Blog Post written December 2nd, 2011

Yesterday marked three months of calling this Shan village home, and
yesterday I moved into my first permanent home. Yesterday also marked
one month of having lived with my students in the girls' dorm, and I
felt a few tears well up in gratitude towards these girls as I spent
my final moments in their dorm. They have showed me so much about
community and love that I could not have understood without them.
Though in the end I decided I had to move out, because inwardly my
heart was starving for those deep moments of solitude, by which I have
always survived, I cannot speak enough about what these teenage girls
did for me. I was their teacher and several years older than them, but
they embraced me as a sister and shared all that they had with me.
Never in my life have I experienced anything close or equivalent, and
I will take those memories with me to the grave. Sweetly when these
girls learned that the “new house” was being given to me, they
immediately surrounded me with sad faces and complaints. I could not
ask to have lived anywhere more loving. Sharing a room with ten girls
was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I will never ever
forget it.

But... not counting the 10 girls I just lived with for a month, I have
lived long-term with 38 different people in the last 8 years in
20-some different bedrooms. I wake up confused every single day. I
long to simply wake up, knowing where I am, knowing that I am home. So
to finally step out of my chronic transitional state, I moved out... a
few hundred yards. Of course, with every intention of spending hours
with my sisters of the girls' dorm everyday. And eating every meal
with them. And already feeling the love of their visits. Though life
changes a bit, once built, some things simply cannot disappear. As I
said, sharing a room with 10 teenage girls was the best thing ever for
me.

And now I've moved into a small stucco bungalow built by a bunch eager
teenage boys (the paint job shows it), who have only asked to be paid
in sharing a cup of coffee with me. Honestly, I'm still in awe. I
never thought I would have this nice of a house all to myself. It's
probably a 12 ft x 12 ft room, with a cement floor, covered in blue
linoleum roll. The walls were made of cinder block and then stuccoed
over. The window is glass. The roof is very high and tin. My house is
attached to the generator, and I even have a light switch. I realize
these statements of surplus probably mean nothing to you and
everything to me. Yet this house was not built for me but for another
(an older man, on whom the greatest honor is always bestowed), who
decided he would live elsewhere. Somehow I was then offered this
little bungalow house. It's definitely built within the local economy,
but with the small details that make it special. Truthfully I feel
wealthy with solid walls and deep, deep relationships. I am
overwhelmed.

And the teaching continues... And my students are learning... And I
find my heart tied ever more deeply into the fates of all around me.

Coming home

 BLOG POST: Written November 21, 2011

Today I felt the joys of being home. Yesterday I arrived back at the clinic before my roommates (all clinic students) had come back from visiting in the village. As they walked up, not expecting me, I experienced the most intense sense of joy. They came running, telling me in Shan how they'd missed me, and giving me many warms hugs.

Earlier today finding the girls' dorm quiet, I decided to go find the other Farang (foreigners) to see what they were up to. Unfortunately I could not find them anywhere and felt the bittersweet twinge of realizing they had gone off together without me. Yet I understood that was because they all fully expected me to be socializing with my Shan friends, so I walked back with only the slightest hint of loneliness.

Yet no sooner than that thought of loneliness had entered my mind, suddenly girls were pulling me toward the bonfire in front of the dorm, and I was being fed sticky rice, smoked in bamboo, dipped in sweetened condensed milk. Warmth spread all over body. The students then proceeded to slow down their speech and do everything in their power to include me in conversation.

How can I respond with anything other than joy at the opportunity to live here, in a place so very special to me? Everything about this life seeps deep into my bones, and I find only resistance to the thought of ever returning to my existence as it used to be. When I think of all that I was once missing out on, I almost want to cry. How could I have so completely not understood slowness? Or deep community? This is home, and, right now, I have no desire to leave.

Home.

Today I just want you to see my home. See what I love. See the place that makes my soul rise. See why, sitting in Chiang Mai, a little smile creeps onto my face when I think about returning to this beautiful village in a few short days. Despite the absence of Skype. Despite the cold showers. Despite everything. I love this village. And I love my community there.

If you are friends with me on Facebook, there are many more photos there. I think some are rather special. They captured special memories and moments for me.

Above: Morning view from my old house. 

Above: Children lifting a paper lantern/hot air balloon into the night sky in celebration of the end of the Buddhist Lent.

Above: The crowd at the temple, watching as one of the lanterns floats into the sky.

