoa, whoa! Blati schwiya. Shuf, Ur gigh tadbibt" (Wait a little-hold on- Look, I am not a doctor.) I'm sure word spread quickly about doctors being available for free consultations but the follow-up that they canceled did not. Guess who's caught in the middle? I was neither dressed nor had the place set up like a make-shift doctor's office or examination room. I was a foreigner, sitting on one side of a desk, patiently waiting their arrival, and they were desperate, I soon found out.

I was placed in a difficult and heart-breaking situation.

We talked about how to conduct self-exams for breast cancer. We talked about birth control. We addressed rashes and headaches. We talked about menopause. Despite my protests and obvious discomfort, some women insisted that I check out a lump in their breast, in their armpit, or one women's abdomen that was swollen like a bowling ball, bisected by a huge vertical scar and caused her bouts of pain and sleepless nights.

My conscience screamed at me, "

What are you doing?!

You are not a doctor. You don't know anything!"
My reasoning responded, "I told them I wasn't. What am I supposed to do? I didn't tell them to lift up their shirts. These women are scared. These women are desperate."
"You are reinforcing this impersonation by checking when they insist. Because you are talking about these things, you are in a position of authority of knowledge..."
"If I feel something or not, my advice has been the same: Go to the clinic and get checked by the doctors,"

They've been fighting back and forth since I got here in Morocco. You should be in my head when they go at it over a stray puppy. I almost got a bloody nose.

I was dizzy with emotions but had no time to sort through them. I was elated to be able to talk to so many women and address their specific questions. I could give these small groups, sometimes just one, two, or at most three women, the attention they possibly have never been given, concerning their health. I also felt helpless. These women deserved gynecological screenings, professional breast exams and mammograms, their questions addressed by professionals, (and yet, even the I cringe, hearing the advice and treatment given to women who have found lumps, medicine prescribed or given without discretion or direction, the apathetic mindset and mannerism they take with their patients). Like I said, it was this raging internal conflict and I tried my best to do no harm. I tried to dispel as much correct information that these women would remember as possible. The high school girls who were assisting in the activities and with my health presentations would address some of these questions on their own, able to reassure or give women the correct advice directly. It worked out well. They were able to reinforce the information, repeating my directions or translating into Arabic (another setback of mine,).

After I had seen the last group of women, I walked out to join the rest of the volunteers. Intercepted quickly, I was soon surrounded by young high school girls. They adored me. They asked me lots of questions about my experience in Peace Corps, my life in America, some about health. It was my own personal press conference and fan club. My ego grew as I soon realized that none of the other volunteers were being swallowed whole. Surrounded by these sweet girls who found me unbelievable and admirable, my slight ethical heart attack I had experienced earlier subsided.

What is my role here? What is my job? What are my limitations and what is within my abilities?

Donating a few days to help out a friend's festival in his site and I get an ego-boost that will last a couple of weeks. I guess I am surprised that more people aren't hooked on volunteering, mentoring, or donating. It seems as though, the longer you're in it, the stronger the karma, the bigger its rewards. I just need more time. more resources. and a scrutable financial advisor tied to big pockets. I am foolhardily reassured that things will work out and with time, I'll be able to provide more and give these self-sacrificing women the attention they need. "Give time for time," is an old Berber saying.

If only I could find the patience.

Drive to Tamtatucht

I can’t say that I am that spontaneous, but when Omar and I woke up this morning I was bound and determined to get some work done I’ve been putting off for various lame reasons. “We’re going to Tamtatucht today!” I told him with a sweet morning’s breath kiss. He barely acknowledged this information by slowly opening one eye, searched my face for an inkling of seriousness, found it, and promptly fell back asleep.

The dark olive green taxi sputtered up the French built road through one of Morocco’s most encompassing and awing destinations, Todgha Gorge. I was crammed into the backseat with 3 others, the driver not exactly spared himself from awkward discomfort, since in the front seat sat 2 with one undoubtedly pinching the stick shift with his butt cheek. Can’t be gay in Morocco but downshift groping sure is allowed.

From the speakers, what ones left that did work, came an interesting cacophony: Berber music that sounds as if recorded on some apparatus devised during Billy Holliday’s era. The static and white noise overpowers the pauses. Most of the Berber music uses an array of hand drums, a type of guitar that is plucked and not strummed, and a troupe of men and women that emit a call and response type of vocals with women reaching sharp yells supposedly inspired from the way they communicate across fields, valleys and mountains. To even the most open-minded music appreciator, these long repetitive songs can destroy the most lucid daydream and some with hearing aids have been known to turn them all the way off, preferring the silence.

