Andre's Journey

Idleness, Work & Virtue

2011-10-17T16:39:00.000-07:00

The following spoken word essay was performed on October 15th 2011 at Cheap Theater. The theme of the evening was Idle. This was for me the first time performing an essay. My usual fare is either storytelling in the oral tradition or the reciting of poetry. So this night was an experiment and a stretch. I would suggest that you read the essay out loud for it is written to be heard. Hope you enjoy the essay and of course your feedback is welcomed. Cheap Theatre is held in a cabaret space next to a German restaurant and bar.

I am not sure what came over me but when the theme of this evening at Cheap Theatre was announced my soul leapt. The experience I would say was somewhat religious. As I reflect I believe this was due to the theme word idle. Initially what came to mind was not idle as being lazy but idol with a ‘o’ as in the worshipping of false gods. Now I should explain this transformation of the word idle to idol is perfectly understandable not because they are homonyms or homophones that are easy to transliterate but because I spent several years in ministry. I cannot tell you the number of hours spent in theology classes discussing idolatry. Now the discussion of idolatry was not focused on graven images but on money, success, power and the many other possible idols that turn us away from leading a moral life dedicated to compassion and justice.

Yes, I went to a seminary where God was associated with the poor, justice and compassion rather than identified with sending immigrants back to where they came from and eliminating social programs to reduce taxes. Yes, I went to a seminary where as a person of privilege I was educated to serve the poor and seek justice, and it was not about being served by the poor while paying unlivable wages to them.

After reflecting on the word idol with an ‘o.’ My mind quickly drifted to the word idle as in being lazy. And being who I am I began to contemplate the moral issues associated with idleness.

As a young boy I learned about the evilness of idleness. Sometimes the learning was direct and experiential as when told to get off my duff, do my chores and quit being lazy; however most of the time the lessons were subtle and covert, implicit rather than explicit. Now I never heard anyone directly quote Benjamin Franklin’s admonition “It is the working man who is the happy man. It is the idle man who is the miserable man.” but the idea was silently woven through every facet of the culture. Beside the implicit message that “the idle man is the miserable man.” I was also taught explicitly and I still hear the voice of my mother saying, “A stitch in time saves nine,” “A penny saved is a penny earned,” “penny wise and pound foolish,” and “A fool and his money are soon parted.”

The cultural messages were clear and unspoken. The poor man, the underachiever and the unsuccessful man were idle man who lacked initiative, were reckless with their lives and possibly mentally and morally deficient. In fact my uncles made it very clear idle people were not just lazy but as a French author succinctly put it, “Idle people are often bored and bored people, unless they sleep a lot, are cruel.”(R. Adler) My uncles would point towards the poor neighborhoods, as perfect examples, were laziness and idleness caused crime and all other sorts of depravity.

As a youth my psyche was routinely imprinted with the warning that idle hands and minds were the devil’s workshop. “For Satan always finds some mischief still for idle hands and (minds) to do.”(I. Watts) I would begin my confession “Father it has been one week since my last confession. I had impure thoughts six times and I did impure actions six times.” I was lectured rather loudly about the dangers of idle hands and mind. Much to my embarrassment I am sure that my mother heard, as she waited to confess her sins. As the passionate lecture ended I was warned that if I continued and did not keep my hands and mind busy with virtuous actions I would soon go crazy. Red faced I would quickly leave the confessional keeping my head down as not to meet my mother’s gaze.

Now if these lessons on idleness were my only experiences this would be the end of the story and in fact there would be no story to tell you. There would be no plot, no conflict to resolve, no lesson’s to be learned and no redemption to be had. Further I would not be standing in front of you in this den of idleness were drinking and frivolity are encouraged and idle conversation the norm. Most likely I would be at home finishing up my chores or involved with some other terribly constructive activity rather than idling my time away performing for you.

Sundays for my family, the Sabbath, was a do nothing day. We’d go to church, eat breakfast usually consisting of eggs, bacon and sweet rolls and then do nothing. There was no other cooking on Sunday only snacks, not for religious reasons but just because. Sunday was the day to do as little as possible. No plans and no chores to be accomplished. Sunday afternoons my parents would steal themselves away to the bedroom shutting the door tightly for a nap. We children were given strict orders not to disturb them. Often on Sundays we visited grandma to talk, play cards, and watch football or maybe take a short trip to the lake. At the lake we would sit and do nothing things -eating, swimming, tanning and building sand castles. Sunday was the day to idle away. The rest of the week was busy working and preparing for work. There were moments of quiet sitting on the porch doing nothing but most of the week was a whirlwind of activity.

As a child I found great pleasure in doing nothing but I also was aware that my activities were dismissed simply as “play.” I often heard: “Wait into you get older. Enjoy it while you can. There’s no free lunch.”

As a young boy I learned that when I grew up I needed to earn my idle time or vacation as it became known. For fifty weeks of work I would earn two weeks of idle time. For five to six days a week of work I earned a few hours of leisure time per week. For forty some years of work I would earn the right to retire and be justified in idling. I saw the cost to my uncles in earning the privilege to have time to do nothing. Tired, unhappy, and broken by their work as a baker, sanitation worker and a laborer in a paper mill their lives were punctuated with poor health. I saw my uncle’s lives spent as they struggled to earn a living in order to have a small taste of the good life but they experienced very little nothing time before they died. I did not see the hard working man as “the happy man” that Benjamin Franklin promised. I saw as I grew that the rich had plenty of leisure time to travel, party and to do nothing. This was their right by their status as landowners, factory owners, and financial wizards. They knew how to earn money off the labor of others and in so doing acquired an abundance of leisure time. I saw this at the prep school I attended. These observations were enough to make me doubt Franklin and the others who in their pontificating assured me that the “happy man” was the busy man and the idle man plainly miserable.

In 1932 the philosopher and Nobel prize winner Bertland Russel wrote an essay In Praise of Idleness.
He writes:
I want to say, in all seriousness, that a great deal of harm is being done in the modern world by belief in the virtuousness of work, and that the road to happiness and prosperity lies in an organized diminution of work.

In time I too have came to believe that the virtuous life is in living a life of idleness focused on doing nothing things rather than in working one’s life away. A case in point is the life of Jesus. He drank wine, worked sparingly, encouraged others to drop their work, encouraged the woman Mary to sit around and shoot the breeze while her sister Martha busily worked in the kitchen and in his sermons continuously spoke of feasts and parties. In general Jesus seemed quite happy and content roaming through the hills. In the end the authorities were not too happy with him but the authorities could not keep him down. Another example of an idler was the poet Rumi. This deeply spiritual Persian poet idled away days in a tent making love, drinking wine and from this deeply spiritual experience poured forth some of the most beautiful poetry ever written.

In fact I came to agree with Robert Louis Stevenson in his Apology for Idlers when he writes “To be idle requires a strong sense of personal identity.” In his apology he describes St. Joan of Arc as an individual considered as an idler. He writes: When they told Joan of Arc she should be at home minding women's work, she answered there were plenty to spin and wash.

So what is the answer of establishing the virtue of idleness in our culture?

Let us fellow Jesus’ and Rumi’s examples, let us develop a strong sense of personal identity as Stevenson encourages and let us promote Bertrand Russels’ solution In the Praise of Idleness. He proposes:
…In countries which do not enjoy Mediterranean sunshine idleness is more difficult, and a great public propaganda will be required to inaugurate it. I hope that, after reading the following pages, the leaders of the YMCA will start a campaign to induce good young men to do nothing.

Pause

It is not enough to intellectualize about the virtue of idleness. What is necessary is an experience of idleness, a sacramental moment one might say. Poetry is one such vehicle of experiencing the sublime. So to finish my essay Carol Stoddart will join me and we will read my two voice poem “Nothing Things.” We will be accompanied with a metronome.

Nothing Things

sitting on the porch
drinking a cold beer
smoking a cigar

warm sun
gentle breeze

telling a story

a crow caws
a dog barks

speaking to my son
rocking in my chair

a child plays
a neighbor mows

laughing

a squirrel scampers
down a tree

nothing things
useless nothing things
are all i can be about

Storytelling and Healing in Liberia

2011-08-08T08:36:00.000-07:00

From 1999 to 2003 Liberia experienced a devastating civil war that destroyed the infrastructure of the country and large segments of the population were displaced or fled to refugee camps. Most Liberians endured torture and war trauma including rape, physical mutilation and the murder of men, women and children. As a result of these experiences many of the victims experienced psychological trauma and exhibited multiple physical symptoms such as back and stomach pain, headaches and digestive issues. In 2007 I received a Human Rights Fellowship from the University of Minnesota to work with counselors from the Center for Victims of Torture in Liberia. I conducted trainings for lay counselors in the use of storytelling to treat war and torture trauma victims and collected the personal stories of the counselors. The following is a description of one part of the training that describes one approach to the use of storytelling to foster healing.