Above: Yet another sunrise. There's something magical about standing above the sea of rippling clouds. 

Above: One morning we got up very early to make doughnuts. The sun wasn't up, and we had to use a candle to split the dough. These are many of my students at the clinic.

Above: And then the sun crept over the mountain.

I love this place. It's more beautiful than I have words to speak of. Sometimes I tell the harder stories here, but please know the beauty of the life I get to live in this place. I have never felt more privileged in all my life than I do now to be able to live in this little village/camp.

Lights and Traffic

Right now I'm sitting in my guesthouse room on a soft bed (by my adjusted standards anyhow) with a fan over my head. Earlier I took a hot shower, scrubbing myself down, and felt in the complete lap of luxury.

But I also feel weird here. Last night I couldn't even sleep between the sounds of traffic and the lights shining into my room. I am used to no more than the sounds of frogs and crickets and the light of the moon seeping into my room.

Today I just feel like a space cadet. I find myself moving at a sluggish pace next to the rush of the city. I suppose I realize that Chiang Mai doesn't have the rush of most cities, but it feels overwhelmingly sensory stimulating at the moment nonetheless. I find myself stepping back from it all and watching. Quietly. At a distance. Like I am currently incapable of being a part of it.

None of this really bothers me per se. For I do not live here, and it does not disturb to watch Chiang Mai as a curious outsider. Right now it is more than appropriate that the village/camp feels most like home to me or that other places feel quietly "otherly" to me. The village is my home for now.

Yet, as I write these words, I am forced to face the inward change. I've slowed down. I've quieted. I've poured myself into a new community, and I have changed because of it. There's no going back. This is my community, and these are my friends.

Eight days and I return "home."

The Shadow Proves the Sunshine

Yesterday I found myself rediscovering Switchfoot's Nothing is Sound album.

This morning I woke up early due to digestive needs and found myself facing the most beautiful sunrise I have experienced here thus far (and I have experienced many, many sunrises here). Directly horizontal and above me the sky danced in shades of pink and orange, and below me, I looked over the ocean of clouds, dimly reflecting these beautiful colors. Every tree and object sticking up cast long, eerie shadows over the ground, simultaneously creating striking silhouettes against the sky. Yet nowhere could the sun be seen. I realized another mountain peak blocked this orange ball of fire from my sight. I looked around at the shadowy state of my home, where I yet required a flashlight to see around, and smiled. The shadows proved the sunshine.The day was breaking, and shadows were cast everywhere.

 Relying on an old-fashioned piece of technology called the radio, we are hearing rumors that Aung San Suu Kyi has been entering into some potentially meaningful peace talks with the ruling regime of Burma. Right now, everything seems hopeless when I think about the things the SPDC does to the minority groups here. The other day I heard a story about the SPDC, who occupied a town in the Shan State, one day randomly kidnapping a little six year old girl, raping her, and then sealing her in the town's pagoda alive, for no other reason than that they could. This little child died a slow death of starvation in the pitch black, nobody hearing her cries, nobody coming to her rescue. Her mother went a little crazy afterward, never quite recovering.

It's hard to imagine that those who do this to such pictures of innocence might really every making peace with those they've been attacking and torturing for decades. Yet it's possible a little hint of pink dances on the horizon, as we look around the shadowy, gloomy landscape of this earth. With that in mind, I leave you the words of Switchfoot's "The Shadow Proves the Sunshine."

 Switchfoot - “The Shadow Proves the Sunshine”

 Sunshine, won't you be my mother?
Sunshine, come and help me sing.
My heart is darker than these oceans.
My heart is frozen underneath.

 We are crooked souls trying to stay up straight.
Dry eyes in the pouring rain.
Well, the shadow proves the sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
Too scared it'll run away.
Hold fast to the break of daylight.
The shadow proves the sunshine.

 Oh, Lord why did you forsake me?
Oh, Lord, don't be far away.
Storm clouds gathering beside me.
Please Lord don't look the other way.

Crooked souls trying to stay up straight.
Dry eyes in the pouring rain.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
Too scared it'll run away.
Hold fast to the break of daylight.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.

Living with receiving

Witten by Kara about 1 week ago, but delayed by her technologically challenged Dad! --------------

 Two days ago I received an extraordinarily humbling lesson in foot washing. I have always found the story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet to both deeply moving and quite imperative. However, I realized how deep my own pride went when this week it was not I that was asked to wash the feet of another, but rather it was my own feet that were washed.      