The driver pushed something to make the tape deck wheeze and emit a multitude of low vibrations and what I can only liken to the noise of a loose or tired fan belt, a high-pitched scream, as we reversed or fast-forwarded to the next impressive stream of repeated rhythms and yelling. The road we were on followed the river, at this point there was no more water and only a dry river bed. The villages had long since disappeared as well as the fields. The road was getting farther into disrepair, the driver choosing to brave the gravelled washout rather than the potholed discourse parallel to it. The road had accepted its fate as a lost cause a long time ago. To think, to even humour the idea that a man-made road would survive in these conditions is ludicrous. At times, the river floods, swelling the banks and the road, and then it cracks into dry heat, the rocks melting, thirsty for rain. The road is used by a multitude of motorists: large construction trucks called cameos, dump trucks, huge, overflowing tourist buses, human-sardined transit vans, little foreign rental cars and overpriced ATV and dirt bike rentals that come roaring through, disrupting the awesome voice of the gorge walls, it’s echoes now becoming as ear-splitting as poorly recorded Berber music.

Being the last into the vehicle, I had the privilege to squeeze my short legs and full behind onto the tiniest the piece of cushion allotted in mankind. I had a flashback to a previous time. I had jokingly wiggled into a baby’s seat on a swing set on a public playground where my sequoia thighs then got stuck and I had to be pried loose by hysterically laughing friends. Unlike then, I knew I would be stuck in a different fashion and for a longer time. My knees jamming the back of the driver’s seat, I could feel the steel bars and loose padding. Thank my lucky stars our driver was unusual in his small and light stature. It wasn’t until after we had left the gorge area and were driving along, careening through the long curves that I noticed the inevitable: swampass. Yes, we all fall victim from time to time, the most victimized being those in unventilated transportation on plastic vinyl seats wearing some God-awful fabric we thought was trendy. I had on a favourite pair of hiking pants that strangely zipped off under the knee, an aspect I hadn’t utilized in this conservative culture. And after 2 years of hiding my legs, they are translucent and white enough to cause a bad case of drop jaw and possibly be mistaken by some ex-Boy Scout tourist as a distress sign for help. How embarrassing a rescue! Like a kid who wears a hat to hide the head lice, I keep ‘em covered, for your sake and mine.

We continued on, despite my obvious discomfort. We seemed to be following a small red van, which is an absurd thought, seeing that there is only one road. The vehicle was filled with people and their market goods, bags of flour stacked precariously on top. It slipped around each corner with ease. I briefly daydreamed of the door flying open and my body flying into the boulders below, a common daydream of mine once inside public transportation. How these locks stay secure is beyond me, especially with constant pressure from my hips and those of others day in and day out.

We finally came into Tamtatucht. The valley spread out before us. It is a beautiful area and I was happy to have arrived at our destination with no casualties except a once-fresh pair of panties. We grabbed our stuff and trudged up the stairs to the Auberge Ali, a center of science and learning, now owned by AbdelKarim Kharuj, a good friend of Omar’s. The sun just peaking overhead and its blue skies contrasted the red hues of the mountains stretching out before us. A nice breeze cooled my flanks and I checked my B.O. It looks like the day was going to be a good one.

Life and Death in Morocco

Recently I returned to my site to attend the funeral of my old landlord. He was approximately late 50s or early 60s. Habitual smoker. We were neighbours and I saw him everyday. He was like a father to me; telling me what to do and not to do, warning me of walking alone at night, helping me with my butagaz, praising my language and reassuring me that I was adjusting and becoming Moroccan. His close relationship with my host mom also strengthened ties between us. He would often visit her while I was there. We were a close-knit family.
I received a text message first from my former tutor and my landlord’s son that he was in the hospital. We were about to leave for Rabat for our COS conference and Omar and I vowed to visit him if (God forbid) my landlord was still there when I got back. We never got the chance.

He passed away on the way home from the hospital in Ouarzazate. He had been there for 6 days and was released (whatever that means here: additional testing needed, expensive costs for the room and care, fatalistic view towards life and God, etc.) I used to wake up to his persistent coughing every morning. It was horrible. It made my chest hurt. I used to tell him that I hear him coughing and that he needed to stop smoking. He knew. He was addicted.