The counselors started the creating of their story by turning their attention to their physical symptoms and making a list of words that vividly described both literally and metaphorically their symptoms with the descriptive words the counselors chose a sound and a movement to portray the symptoms. They used the words, sound and gesture to develop the first character of the story. The second character was created by the counselors making a list of words that contrasted or were opposite to the list for the first character. The counselors were then asked to become aware of the words in the second list and connect the words to any body sensations and find a sound and gesture that portrayed what they were feeling. The words, sounds and gestures were then used to create a second character. In the training the counselors were instructed and given time to have the two characters meet, befriend each other and learn from each other. The interaction between the two characters gave rise to a story usually in the form of a folk or fairy tale. The counselors then paired off and used a telling/listening technique to share their stories. After the telling/listening exercise the counselors in a group began to do the movement and sound associated with their two characters moving back forth between the two sounds and gestures. The cacophony of the sounds of the counselors blended into a rhythmic beat and their movements merged into a celebratory community dance. During the dance a counselor would sing a meaningful phrase from his/her story and the other counselors would sing the refrain back in a call-and-response style of song. The dance lasted until the counselors each sang their refrain.

This storytelling experience fostered healing on several levels. The development and the telling and hearing of the story provided an opportunity for personal healing and resolution. The dancing, along with the call and response facilitated community and cultural healing. The whole process encouraged movement from isolation to relationship with self, community and culture. At the end of the sessions the counselors reported feeling freer and experienced a lessening or a disappearance of their physical symptoms.

Genetics Alliance Conference Presentation

2011-06-29T19:11:00.000-07:00

I thought I would share my experience of presenting this past weekend at the Genetic Alliance on storytelling. My initial response to the request to speak about story to an organization involved in genetic disease was panic. My interest in genetics and how to encourage gene expression to foster healing of mind, body and soul through story was (and is) an important part of my personal study but I never considered myself as having an expertise. As I met the other presenters I learned that the focus of their use of story was to inform, advocate and provide support for those facing the challenge of genetic disease. They were intrigued by my understanding of the genomics of storytelling and healing. The focus of my presentation was to suggest that an understanding and study of the processes of gene expression, the creation and telling of story, and the ultradian cycles of learning, creativity, and activity/rest could suggest more effective approaches to foster healing of mind, body and soul.

I shared my own experiences with individuals facing the challenges of chronic and acute illness and with training counselors dealing with war and torture trauma in Liberia and Thailand. I also cited research on psycho/social genomics and the role of the arts. Finally, I presented the positive results of a study on Narrative Exposure Therapy that uses a storytelling process. In the NET study brain scans showed that the hippocampus of those who were suffering PTSD increased in activity and size after participating in four to eight sessions. (PSTD suffers' hippocampus are usually smaller than control groups.) This would indicate that NET story approach actually fostered neurogenesis on the molecular level.

Finally, throughout the session I shared stories but the one with the greatest response was the story of my experience with a tribal doctor in the Alaska. When asked if she still had visions, dreams and stories. She said "No." When asked "Is it because you living your vision, dreams and story?" She said, "No" again. After a pause she leaned forward and said, "I am my vision, I am my dream and I am my story." I also mentioned my experience in Liberia in which they added "We are our family story, we are communities story, and we are our clans story." I shared how stories are not products outside of ourselves but are actually who we are. This is a concept that from a genetic and epigenetic perspective is understood and affirmed in discussions by advocates to scientist. By the end of the conference I felt more confident and affirmed in my understanding and knowledge of the role of genomics in fostering healing. A humbling experience to say the least. I learned so much from so many good people.

After the session a teenager came up to me and asked if I would help her tell her story. I said, "Yes." I found that she had a metabolic genetic disease from birth that usually leads to death within a few days of birth. She spoke of what it is like knowing that she could die at any moment and actually has been in danger so many times that she could not count. As I helped her with her story I was touched and more than a few times brought to tears. In fact several times during the conference I was brought to tears. Not, much more to say about this but we will continue to work together on her story.

As usual talk of collaborations took place and two possibilities are all ready in the works. I know that the staff spoke of adding a greater focus on healing using the arts and storytelling. We will see what is next.

Below is the mission statement of the Genetics Alliance and a website http://www.geneticalliance.org

Genetic Alliance Mission Statement
Our mission is to promote awareness and understanding of genetic disorders so that high quality services for people affected by genetic conditions are developed and made available to all who need them.

Dancing with Demons: Homelessness and Mental Illness

2011-04-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

Last night at the Northlands Conference I performed my "Dancing with Demons" a work-in-progress. The audience's response was positive and their feedback helpful. Most importantly the audience stated that they gained insight about the life of those who are homelessness and face challenge of mental illness. My hope is to now hone and refine the piece. I am hoping the work can be used to advocate for programs and services and also challenge some of the harsh judgmental attitudes towards the homeless.

Below is a little more information that was included in the program about the performance.

andre

Mental Illness and Homelessness

According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 20 to 25% of the homeless population in the United States suffers from some form of severe mental illness. In comparison, only 6% of Americans are severely mentally ill (National Institute of Mental Health, 2009). In a 2008 survey performed by the U.S. Conference of Mayors, 25 cities were asked for the three largest causes of homelessness in their communities. Mental illness was the third largest cause of homelessness for single adults (mentioned by 48% of cities). For homeless families, mental illness was mentioned by 12% of cities as one of the top three causes of homelessness.*

Dancing with Demons

I walk down the street. I am uneasy. She screams. Her arms push frantically through the empty air. She slips to the ground. She covers her head. She screams “Go away, go away,” but the demons do not go away.

This story and others from across the country are the foundation of tonight’s performance. The stories written originally as poems are based on my experiences of the homeless over the last fifteen years. I believe my motivation might rise from my own experiences of traveling up and down the East Coast. I did not know where I would sleep or whom I would meet. Mostly, I was lucky but not always.

*National Coalition for the Homeless
2201 P Street, NW
Washington, DC 20037-1033
http://www.nationalhomeless.org

Back Home

2010-05-12T05:45:00.000-07:00

When I arrived back from Africa a couple of years ago I wrote a poem called “Home but not Home.” I am feeling this way today. After three days of being home I find myself slipping in time and space between Thailand and Minneapolis.

Images of Thailand spin in my mind & keep me awake. I say to myself "I am in Minneapolis not Thailand. Go to sleep" However I know better. In Buddhist villages during Songkran a string is threaded from the temple to every home & connects everyone to the Buddha. I believe that one strand of that string attaches my heart to the land, culture & the people. So a part of me remains in Thailand & part of Thailand remains in me.

LA was a perfect transition point before coming back to Minnesota. I was staying in Korea Town and was able to hear an Asian language, had noodles for breakfast and gave and received a bow. Home Sweet home! Another 45% of the population was Latino and spoke primarily Spanish and I don't. So it was not much different then being in Thailand. When the Fed ex man spoke to me in English I almost didn't understand him.

Now when I awake in the morning in Minneapolis I look around my room expecting to be gazing through a mosquito net but there is none. My windows are closed and covered with curtains rather than open with the sun pouring into my room through the grates. In the quiet of the morning I expect to hear the temple bell, the monk’s chant, the rooster's crow, the migrant worker's shout, and the motorcycle's sputter. These were unwelcome sounds in Thailand that invaded my morning sleep. Now these sounds only remain in my imagination. However when I awake in Minneapolis the quiet is deafening.

I would like to share with you one of the major accomplishments while I was in Thailand. The training of Burmese monks by Fortune staff was a breakthrough on several levels. The Burmese monks were trained by two women and a young man. One older man stated that he had never seen monks being trained by women. The Fortune staff realized that they did have knowledge and skills to share with Monks and gained confidence in their abilities. The counselors were able to adapt and create a mental health session for the particular needs of the monks. This process released them from thinking that they needed to follow previous trainings word for word. They now know that they can create specific targeted programs for different audiences. Most importantly the training provided both knowledge about mental health for the monks.

I wish to thank you all for your support. I was not able to answer every email but know I appreciated each one and they helped me feel connected to my home. This ninth and final email brings to a close my sharing of this journey. I hope you enjoyed the correspondence.