My two closest girlfriends, sisters named L. P. and P. H., came by my room after dinner on Wednesday, and I was quite happy to sit with them on the floor of my room for a bit. The older one, P. H., all of a sudden stood up, smiled, and said, “I'm going to wash your shoes.” I followed her gaze to my shoes sitting just outside my room. My really, really dirty shoes. My chacos. My four year old chacos. My chacos that still carried the dust of Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, Germany, the Netherlands, and Thailand on them. My chacos that have forged rivers and sunken deep in the stickiest mud with only ever the slightest rinsing afterward. Because, after all, they are chacos, and we all know chacos are meant for the dirt. And my rubber Beans. The ones I only use when I fear getting stuck in the mud in my chacos.      

I blushed and immediately told her not to. No worries, I would wash them myself. But now L. P. was standing, and the two of them were calling to the Shan couple that also lives in my house. Now they were all telling me that P. H.  and L. P. were going to wash my shoes. B., the husband who speaks very good English, motioned to my dusty chacos (really, they weren't even that bad, just dusty, because there hadn't been much mud for a while) and said, “Shan women will look at those and think you are lazy.”      

I tried to tell them then I would just have to start washing my shoes, but I didn't need someone else to do it for me. I was so embarrassed at the thought of someone else washing my shoes, the very thing I wear on the lowest part of my body, in a culture where feet are considered worse than merely dirty. However, P.K., the wife, handed P. H. and L. P. the detergent and the scrub brush, and the two of them took me to the shower and taught me to wash my shoes. Really they did all the work and only let me watch, as I stood their barefoot on the muddy cement. They scrubbed and scrubbed years of dirt off those shoes. I had forgotten what a vibrant purple and green my chacos once were.      

 I had also forgotten what it meant to let someone give a gift that required immense humility and self-sacrifice on their part. I felt utterly awkward to be served so. Humility is contagious, and their humility humbled me deeply. If only I could explain how low feet are considered here, how careful one must be to never point your feet at people or places of respect, and how very dirty the dirt roads make feet/shoes here. If only I could explain this, my deep mortification would make sense. For just a moment, P. H. am and L. P. acted as Christ to me, and I, like Peter, did all I could to prevent their act of service. I really have so much to learn about receiving generosity. These two girls, who have certainly never heard the story of Christ's foot washing, may never know how they stretched me and grew me in this one act of service, but I will never forget it.

Lessons Learned

Blog entry written October 4, 2011:

Lessons Learned

Right now in the intermediate English class of community health worker
and medic students, we are going through Jack Johnson's Curious George
album. The last song we did was “We're Going to Be Friends,” and now
we're working through “My Two Hands.” This class has been very
interesting to me, because they're all right on the verge of
conversational English, light years ahead of their beginning
classmates, but they have not yet grasped the rhythm of English. We
use music a lot to learn how we put together phrases. Lyrics often do
not even use complete sentences, but it's okay, because they
communicate concepts we understand in shorter phrases. I believe
students must first feel the rhythm of the shorter phrases, before
they move into full-length structured sentences. It appears this gut
instinct is right, because I am watching both their vocabulary expand
rapidly, as well as their general ability to put words into meaningful
phrases with an understandable word order. This excites me
exceedingly, because I can see that these students will truly advance
to meaningful conversations very quickly.

However, to the students, they feel what they do not know. Every song
there are so many new words, which overwhelms them. I am amazed by how
quickly they learn and grasp new words, but they are discouraged that
they do not already know them. They long to make longer utterances
comparable to their conversations in Shan, and yet they are confined
to shorter child-like phrases. These are the students who have often
been at the top of every class they've ever been in, and they likely
excelled in their English classes in school. The shock of real
language is hitting them hard. Real language is not grammar. Real
language is not even about the size of one's vocabulary. Real language
is about communication, and when we start learning a new language, we
all become like children again. We must accept what we do not know and
begin the process of decoding this other strange system set before us.
We simply do not begin by excelling; we begin by the humbling process
of pointing to something and saying “I want.”