Unfortunately, the time I spent in my site I was looking forward to and planning my next departure. I was lonely and bored. I had found a number of work contacts and other associations down in my souk town, approximately 45 km away. My village is small, isolated, and was difficult for me to adjust to. First off, I am a foreigner and do not own fields (to attend to daily & harvest), I am a woman (and was not exactly welcome at the association,) and there is no internet connection that far into the mountains. I was cut off and needed work. I visited a number of times with friends and family (hence I gained a solid 20 lbs) where we drank sweet mint tea, ate homemade bread and olive oil, and gossiped. Few, if any of the people in town spoke English, my tutor was in my souk town, and the association was satisfied without me involved. My language was stagnant and I was teetering on an isolation-induced depression. I had a hard time sprinkled with a few bright patches that first year.

I found my saving grace at the Café Atlas in Boumalne on March 24, 2010. Saying my usual hellos to a group of acquaintances, a young man named Omar working at the cafe noticed me. His hazel eyes lit up when he heard me speaking Tashelheit. He asked me if we could speak English together. Wouldn’t I like to come sit and have some coffee? Unfortunately for him, a number of like-minded individuals had presented similar offers to me in the past and had ruined this genuine invitation for me. I had heard it all before! An exchange of languages: English for Berber and then inevitably an invitation back to his place or mine, or hey! Let’s just get married! I was wary of him but was curious. His English was good and when he looked at me, he looked through me. I was caught.

We arranged to meet the following Friday when I would be in town next (already planning ahead!). I blew him off. Due to some external forces (namely a mischievous girl from my village who lied to the family and hitchhiked a ride down to Boumalne with me and then preceded to turn herself into a sad puppy and followed me about my day while I ran errands to the bank, post office, and marche,) I left town early and missed our scheduled time to meet. I felt bad but really had my hands tied with Ms. Crazy Hormones Let’s Strut Up and Down Boumalne So I Can Have Every Creepo Goggling Me. I knew where to find him and made up my mind to come back as soon as I was back in town. I even made a list of English words we could discuss. This new personality left a lasting impression.

The next time we met, we hit it off. He was fascinated with me and me with him. We quickly became great friends and I was introduced to his family (all of them). The relationship we had enabled me to get to know and understand Amazigh culture and life. He was my guide and teacher. I came out of my sadness into a happier, healthier life and was me again.

Back in my site, I felt as if I hadn’t ever left. Things had not changed (I am beginning to notice this recurrent theme: I leave and come into my own, a metamorphosis if you will, and find those left behind are the same, neither good nor bad just an observance..). Just this time, everyone was in mourning. When I entered into the living room and was passing to each woman, saying my condolences it wasn’t until I had her hand in mine that I noticed whose it was. She had disappeared into a cloud of white blankets, shawls, and head wraps. She was smaller than I remembered. This was my landlord’s wife. I immediately broke down and started crying. This poor, little woman with a truckload of kids, poor hearing and bad respiratory problems was now widowed. Sitting beside her was Aisha, my landlord’s sister. Memories came flooding back to me then. I remembered all the times I had come by the house. My landlord was either there or just around the corner. The tears came swiftly and I am neither graceful nor clean when I cry. My big eyes swell up, my nose starts running and I try to stifle big sobs that escape through from time to time. I sat down next to the women where they consoled me. They told me that God wanted Lahou and it was his time to go. They said again and again that I was family and I was a daughter to Lahou. Every time a new family member came into the room my eyes started welling up, the memories came flooding back again and this new heart of mine, full of empathy, gushes forth inside my chest (just try watching the news with me sometime…)

I stayed through the evening and visited with a number of families. It was a nice visit despite the circumstances and I got to play with my girls (Sarah, Mariam, and Milu) at my host family’s house. I miss them a lot. I had some time to reflect and contemplate about my life and the lives around me. People say that this life is short and whether or not you believe in an afterlife, you should never take for granted the friends, family, health, weather, sunsets, stars, laughs, cries, and the list goes on. I guess I am trying to bring things full circle. My landlord's death caused this period of reflection and moment of gratitude. I thought back to my own family and how much they have loved and supported me. I thought back to Omar, my sunshine. I have found someone who despite our difference in cultures, languages, religion, etc., we have found something true, genuine and special within each other. Every day there is something new.

All my good energy and light,
H

My New Voice

[Eminem infamously insults and degrades women in his songs.]