Maybe they do not see....

2010-05-07T02:41:00.000-07:00

Last night in Fang the beauty of the mountains, the orchards, and the sunset left me in awe. Last night the sight of impoverished migrant farm workers in their row of dirty grey concrete single room homes troubled me and made me reflective. How can such beauty and desperation exist side-by-side? How can a landowner see such natural beauty and not see the desperate conditions of their workers.

Maybe they do not see nor want to see.

Today what seems many hours later I sit in Chaing Mia one hundred miles away still in Thailand but far what seems far from what has been my home for two months. Writing reports, clearing up last minute details, meeting with colleagues, and packing bags I anticipate my journey back to the States. Eighteen hours of travel to LA, a day and two nights in LA and then a flight to Minneapolis.

As I prepare for the trip I keep looking at my wrist. I have two braided bracelets. They are a gift from one of the counselors. She is fiery young woman and she has made the bracelets for me to remember them. She is bold and intelligent. I like her and I will remember her and I will remember smart and energetic P., community oriented K., determined L. and gentle and kind K. Yes, I am anticipating coming home but I am now leaving a place that also feels like home.

Acts of Kindness

2010-05-07T02:39:00.000-07:00

Last night was the night that "it" finally happened. One week and two days before I leave for Chaing Mia to come home "it" happened. Not sure what I ate but between "it" and 104+ air temperature and a visit to a small Shan community I became extremely ill. The nurse practitioner at the clinic fortunately spoke English. "It" turned out to be an intestinal bacterial infection and dehydration.

As I was given a shot, three types of medication and electrolytes I began to worry if I had enough money because I didn't think they accepted Blue Cross. However, I didn't care whatever the cost. I just wanted to feel better. The verdict came in the treatment cost 70 Bhat or $2.24. At first I was pleased and felt how cheap the health care was in Thailand. “What is the problem with us in the states?” I thought. And then it dawned on me. The average migrant worker is earning $94 a month or less when they can’t work. $2.24 began to seem like a lot of money.

I am tired but feeling better. My neighbors showed their concern for me in various ways. Every time they saw me they asked how I was. Soon I realized that everyone in the neighborhood knew that I was sick. My nearest neighbor brought a cup of cherry soda with ice and cookies to help me to feel better. Sia Sam, the clinic director, came to visit and insisted on taking me to the coffee shop so I could be in air conditioning during the hottest part of the day. As in Africa when I became sick I just wanted to go home and be in my own bed but just like in Africa I learned that the kindness of others is what matters.

The schedule will be winding down. I have 2 community meetings, some case studies, a planning meeting and a monthly report. Then four days of traveling before I arrive home. I am looking forward to being home but will miss beThailand.

Songkran & So Little/So much

2010-05-07T02:35:00.000-07:00

I work on a manual so that the trainings I have done for the counselors can be done again in the future. The group had an excellent session revising training materials on mental health for a session with monks. The session will be given on the 27^th.I have one more training, two community visits and the training for the monks. I am starting to feel that time is short. Two more weeks I leave Fang for Chiang Mai and my flight home.

I shared with the director of the clinic that I felt that I had accomplished so little. He responded and said “What seems so little to you is too much for me because now I will need to think about of all of this for a long time.” I felt humbled by the statement. I am so American always thinking that more is better.

Songkran "the water festival" was a combination of New Years Eve, Easter Sunday and the Fourth of July. New Years because it is a three day celebration of the New Year, Easter because the temple celebrates with rituals and prayers, and the Fourth because the day is hot and family and friends gather for parties and picnics. And the unifying theme is water. Songkran are three days in which the profound and the profane meet. I am fortunate to be within a Shan culture region away from the tourist's celebrations in the big cities. I was invited to participate more as part of the community than as a tourist looking for a good time.

Impermanency of Life

2010-05-07T02:19:00.000-07:00

I melt into the floor. There is only oppressive heat and the hard cool tiles bring only partial relief. My students also lie on the tiles or sit in chairs next to the open windows. The heat spares no one. The river of humid air fills every corner of the classroom. The slightest breeze mercifully brings momentarily relief but only brings a promise nothing more.

Tonight as I write the memory of the day’s heat I begin to sweat. However, a cool night breeze reminds me that the mountains will soon pour forth a river of cool air and I will shiver as the river flows over me. And I will not shield myself against the cold but treasure the moment for tomorrow I will once again dissolve in the heat of the day.

The last two days I taught Shan counselors about the role of story and narrative in counseling. We reflected on ways to effectively work with individuals who are primarily from oral cultures and have suffered sever trauma. The translation from English to Shan and from Shan to English during the sessions took time and effort but somehow the challenge enhanced the learning.

This weekend I will visit Chiang Ria and will spend time in a border city Mae Sia. Later in the month my plan is to enter Burma and to stay for several days. I have been given the names of people to visit and to learn more about the Shan.

On a sad note I was given a ride from the Monastery to my home in a pickup truck full of young boys. Their laughter and sweetness were infectious. We drove through a neighborhood to pick up one of the boy’s father. The boys were excited because they were going swimming. Tragically the next day I was told that the young boy had died while swimming. In this land of Buddhism the impermanency of life is not only taught as a principle but often becomes apparent in such tragic happenings.

Story, Water and the Sacred

2010-03-31T00:52:00.001-07:00

Fifteen hours of workshops in the next two weeks. The intent is to teach experiential exercises that will support the counselors in fostering mental health and to understand how a person's personal and cultural stories affect their behavior. The foundation of all the exercises will be narrative and story in hopes of developing narrative consciousness and narrative therapeutic skills. These two weeks will be the most intense weeks of my stay with very little time for anything.

However, I will participate in two unique and significant celebrations . The young boys are being initiated as novice monks this weekend and in a week or so there will be the water festival. This time of year is when three days are set aside and water is celebrated during the hottest and driest time of the year.

And of course this is Holy Week and the Triduum. I will celebrate at a Shan Roman Rite Catholic Church

The Work in Thailand Plus

2010-03-29T23:16:00.000-07:00

The Work in Thailand

The Shan counselors’ dedication and willingness to work hard encourages me in my responsibilities. Without their eagerness to serve and to learn I would not be able to do my work. The constant need to choose ways of teaching that challenges them to become self-directed learners challenges me. This goal is accomplished only to the degree that I allow them to teach me. The two sessions I conducted on story and mental health and one on stress that I assisted taught me about many of the subtle differences between our cultures. One of the major differences is the reluctance to challenge an authority figure and another is the difficulty in self-disclosure. However I must say for many of us counselors, self-disclosure and transparency is not always one of our fortes. In the next two weeks the Fortune counselors will be educating medics, herbal doctors, and local Shan communities about mental health. I am looking forward to experiencing them in action.

A Surprise: Teaching Meditation at a Buddhist Monastery

On Friday of this week (I am 12 hours ahead of you) I had the opportunity to teach meditation at the Wat Sri Boen Ruang Buddhist monastery. Now you may ask why am I –a Western good old catholic boy- teaching meditation at a Buddhist Monastery. Well I mentioned to some of the directors about teaching meditation and how the approach helps individuals to find their natural meditation method and to help those who struggle with meditation. Well it turns out that my approach was very helpful for several western individuals including staff members of the Blood Foundations. I was also given the opportunity to speak with the head Abbot Dr. Apisit. We are to speak again soon to continue the conversation. He is in the process of setting up an international meditation center and I am sure I can learn much.

One Day in Thailand

A wind chime pleasantly rings
a single cicada begins a song
joined by another and then another
I can distinguish each additional cicada
until overwhelmed, my ears
hear only a single blended chorus
an atonal cacophony of sound
tenaciously driven towards a smashing crescendo
and at the very moment that the sound overcomes
every voice stops.
and only a wind chime pleasantly rings.

thanks,
andre

Steps...

2010-03-23T18:14:00.001-07:00

At night I carefully walk up three flights of wooden steps to my room. The steps are too small for my American feet. This morning the red sun arises & peeks over the corrugated roof tops. In Chiang Ria I learned more about the tribal hill people's, attempts to survive & preserve their culture. I made contact with an NGO & spent time at the Hill Tribe Museum. I hope the knowledge & contacts will help me in the work.

a morning in Chiang Ria

2010-03-23T18:10:00.000-07:00

The red burning sun rises, music drifts through my window, traffic stirs, roosters crow, and Chiang Ria awakens. I sit on the edge of my bed in a cheap run down guest house and look out the window. The cool morning takes the edge off of yesterday's heat. My mind (filled with images of the mountain side farms, the all night market and the clock tower) tries to grasp and then gives up its attempt to comprehend Thailand. I hope todays visit to the Hill Tribe Museum will help. Tomorrow back to work visiting the Shan communities. The stories are sad and courageous.

A Matter of Time

2010-03-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

Even before I left for Thailand I wrestled with how to manage my time while I was there. I felt I only had so much time and had so much to get done, to see and to accomplish. I knew I had to use time wisely and efficiently and not wastefully or ineptly.

Two tall strands of bamboo stand a hundred yards from my front steps. They mirror each other though the reflections are not perfect. Standing side-by-side they create a gateway and an ikon to a reality that transcends space and time. I sit for hours gazing upon these delicate lacy growths. A background of grey haze accentuates their presence and in early evening as the light fades they become mere silhouettes against the darken sky. Sometimes I ponder their presence for a moment, an hour and sometimes more. As I do time passes but I do not notice. In the land of a thousand images I contemplate these unruly clumps of bamboo as others meditate on the Buddha.

Time passed today…

The formal training began today. The intent of the training was to integrate the counselor’s knowledge of Western counseling techniques with Shan cultural approaches. There are two young man that spent many years in Buddhist monasteries. My hope is that as we explore they will see ways to utilize their training. When I mentioned that we needed to learn together they looked puzzled. Much of the education in Thailand is in Friere’s work called a “banking system.” We open your skull pour in the information and shut the door. In other words rote learning. One Shan leader called the Shan people “Order People.” He said “Our people are used to taking orders and do not process information.” However another educator pointed out that once their horizons are expanded, they can think with the best... " My hope is that my training will help the counselors to further develop their analytical and critical thinking skills through the use of narrative and story.

We shall see…

Finding My Way

2010-03-21T19:21:00.000-07:00

I find myself overwhelmed by all the Buddhist Temples. Every turn I find myself viewing beautiful ornate red, gilded structures. As I walk to the steps, take off my shoes, and begin to walk up the steps a supremely large gold or white Buddha greets me and bids me to be awake.

Interviews and encounters with town folk and with the counselors and others are helpful. Even sitting at the noodle shop at the end of our dirt road gives insight to the resiliency of the Shan. However their resiliency can also hide the deep trauma and losses of the people. One shared about his own flight from Burma and the hope for his people.

I also met Ben and Jill of the Blood-Foundation their work with the Shawn in education and advocacy encouraged me. Their work can be seen at http://bloodfoundation.org/.

All I hear inspires me but also makes me wonder if I am up to the task. We shall see.

In the Heat of the Day...

2010-03-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

I am now in Thailand in a small village in the North. My home overlooks a valley and in the horizon the mountains arise to spectacular heights. Sadly there seems a permanent haze muting the colors. Orange orchards surround the house and from early morning, through the heat of the day into late evening migrants prune, water and prepare the trees for the growing season.

Met twice with the counselors and feel impressed with their dedication and enthusiasm. We went to the fields Friday for outreach to the migrant community. The migrants start early in the morning and work to dusk. Heat, pesticides and chemical greet them as they enter the fields. They cover themselves from head to toe to protect themselves to no avail against the chemicals. Many show symptoms of chemical poisoning such as skin rashes.

The oppressive heat during the day wears on me but at night a welcome coolness soothes and comforts. I found myself exhausted for several days from the combination of heat and traveling. In those hot heated moments I wondered “What am I doing here?” Today I awoke remembering why and feeling almost rested and ready for the day. However, I have found one unavoidable hazard and that is low doorways. A few bumps already decorate my head.
.
As in Africa things change rapidly but life moves slowly.

2009-09-24T15:22:00.000-07:00

I have not posted for awhile but I would like to give a synopsis of my next journey. Below is a brief description of the work I will doing with SalusWorld in Thailand starting in March of 2010.

SalusWorld Mission

SalusWorld’s mission is to stand with victims, humanitarian workers and other activists to facilitate a return to a healthy emotional life after setback due to loss or injury caused by war, political conflict, natural disaster and epidemics.

Information on SalusWorld can be retrieved at http://www.salusworld.org/.

Thailand

The long-term vision of SalusWorld in Thailand and Burma is to simultaneously build awareness of trauma and mental health issues while training a corps of skilled mental health paraprofessionals that can serve as mental health counselors and advocates for human rights of all Burmese people. SalusWorld’s model is based on experiential training, and matching skilled psychologists and clinical social workers with local counselor trainees from the communities in which they serve.

Information on SalusWorld's work In Thailand can be retrieved at http://www.salusworld.org/current/thailand.html

My Work

As a Clinical Social Worker my role in Thailand is to support the training of local counselor trainees in developing skills in dealing with trauma through narrative and story. Further the hope is to develop group processes using narrative and story that will support the counselor's in dealing with their trauma in working with clients. The use of story and storytelling is seen as a means of promoting both personal and cultural healing.

Home But Not Home

2007-11-14T02:50:00.000-08:00

I am home but not home.

My mind wonders to the noisy streets of Gbarnga and Voinjama
the muddy and bumpy roads to Foya and Bellefini.
I find myself sitting
in the Peace Huts in Kalahuan and Gbattilla
listening to stories
of suffering and hope.

I look out my Minneapolis window
I expect to see lush green wild terrain
red and yellow flowers
mountains in the distance.
I only see manicured lawns
bare trees and flat, flat land.

I walk but do not hear "Hello, white man."
I hear nothing not even "Hello."
I look for dark faces but
mostly pale white faces pass me
only occasionally does a rich deep dark
skinned human being come my way.

Yes, I am home but not home.

Movement, Healing, and Story

2007-11-05T10:24:00.000-08:00

Musicals intrigue and often amuse me a scene unfolds a group of people talk to one another and go about their business when suddenly everyone spontaneously burst into song and dance.

In teaching storytelling I feel the most healing aspect of storytelling comes about in the creation of story and secondarily in the hearing or telling of story. In three workshops in Liberia I presented a method in which the participants create a story using their body energy to create two characters. The first character arises out of a process in which the participant identifies an area of discomfort or distress in their body and the second character is a counter character to the first. Both characters arise out of the awareness of the body’s emotional and physical energy and given expression with movement. The participants complete the process by writing and/or imagining a story in which the two characters meet and come to terms with each other and the participants then tell the story. I developed this method to work with individuals who were suffering from physical illness and for those with physical symptoms associated with various forms of trauma.

What I noticed in contrast to my usual American participants was that the African participant’s movement looked more like dance than a gesture such as a hand wave. So I had the participants as a group rhythmically do the movement of both of their characters individually and then slowly combine together the movements of both characters. And this was the point that I realized that musicals are for real and not just made up for screen and stage. The participants were encouraged to make a sound with their movement. Their sounds blended into a wonderful rhythmic beat and the movement and the beat combined into a celebrative community dance. In one group a call and response wrap type song burst out. This spontaneous combustion of sound, song, dance and movement lasted for about a half an hour.

At the end the participants reported a sense of healing, well being, and a different understanding of their physical discomfort. Most understood that the distress in their body was associated with trauma suffered during the Liberian Civil war. In the story the participants created a bridge between characters to help heal their trauma and in the movement and dance they reinforced that bridge. What I also realized was that the story and initial movement was an expression of individual inner healing and the dancing was a movement towards community and cultural healing. In African culture story and dance often go hand-and-hand. Simply the process encouraged movement from isolation to relationship with self, with community, and with culture.

So yes spontaneous outbursts of group songs and dance do happen not only in musicals but also in real life when people live in a culture that understands the connection between the individual and community, between dance, story and song, and between healing and celebration.

Two Works In Progress

2007-11-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

Gazing Over the Atlantic

I have frequently sat
on the shore, gazing
across the Atlantic Ocean
self-assured, North to my left
America at my back
sunrise before me
imagining Europe and Africa
far away

Today, I quietly sat
on the shore, gazing
across the Atlantic Ocean
disoriented, North to my right
Africa at my back
sunset before me
imagining North and South America
far away
----------

An Ode to Generators

The roar of the generator
disturbs my thoughts
an ever present
ceaseless drone
a constant unwanted
annoying companion.
Until darkness
steals light
from every corner.

A flipped switch
light fills the dark
empty spaces.
The roar of the generator
disturbs my thoughts
a ceaseless drone.
an annoying presence
but tonight a
welcomed companion.