What is happening out there, this great vast world of ours? I feel, despite where I am that I am so secluded, so protected from life, real life, that I lose touch with humanity. Thank Mother Earth they show real news here. The burned bodies, covered in gravel, their legs twisted unnaturally. Is this just my naivety? My initial shocked reaction? Are people here inured to it? Much like our youth to violent video games? I wonder. I still believe a human body, covered in blood, tugs at our heartstrings. It’s someone’s brother or father, sister or mother.
Omar said something the other day I found pleasantly surprising. He said that the world was changing and someday soon, women will hold all of the positions of power. (I certainly hope so.) Does that make me a feminist? Why do I hold such negative connotations with that word? Yet more and more I find the same common thread in our problems… the greed, blatant abandonment of responsibility, corruption… but look at who is holding these powerful positions? Especially in some of our most exploited countries. Men. All men. Violence. War. Especially the violence. I feel as though women are almost incapable of that animalistic, brutal violence (especially towards an unknown enemy! Be it police, who are just doing their jobs, or another country’s citizens…) the exception being of course a women’s maternal instinct to protect her children and by Mother Earth’s sake, I would fight tooth and nail to protect my loved ones. Alas, here is our difference: Women would fight to protect the family. Men seek out violence.

What can I do to help shape the youth of tomorrow to consciously decide not to destroy but seek voice, change, in a peaceful manner? Where is the Ghandi, the Martin Luther King, Jr of today?

Kaytea, one of my closest friends here, told me about a famous speaker who travels across the country speaking to various groups about violence towards women. I can’t remember his name but Kaytea says that he is a devout feminist and calls attention to our media and how it depicts violence towards women. Kaytea also told me that 7 out of 10 Hollywood movies show a woman being attacked/murdered/ raped and in very few cases do the women actually fight back.

I have a number of thoughts running through my head:

Various cultures perception of women as being seducers, sorcerers, powerful controls of the body and mind (especially of men) and therefore it “justifies” the degradation, behavior and 2nd class citizen status of women.

Peace Corps' inability to properly train men and women alike in boundary-setting and self-defense is tragic and upsetting. Too many volunteers have these invasive, harassing experiences (just watch ABC’s recent exposing programs about PC) abroad. We, as Americans, (thinking of myself and a few others,) are afraid to speak out when being violated or offended. We’re too nice. There is a clear difference between being friendly and not knowing how to say stop. What is that deep seated, ingrained guilt that each one of us carries? Our guilt for being gluttonous consumers protected within our borders, ignorant of the real world, the rest of the world. Embarrassed and ashamed of our wars in foreign countries?

I’m disturbed that women haven’t banded together to give voice to these outright repulsive behaviors. When a hip hop figure gets an award, press release, media attention, could a reporter, fellow rapper, strong voice not shame him for calling women “bitches and ho’s” promoting violence towards women and degrading women because they lack the creativity and passion in their work to fill up more space on their shitty albums?

The last time women stood together was for us to demand our right to vote. 1920. Susan B Anthony?

Who are our female role models of today?

I want to yell on the top of the world, my voice raining down on every chauvinist, his ears bleeding. He vows to respect all women, begging me to stop.

This blog may sound a little zealous and erratic. My newfound voice. I don’t hate men. I love (some) men. I am just angered that in the year 2011, women are still degraded. Women are still disrespected and it’s not upsetting more people.

The Ugliness of Violence

Recently, in the news of the world, there have been mass protests throughout the Middle East and North Africa regions. People have been flooding the streets, men and women alike, chanting, “We Want Change!” lighting vehicles on fire, throwing rocks at various government buildings and officials. Their angry faces and voices represent years upon years of bitter suffering and resentment. Ousting the President of Tunisia was a

reinforcement for the rest of watching world, as news of his corruption and greed broke. For years, Tunisia was touted as a representative for the rest of the Arab and North African areas, putting education at the top of the list, making enrollment in school mandatory until the age of 16. Now all the encomium is tainted, marred by images of Ben Ali’s wife filling her pockets with their constituents money and assets. I retch in the false assumption that the government was a role model to others. With Egypt and Yemen not too far behind, I wonder about the rest of these nations who have been placated with a false sense of democracy. A president who stays in office for over 30 years is not a president, he is a dictator. No wonder these people are enraged, and finally, they have the gumption to demand change.
Another headline that caught my eye, was the stoning of a young couple in Afghanistan. They had been convicted of committing adultery. They were fleeing to Pakistan when they received a message from their village: Come back, no harm will come to you. They returned, believing in the promise. Saving the horrific details, they were both stoned, most of the village had come out to watch or participate. She was still alive when the last stone was thrown, and a Taliban soldier fired three shots into her head.
Unfortunately, I come to draw references from these tragic stories: the ugliness of violence. Watching images of protesters throwing rocks at police, destroying buildings, engulfed by their rage that it no longer matters who is hurt, as long as the satisfactory clamor follows after their rock hits. I am as appalled as I am confused. I never have known such deep seated anger, such wrath to want to hurt and destroy. I look at the couple in Afghanistan, their crime a common story, but their punishment so unusual and barbaric. What makes us commit such violent acts?