I Come and Go

2007-11-02T10:05:00.000-07:00

Minneapolis, Chicago, Brussells, Monrovia, Gbarnga, Belefenai, ZorZor, Voinjama, Kolahun, Foya, Massabolahn, Zorzor, Gbarnga, Bellefini, Gbartalla, Monrovia, Brussells, Chicago, Minneapolis

In Liberia a common phrase is “I come and go.” Since being here I have come not only to like the phrase but to use it. Let me explain. Three to four hours a day bouncing over dirt roads and cruising through deep mud puddles jumbles my mind to the point that some days I forget if I am coming or going. So the phrase “I come and go” personally expresses quite well the rigors of travel in Liberia and my confused mind.

In the thesaurus “go” is to depart and “come” is to arrive. So the phrase “I come and go” means something like “I arrive and I depart.” The statement seems very hopeful. We are already envisioning our arrival even before we depart. This optimistic perspective seems very useful in a land were traveling is minimally an extreme sport and at times even dangerous.

There are very few paved roads in Liberia and many major routes our simply wide dirt trails dotted with small mud hut villages through the bush. My own experience of traveling through seven foot mud holes, seeing trucks full of people stuck for two, three or more days and the tales of my colleagues taking two or three days just to travel 70 miles helps me to understand why for many Liberians even before education and health care roads are seen as their number one priority.

The access to education and health care would be dramatically improved with better roads. The ability to easily come and go to the local community markets would improve the economic conditions of individuals while supporting the local market economy. New roads will not solve the problems of Liberia but the roads would be a start. In a conversation with a government official involved in the Community Development Action Committee the suggestion was made that in Liberia there was a need for a Roads for Humanity Project. He agreed. In the mean time the hope implied in the statement “I come and I go” or “I arrive and I depart” will need to suffice until the national will, energy, and resources become focused on building roads.

It's Not easy Being a Stranger

2007-11-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

One of my students in Africa said, “It is not easy to be a stranger.”

Within a few days of arriving in Liberia I realized how true this statement is. Though I would not have had the words until I heard her say these words.

I found myself wanting to go home. I was feeling very sick.

“Why did I come here?” I lamented.

And from the depths of my inner child I kept repeating, “I think I’m dieing. I want to go home.”

Maybe I ate bad food, drank tainted water, or a mosquito bit me and infected me with malaria. I didn’t know and I didn’t care.

I just kept repeating, “I am dieing and I want to go home and be in my own bed.”

My bout with illness soon passed, so to speak, and the death laments faded but part of me still longed to be home.

In the next few days I heard many times, “Hello, how are you?”

People wanted to know how I felt and if I would be okay. At first still feeing sorry for myself, I gave a short curt courteous response, “I am fine. Thanks for asking.”

However, as people continued to ask about my health I realized these people were truly concerned. They were not just being polite. Once I allowed myself to be touched by their concern I felt a little less a stranger. No, it is not easy to be a stranger but it is not so hard to begin to feel at home when so many people care.

Bridge over St. Paul

2007-10-31T11:03:00.000-07:00

The waters of the St. Paul River roil over ancient rocks through a maze of thick green covered land. An old steel bridge spans the waters. I do not drive over the bridge. I choose to walk. I hear the sounds of rushing water and as I take each step I hear quiet whispering voices. They speak softly and sadly.*

“I lost her on the border of Guinea. I never saw her again until I discovered she became a rebel’s wife. She was hard and I did not recognize her.”

Another step,

“I saw them cut off my brother’s head then kill my sister. They chopped her children into little pieces. I will never forget.”

Another step,

“I was forced to be a rebel’s wife and forced to work even when I was sick. I was determined to escape.”

Another,

“My children went with my mother and I hid in the bush. Lost, I thought I would never see my children again. Rumors were heard by my family that I was killed. Thank, God my brother came to search for me and found me.

Another,

“My papers, I lost my papers and I did not think. I ran back to get them. I heard gunfire.”

Another,

“They yelled at me because my baby was crying. We were hiding in the bush and they were afraid we would be found and shot.

Another,

“There were pregnant women every where giving birth but we could not stop they were left to themselves and the cries filled the night.”

Another, step

“They said they would cut off my hand or my leg if I did not do as they said. They gave me a choice. Thank God, I escaped”

With each step I hear more voices and they tell me tragic stories and the sadness overwhelms me.

As I walk across the bridge in my imagination I see women, children, and men crawling to avoid the cross fire of the rebels and others in terror jump from the bridge into the river to their death. I see parents holding infants, and men protecting spouses. I also see those so numb with fear that they are absorbed only with their own survival. Most of all I see a determination to cross this river -the border between Lofa County and Bong County and a willingness to accept death rather than be captured by the rebel armies of Charles Taylor. I turn and gaze across the bridge and sadness fills me. I cannot believe and I cannot imagine. Yet I know the stories to be true. I have heard the stories with my own ears. As I take my last step off the bridge I hear a cacophony of voices calling to be heard. I am sad and silent.

*None of these stories represent any one person but are a synthesis of the many stories of survivors I heard over several weeks.

Meeting the Imam

2007-10-22T02:06:00.000-07:00

Each morning a distant chanting voice enters my window and gently summons me to be for a moment awake and then the gentleness of the sound lulls me back to sleep. I do not understand most of the words but just as I enjoy the ringing of church bells I enjoy this melodic unfamiliar sound. I do however understand the word “Allah” and each time I hear Allah I know that I am in a different world. I have known many Moslems in my life but their culture submerged in the overwhelming Western Christian culture barely breaks through the surface. Here the Islamic culture permeates the lives of everyone Moslem or not.

Recently, I visited the town of Massabolahn in the Kolahun District in Lofa County. When I stepped out of the vehicle I heard a drum. At first I could not locate the person drumming but eventually I saw a young boy beating a drum and in front of him was an entourage of about twenty men, women, and children. In the center walked a tall bearded man with his head covered with a red stitched Middle Eastern scarf and wearing a long black robe covering a yellow undergarment. As he moved through the streets people showed their respect and people came out of their homes and businesses to greet him and the others in his entourage. As he approached he stopped and greeted me in Arabic and I returned the greeting. We shook hands and he asked what nationality I was. I told him American. He smiled and nodded. We shared a few more pleasant glances and smiles since neither spoke the other’s language and then with a hand shake he moved on. I watched him as he moved continued down the street meeting and greeting everyone along the way. I later discovered that this man is a very important local Imam, a teacher of Islam.

I find the followers of Islam in Liberia firm in their belief and with a strong determination to lead good and exemplarily lives. For the past three weeks during Ramadan I experienced the followers of Islam maintaining a schedule of work, family, and prayer while fasting throughout the day until sunset. During this time they have absolutely no food and often nothing to drink. I found myself a little embarrassed when I thought about my feeble attempts at fasting and praying during Lent and Advent.

2007-10-19T03:33:00.000-07:00

Something within me spoke and I saw myself running back for my things. Picking them up was the first time to hear real bullet passing by my ears. I quickly hurried to Musu and we jumped into the nearby thick bush. There was no specific road. We were desperate for survival and so entered the forest in order to distant ourselves from where people were being shot and killed. It was now getting dark and there was no flashlight…. S. S.

When I am told a personal story of a person who survived the Liberian Civil War the sound of their voice enters my ear but my mind at first resists and refuses to allow the story to enter. Eventually the story does enter and imprints an image on my mind. I hear the stories of the senseless deaths of wives, husbands, children, uncles, aunts, and grandparents and the stories of those who will not recover from this tragic war. However, when I allow the whole story to enter and not just the suffering and the tragedy I witness resiliency and experience hope.

I also have plans now to apply for re admission at the University of Liberia for the coming 2008/2009 school year( through the grace of God), in order to continue my studies. S.S.

The level of hope that many of the survivors carry within them amazes me and their courage encourages me. I did not know what to expect when I came to Liberia or who I would be when I returned to the States. I am beginning to sense the change but I am still waiting to see what it is. However, my sense is that it is for the good.

Reflection on Storytelling in Liberia via Alaska

2007-10-17T01:44:00.000-07:00

In Alaska I met a tribal doctor who worked for the Native Medical Center in Anchorage. In our conversation she shared her story and her history of dreams and visions.

I asked, “Do you still have dreams, visions and a story?”

She said, “No.”

When I asked, “Are you living your dreams, visions, and your story?

She answered. “No.”

I was perplexed.

She then moved forward in her chair and touched her heart and said “I am my dream, I am my vision, and I am my story.”

I realized how short sighted I was. Always thinking of a story as something I was going to tell or as my unfolding story that I was creating. Her straight forward response, “I am my story,” captured the essential nature of story and the relationship of story to identity.

At times when I share this experience with others they look puzzled and say, “I don’t get it.”

In one incident the response was “How arrogant can you get? To think you are the story.”

As I shared this experience with Liberians, I found that most understood the significance and meaning of the tribal doctor’s response. They know they are their story and that each person is a story. They also are quick to point out that they are not the whole story. Their community including family, town, and clan are the story and the stories are not separate. In spite of being torn apart by war they still see themselves as one story.

The Liberian people in general romanticize the modern United States and some downplay the traditional ways. In the past village storytellers told stories in costumes but many of the young people have not experience this because of the war. Most of the people in Liberia were displaced, refugeed, or experienced some traumatic event. In spite of the total disruption of life, within Liberians remains a natural affinity for storytelling as a means of conversation and seeing life. The traditional forms of storytelling may be lost for some but the informal art and essence of storytelling remains strong in the Liberian culture.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors?

2007-10-15T02:01:00.000-07:00

The poet’s neighbor who said “Good fences make good neighbors,” never saw the fences of war.

Surrounded by thick fences I stay hidden tending my own small garden. Hiding behind fences embedded with sharp glass and razor wire so no one dare climb over to visit. Fences too high that I never see my neighbors faces though I hear their voices. Fences that open to those I already know, to those who are safe, to those who do not threaten me. Once they are gone a guard closes the fence gate; and is vigilant night and day so I am not disturbed as I tend my garden.

The poet’s neighbor who said, “Fences make good neighbors,” never saw the fences of war. He never saw how long those fences take to tear down.

Comment

I wrote this prose poem in response to the hundreds of compounds in Liberia and the fences that surround them. The description of the fence in this poem depicts a blending of the many different types. There are reasons for them. The aftermath of the war necessitates the use of fences often because of poverty. Hopefully a day will come when these fences and compounds are no longer a part of the landscape. As I travel the roads of Liberia I do think of Frost’s question about fences:

Why do fences make good neighbors?
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out?

I too wonder what is being walled in and what is being walled out and not only here but in the USA with our fenced in gated communities. No, Frost’s neighbor never saw the fences of war nor could understand how long these fences of war take to tear down. It will take time before Liberia’s literal and metaphorical fences of war are torn down.

Vionjama Street Market

2007-10-15T01:56:00.000-07:00

Went to market
in the heat of the day
under the hot African sun.
Got lost in a maze
of mud huts,
shabby booths,
dingy shops.

Went to market
in the heat of the day
under the hot African sun.
Got lost in a maze
of meandering people,
playing children,
starring gazes.

Went to market
in the heat of the day
under the hot African sun.
Got lost in a maze
of my doubts,
uncertainty,
confusion.

Went to market
in the heat of the day
under the hot African sun.
Got lost in a maze
of humanity.

Peace Hut Storytelling Circles

2007-10-13T05:04:00.000-07:00

We walk towards a small round building with a tin pointed roof. As we enter I notice colorful mats laying on the ledge that circles the inside parameter of the room. Three small square shuttered windows give views of a beautiful mountain, a blue and white school with children playing, and an abandoned, scorched, and blackened church. This simple structure is one of the many Center for Victims of Torture Peace Huts in Liberia. These simple structures provide for clients a safe place of refuge for their healing work, to share their stories, and to reclaim their lives, however today will be different. Nine trained peer Liberian counselors in Kalahoun will explore stories. We sit on the mats, say an Islamic prayer, do introductions, and begin.

I explain I am there to gather stories for the CVT Story Project and about the upcoming training session on using of story clinically. To start the conversation I tell a personal story of how I would sneak into a room of adults to listen to the stories about World War II, the depression, and the old days. The group responds and shares their stories about listening to story. An older man tells of the storytellers in his village who dressed in traditional garb would tell stories. The younger members of the group express interest; they have not experienced storytelling in this way.

As we continue the counselors focus the discussion primarily on their clients telling their stories and the need to create a safe, empathic, and supportive environment for their clients. They speak of storytelling as a way to make a point, teach a lesson, or inspire someone to be strong. The counselors give several examples of such stories. I recognize that the training session has begun.

One of the stories is of a man who is in despair for he has lost everything but a loin cloth. He is about to throw himself into the river. He hears a voice from behind a bush. And he sees that the man is naked.

“Dear sir…” the naked man says, “if you are going to throw yourself into the river may I please have your loin cloth. For you see I have no clothes.”

The man in seeing that another man is worse off than he, does not throw himself into the river but realizes that he need not feel sorry for himself. As the story finishes they immediately began to discuss the meaning and the lesson of the story.

When asked how they would use the story the conversation returns to the lesson of the story. Discussing story and the lesson and meaning of the story comes naturally to the counselors however, reflection on how to consciously and intentionally use story to foster healing and to teach life skills, such as critical thinking does not.

As the morning continues they tell more stories, experiment, and analyze different stories from their traditions. The counselors stay until they must go and come back as soon as they can. As the morning came to a close a discussion begins on ways to continue. I mention an experience in forming a story circle with a hospice group. The hospice workers would gather once or twice a month to tell the stories of their stories and the stories of their patients. The counselors like the idea and also want to use the time to share other to use with their clients. I agree that for the time that I am in Liberia I will help to facilitate the development of the Peace Hut Story Circle in Kalahoun.

As a side note this experience in Kalahoun is unexpected and is later repeated in the towns of Voinjama and Foya. The plan now is for me to facilitate these groups throughout Lofa County.

Liberian Sounds

2007-10-13T04:59:00.000-07:00

In the morning the singing of men and women floats through my window. I do not know who is singing or what is being sung but I feel comforted by the gentle rhythm. The chatter of people, birds, and insects vibrate continuously. Prayers chanted from the local mosques fill the air and cars, motorcycles, and trucks announce their presence with the grating, whiny, screeching honking of their horns. Chickens cackle and crow and dogs bark their discontent. Generators contribute their loud persistent beat and music punctuates every moment. As night falls the sounds fade a calm quiet persists with only an occasional reminder of the music of the day.

Road to Voinjama

2007-10-10T02:00:00.000-07:00

As we travel the road to Voinjama my body moves in rhythm with the bumps and rolls of the land cruiser. We slip and slide through four and six feet deep holes of murky water and red mud. My breath disappears each time we drive over a crest in the road. Lush green mountains, trees fifty, sixty feet tall with long graceful limbs reach outward, and blue sky dotted with huge white unfolding clouds demand my attention. As we sink into the valley the green engulfs us and the grey tree trunks scarred with black scabs and deep wounds bleeding white blood into small cups lining the side of the road speak of years of use. Villages pass quickly -mud huts, shabby stands selling anything and everything, and sadly, once beautiful buildings now with their own blackened scars of untold atrocities and abuse. Most of all I notice the people. Women dressed in multi-colored garb carrying baskets, pales and wood on their heads , men often in shorts holding machetes for cutting road side vegetation, and children some naked and others in neat pink, blue and green school uniforms walk on the side of the road or just sit and look as we speed pass. Their faces, their eyes, their stares grab my imagination and I cannot forget their gaze.

A Story about Teaching Story in Liberia

2007-10-07T11:29:00.000-07:00

The two ceiling fans swirl pushing the stale air in the room. The sound of the generator quietly drones in the background. The fans will help keep the participants cool as the day warms in Gbarnga, Liberia. Fourteen Center for Victims of Torture client service providers –all Africans- gather to learn about the use of story with their clients.

“Ka-twa,” I say to the group in Kpelleh.

They answer, Ya’twa.”

And so the day begins with a greeting and hello in Kpelleh.

I begin by telling the story of “the Snake and the Holy Man” a tale from India. The tale works and evokes their stories. The participants begin to share a story from their heritage. They also tell when they first heard the story, from whom, in what language, and the lesson of the story. The stories connect us and we now exist together in the realm of the imagination and story.

We review two case studies presented in story form that demonstrate the use of personal and cultural stories in counseling and teaching life skills. They naturally grasp and respond to the stories but struggle to analyze, contextualize, and reflect on story within a therapeutic context. Slowly with encouragement they bridge the gap between their cultural inheritance and understanding of storytelling and their clinical knowledge and training. The participants share nuances that only people acculturated or well studied in story are able. Together we learn and deepen our understanding of the use of story in treating war and torture survivors.

As we continue we explore with exercises how our stories shape our relationship with others and our environment, affect our perceptions and interpretations, and the multiple levels of narratives and stories that we carry with us in our daily lives. I struggle to find the words to describe the transformation of the service providers. The exercises further awaken a awareness on the reflective level of what they already know naturally about story. The energy in the room rises and many abstract terms such as transference and projection become real and the concept of being non-judgmental makes sense within the context of story. They continue building a bridge between their cultural experience of story and their clinical knowledge. We begin to frame clinical concepts within a culturally familiar storytelling frame and we shape a culturally story centered understanding of clinical theory and practice. The connections are made and the discussion opens up.

We further explore issues of boundaries and respect. The providers investigate the clinical definitions of boundaries and respect from the perspective of narrative and story. We discuss the way that personal stories are fluid and ever changing and thus personal boundaries constantly change necessitating constant adjustments by the clinician. They speak about respecting boundaries beyond rigid rules of do’s and don’ts. The excitement rises as they make various connections between their therapeutic practices and the art of storytelling. They see new ways to foster healing using story within their practice and see storytelling as a tool to support individuals and the community in creating new lives through stories. I share their enthusiasm and remember when I awoke to the possibilities of using story as a therapeutic tool and no longer just an incidental tertiary part of my practice.

As we finish the providers spend a few minutes using a simple technique to write their story and then in dyads they tell their story. Then twice the listener tells the story back mirroring and giving witness to the teller’s story. They feel the power of having their story heard and witnessed and express pleasure and a joy that their story is being heard.

At the end we share once more that story is an oral activity of the imagination and as along as we can tell and create story there can be a meeting of heart, mind, and spirit and in this there is hope.

When we are done, I say in Kpelleh, “Ka-mama.” (Thank, you all very much.)

In return I hear, “Isseah.” (thank you)

And Yes, I am very thankful “Ka-mama” for the experience of being with these people and their stories.

Ya-Tao, Whiteman

2007-10-04T09:48:00.000-07:00

As I walk through the streets of Gbarnga I am often greeted mostly by the children with a smile and the salutation “Ya toa, white man,” or “Hello, white man.” In response I say in Pali “Ka-tao” to a group and “Ya toa” to an individual.

In the early seventies I lived in a Black neighborhood and my experience was of being alone and somewhat isolated in the neighborhood. However, as I walked beyond the boundries of my Black neighborhood I was once again in the midst of white America. No more and no less isolated than most Americans. Here there is no such transition only rarely do I see another white face and usually of Gwen, an American CVT clinician from Wisconsin and David a UN worker from Boston.

I find myself both amused and troubled by being a curiosity. I now understand how some of my friends in the states from other countries feel treated as if they are exotic. I saw this particularly in the Tibetan community with everyone being treated as the Dali Lama rather than the person they were. Whenever human beings are romanticized they soon disappoint. I too will disappoint those who think I am a rich and powerful or have special knowledge. All I can hope is that I do not disappoint them as a human being.

Visiting Belefani in Bong County

2007-10-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

An old country fair atmosphere enveloped the market of stick structured booths. Plantain, fish, and corn cooked over charcoal fires filling the air with a sweet aroma. Shirts, dresses, and shoes hung from the booths. The woman dressed in colorful fabric busied themselves packing away their goods for it was the end of the day. The men tied bundles of charcoal, containers of gasoline, and food to their vehicles to take home or to the next market. These were the images that filled my senses as we drove into Belefani in Bong County.

Belefani is a small village. The village proper rests in a valley and houses dot gently rising lush green slopes. This village brutally ripped apart by Charles Taylor’s rebel forces is a sign of the complexities of Liberia’s healing. The people of the village fled throughout West Africa. Soon after the war ended in 2003 the people began to return to their homes and slowly are rebuilding their lives and their village. In Belefani there are signs of progress with new buildings and elections in January. However, there are security issues, thefts, and problems of domestic abuse.

An elder of the village showed me the new communication tower, the present blue colored health center and the grounds where the new center would be built. He pointed out the new brightly yellow colored market pavilion. This elder carries within him a pride that his people survived and had returned. Most of all he speaks of his faith that his village will return to prosperity. He holds within what most Liberians carry within their hearts, hope.

The Story Work

2007-10-02T07:09:00.000-07:00

Today I shared with the CVT-Gbarnga service staff about the story project and gave an overview of the inservice I will facilitate on Friday. Much to my relief they understood the nature of the project as having its roots in the values of people rooted in the oral tradtion. They specifically focused on the notion that the story always belongs to the person and the community that tells the story and that when the story is shared the source of the story needs to be acknowledged. The service people are now finding individuals within the community who want to share their stories.

In a sense today is the beginning of the project in earnest. The first week which ends today was my preparation and my adaptation to my new surroundings. What is obvious is there is never enough time. The best part of this day is that I will be going out to meet individuals throughout the county of Bong.

as always,
ande

From Monrovia to Gbarnga and then to Voinjama

2007-10-01T08:35:00.000-07:00

The city of Monrovia is an endless sea of houses, appearing to be made out of concrete and stucco. The houses were colored brightly but most are faded or are stained with the ravages of war. Goverment, UN, and NGO's buildings line the main roads and most are surounded by high walls and razor wire. There are homes with new paint but few; and new buildings of concrete blocks are being built throughout the city. The streets are crowded with people and cars but few trees. At times as you drive through Monrovia you will see the ocean. However, even the shorelines are filled with reminders of war and discarded articles. Most buildings in Monrovia have ramshackeled storefronts facing the street advertising phone cards, food, shoes, sunglasses, gallons of gas in glass jars, and every other imaginable object.

The road to Gbarnga (boong ga') is lush, green and beautiful. Along the road are small communites of brown mud huts sometimes sprinkled with the stucco houses once brightly painted but now stained like the buildings in Monrovia. The mud huts are a series of vertical and horizontal sticks tied together and than packed with mud until a final brown coating is spread sometimes with colorful designs blended into the coating. The road to Gbarnga is lined with the same type of small vendors that are found in Monrovia. The only difference is there are the green spaces inbetween.

Gbarnga ia a very small town of three thousand people. Though it is spread out and not so tightly packed as Monrovia it is similiar. There are people everywhere and the vendors hawk their wares. The town has the feel of a small western town in the States. The roads are a light red clay and motorcycles instead of horses move up and down the street with an occassional car honking its horn to warn people out of the way. In fact horn beeping throughout Liberia is so prevelant by all vehicles I believe it was studied it might actually qualify as a language.

This week I will began preparations for a workshop here in Gbarnga on Developing a Story Awareness in Working with Clients. I will also began my conversations with individuals to find stories. I am looking forward to this part of my journey and when I leave at the end of the week to Voinjama. I have a feeling that my blogs will be shorter.

andre

Sticker Shock

2007-09-29T11:36:00.000-07:00

Today I needed to buy supplies. A dollar seventy-nine for a can of tuna that in the USA would be 69 cents and yet last night I spent thirty dollars on a meal for three at a local restaurant. Rather reasonable considering the cost in the US to feed three even at McDonalds. I wish I could tell you that I had an African dish but I didn't. Liberians are entranced by everything American. I had pork and French fries. I could have been at any outside patio restaurant in the US. The most uniquely Liberian part of the meal was the Liberian made beer and the pepper sauce. The liquid was a light amber and was cool and tasty. I drank a little more than usual to help me cool from the warm day. The pepper sauce was hot and delicious and made the barbacued pork truly tastey. I have been promised that I will soon dine on Liberian-African food.

My guide for the day once again took me through the streets of Monrovia and this time we walked. Young boys and men gathered around storefronts watching soccer on television. Women bathed their children and combed each others hair. Craftsman worked on cars, motorcycles, and to tell the truth on objects that I did not know. Children carried display boxes of candies and chewing gum roaming the streets and at traffic stops encouraging people to buy. Everywhere I saw children working. Most children work out of necessity and many cannot go to school because of work/poverty. Those who do go to school are fortunate.

The images that I carry with me today are of the many men who have limbs missing because of the civil war. The homes that are mere skeletons in which people work and live. The multiple ways that the Liberian people, young and old, work not only to survive but to reconstruct their country. The image that touched me most was that of a small child with her grandfather. The grandfather was blind and his hand rested on his grandaughter's shoulder. The grandaughter was four maybe five. He gave directions telling her which way to go while she acted as her grandfather's eyes as they walked through the maze of activity in the crowded streets.

As the day ends for me I am tired and thoughtful. Liberia is a complex country. Monday I begin my work on the project. These few days of orientation have helped prepare me for the project and helped me to see how much I will need to learn.

andre

Monrovia Tour

2007-09-28T07:59:00.000-07:00

Writing today about my tour of Monrovia is really impossible and I have a sense that I should not even try. Monrovia is a city devastated by 12 years of civil war. There is hardly a building not bearing damage. Yet there is building and repair work no matter where you look. There are people everywhere and there is continous movement -people, cars, motorcycles, carts, and wheelborrowes.

I have begun to hear stories but not in a formal way. If you are willing to ask, people are willing to share their story. The stories are of tragedy, faith, atrocities, and hope. I asked my security guard and my driver "What gives you hope?" Thier answer was the goverment seems to really be trying; the international community is present and working to make a difference; and Ellen Johnson the first woman president and first person with indigeneous heritage is honorable and cares about the people.

I am not sure that I want to describe the poverty -the poor housing, lack of electricity, running water, or the need for everyone in most families to work. Focusing on these issues would take away from understanding the resilency of the Liberian people and yet, one must share the tragic events of the civil because that knowledge allows one to understand the spirit of the Liberian people.

I am still not sure what city or county I will be sent but I will learn soon. Life here has a way of rapidly changing while slowly moving.

For today....
andre

Here I am...

2007-09-27T09:31:00.000-07:00

I landed in Liberia Wednesday evening. The airport was busy, small, crowded and a wonderful cacophony of the voices of people speaking many languages. The ride to Monrovia from the airport was fast and exciting. My kind of driving to be honest, except for the people dangerously close to the road walking at night. The airport reminded me of a trip i took to Bethel, Alaska. At night the airport and the roads were so similiar I could hardly tell the difference. And as in Alaska the people in Liberia are gracious. I find the similarites interesting and yet the land is so very different. Cold barren tundra versus hot moist green.

Now another phase.

Ooops... As i write I realize I have not mentioned my day in Brussells but it does not matter. I am here in Monrovia, Liberia and Belgium seems far away and unimportant..

I am well and content... except for one thing. And that is getting use to a french keybooard....

take care...andre

One week to go...

2007-09-17T09:46:00.000-07:00

I am grateful for the support that I have received from people. I also have had pleasure in hearing the different responses to this trip of those I have spoken. I have learned much through their responses about people and about myself. There are those who are clear that they would never go to a place that is clearly so unsafe; others who feel that any such work is heroic and “Mother Therese” like, while others become nostalgic about their peace corps experience or other volunteer experiences, and finally there are those who see this as a great adventure.

I am not sure which perspective I most identify. I do want to do some good and make a difference; I know there are dangers; and it is an adventure. As far as nostalgia, yes, for the work I did in Alabama in the late 70’s or more recently my trip to volunteer at the Bethel Indigenous Dance Festival, Cama-I, in Alaska. However, maybe the truth is that this journey on my part to Liberia is selfish. I do feel at a turning point in my life and have a need for something different.

As i thought about the reason for taking this journey today I reflected on the ideas of Alasdair McIntire. He describes human beings as “storytelling animals” and that each human being is on a narrative quest. He means by this that each one of us is on a perilous journey seeking to author a life and a story that is meaningful and is moving towards the good and the essential. His insights have some truth for me. I do sense this journey is a quest to experience the essential and the good in a place different than what I am accustomed. However, as I thought about his notion of the narrative quest there was something that did not quite fit.

As I read several of the seed stories from the CVT Story Project I felt tears on my face. In the moment with the stories and my tears I realized that I do not know why I am going. I can speculate all I want but my analyses is only empty mind-chatter. I have a sense that I really will only know after the journey. Maybe shortly afterwards or maybe even months or years later, and maybe never. At this point it doesn’t matter. What does matter is for me to go, to be open, do the story work, take in the experience, and do the best I can. And the rest will take care of itself. andre

Liberia: A Short History Part I

2007-09-10T04:49:00.001-07:00

Liberia is in Western Africa and is bordered by Sierra Leone, Guinea, and Cote d’Ivoire. The history of Liberia (Place of Freedom) is complicated and does not follow the usual pattern of most African nations. Liberia was populated with freed slaves in land purchased from the indigenous tribes by independent societies in the USA. Ethiopia is the only other country not founded by a nation-state. Only later did the United States government become involved and support the independence of Liberia. The area now known as Liberia was populated in the 1800’s and before by numerous indigenous tribes. In 1822 the American Colonization Society negotiated for land and free born and freed ex-slave Blacks from the USA began to be sent to settle the area. The abolitionist and slave owners contributed the moneys for their passage and supplies. The Abolitionist felt a responsibility to restore the Negro to their homeland and the slave owners feared the potential political power of ex-slaves. In 1847 because of pressures from Britain who had colonized neighboring Sierra Leone Liberia was recognized as an independent nation. However, the history of this area now known as Liberia did not begin with the American-Liberians.

Between the 12th and 16th century there were waves of migrations from the north and east of Africa. In the 16th century the Manes came from the Ivory Coast and the Vai later came but were stopped by an alliance of the Manes and a tribe known as the Kru who dominated the Atlantic coast. When the American-Liberians settled they established western type economic, social, political, and cultural structures and even though they represented only a small proportion of the population (5%) they dominated the whole of Liberia. This division between the American-Liberians and the indigenous people and the colonizing of Africa in general are major contributors to the long suffering of the people of Liberia. (For a brief historical overview: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberia)

To be continued….

Your comments and corrections are welcomed...

Center for Victims of Torture Story Project

2007-09-06T09:27:00.000-07:00

I would like to share with you a little about the CVT Story Project. The purpose of the Story Project is to gather the stories of individuals and communities who have been affected by torture. The stories will be used to help create an understanding of the complexity of the culture, communities, and the hopes of people who have experienced political torture. The methodology of the project was developed at the Minneapolis CVT Center over two-years.

The process of gathering stories for the CVT Story Project is rooted in the values of oral culture and storytelling. In a conversation with Liberian storyteller Vera Oye Yaa-Anna she stressed that for Liberians storytelling is “an oral activity of the imagination.” As our discussion continued we agreed that storytelling happens within one’s imagination and when the story is shared orally with another the listener is then able to imaginatively live within the story. In oral cultures storytelling is a natural way of communication, an interaction between people, and is not about performance. Therefore the project’s process is rooted in the realm of the imagination, memory, conversation, and the connection between people. The stories are not recorded and only a minimum of note taking is done. The person being interviewed determines the content of the story and the intent is to preserve the story that the person desires to tell. Most importantly the story always belongs to the teller and not the person who at the end of the process writes the story. The writer is only the conduit of the story.

The transition to writing the story is the most difficult part of the project. Once a story is written the story is outside of the person and no longer has the same internalized imaginative quality. There is a power that spoken word has that written word cannot capture. Therefore only when the story is rooted in the imagination of the listener is the story written. Once the story is written the teller reviews the written story to see if the story remains true to teller’s experience. Only then can the story be shared in the written form. At the end of the process the teller receives a copy of their story and are asked how the story can be used.

There are limitations to the method. The method is time consuming but the process is not just about producing stories. The process is about creating understanding between people and giving witness to the teller’s story. The hope is that the stories can help people understand the consequences of political torture and create the change necessary to end all forms of torture.

Three weeks to go

2007-09-03T10:01:00.000-07:00

My preparation for my trip to Liberia is entering the final stages. Three weeks before I leave. Today I spoke with a Liberian storyteller living in D.C. We talked of the importance of the oral tradition of storytelling and how important the personal relationship is between teller and listener. "How to develop respectful relationships with the people I meet on this journey," has been my main question to those who are Liberian and have worked in Liberia. The answer is usually be attentive and be yourself. So this will be my main intent to be attentive, be myself and to keep my eyes, mind and heart open to what is in front of me. Chekov ends one of his short stories with "We shall live and we shall see." And that is exactly all i can do. I will live and I will see where this journey takes me. Lastly, I have a sense of the person who is taking this journey, however I am not sure who will return. andre

Thanks

2007-09-03T09:02:00.000-07:00

I would like to acknowledge the University of Minnesota Center for Human Rights for their generous fellowship, St. Thomas the Apostle Church for their grant, and a number of individuals who have given their moral and financial support. I appreciate the Center of Victims of Torture's confidence in and support of my story work and providing the opportunity for me to first hand experience their healing work in Liberia. I am grateful to Crisis Connection for giving me a leave of absence from my work. The generosity of all these people reminds me that we do nothing on our own and I acknowledge that without them I would not be able to take this journey.

andre