Yet every evening the tables turn, and I become the student. Now it is
I who must discipline myself to not speak English, even if I know they
know the word in English, and do my best to use every Shan word
possible to try to communicate a concept until I am given the correct
Shan word. I use motions. I use sound effects. I become the child, and
my students of the intermediate class becoming my greatest
cheerleaders. They do not forget their own frustrations when
attempting the same thing in English. They know my challenge, and they
patiently say phrases again and again in context until suddenly I get
it and know myself how to create novel phrases of the same structure.
In this strange switch of roles, my students are slowly realizing that
what I am doing in their intermediate class is not meant to be cruel
or overwhelming. I am giving them the same opportunity that they give
me each evening, no matter how difficult or painful. I am giving them
the chance to speak English. Every student that lives at the clinic
and interacts with me in the evening feels this, knows this, and even
expresses enjoyment in the English class. I watch their excitement
when suddenly the light bulb goes off and I can tell they've just
mastered a new concept.

Sadly yesterday I received a letter from one of the students who does
not live at the clinic. He has been missing a lot of class, and I had
wondered why. He wrote in his letter of how difficult he found the
class to be and how he really wanted to learn grammar. What struck me
was how different his approach to the language is from those who have
been assisting me in my daily struggle to learn Shan. They intuit what
I am doing for them, but this poor student is still stuck on what he
has been told he should be learning in class. He is actually one of my
top students, and I know his difficulty to hear spoken English cannot
be any more acute than his classmates. What's different is his
understanding of why the struggle is worthwhile. I do teach very short
grammar lessons in context, but I am more concerned about
communication right now than grammar. This student would rather know
rules than be able to communicate. While his classmates are moving
forward quickly in their ability to strings words and phrases together
into meaningful conversation, he remains focused on what he is yet
unable to do.

Reading this poor student's words has caused me to reflect on where I
am doing the same. Linguistically I accept my limited abilities for
now and am moving forward quickly to decode this system of
communication. Yet I have found myself deeply frustrated by all the
cultural rules I do not understand. I have allowed myself to become
deeply discouraged by the cultural mistakes I have made and the people
I've accidentally offended. As hard as it is, I have to see that in
the mistakes I've made, I've learned one more cultural norm. I cannot
start off knowing the rules, just as this student cannot start off
understanding 100% of spoken English. We must take bits and pieces,
combined with our mistakes, to create a new system of understanding.
For those of us that pride ourselves on learning other things fast, it
is time to learn humility fast.

Meanwhile, I am so very proud of my students, who read through “My Two
Hands” yesterday and demonstrated, in collaboration and through
carefully asking for help in English, complete understanding of the
song and all its vocabulary. I watched their own feelings of pride
when they realized they understood the song. Even a week ago, this
song would not have worked for them. Yet yesterday they were smiling,
laughing, and expressing themselves in English. I have to face that I
too am able to do things now, not just linguistically but culturally
as well, that a week ago would have ended in frustration and breaking
cultural taboos. I smile in the midst of humiliation at this thought.

Placed for Kara due to poor connectivity...

Per email:

So apparently my internet is too slow to use the blogger.com website, which means I cannot post onto my blog. Here's the entry I would have posted there for any who are interested.

 

Written Sept 24:

 

The weather is changing, and I can feel the mood turning lighter, as the sun burns away the morning clouds everyday. No longer does it stay gray and dreary 24 hours a day, and no longer can you count on a daily downpour. The sun comes out, and the air warms our skin again.

            My interactions with the community are also slowly changing. All over the school, even to those I do not teach, I have become very well known, as well as my unusual teaching style. This has been my first week going to each of my assigned classes (I have seven classes at the school, each with around 30 students, and will start two classes at the clinic soon, each with 10-15 students). It's been amusing, because when I walk into a classroom for the first time, students clap and giggle, and I hear them whispering to each other in Shan, “The foreign teacher!” It's kind of exciting to be so happily anticipated,

            In fact, my students' interactions with me have truly tickled me pink. Everywhere I go, students respectfully wai me (fold their hands and give a slight bow with their head), as they do every teacher in the school. Before each class, they stand together and welcome me, and after each class they stand together and thank me for teaching. We laugh and joke together in class, but there's an extraordinarily high value of teachers, giving me a place of honor in the eyes of the students. I shudder to imagine what these children (or their teachers) would think of their American peers.

            While my ego does not require this constant petting, I am realizing what a gift this value is to the students. Since they are not constantly battling their teachers, they are able to laugh with and enjoy their teachers. Since they generally trust their teachers to be trying to do the right thing for them, they follow instructions and are able to be trusted with greater responsibility. Since these students honor and respect their teachers, they want to learn what their teachers know and so receive a better education.

            For now, I am enjoying this strange new feeling of utter delight every time I get to see my students. I realize people can rightly label this the honeymoon phase and that, of course, teaching will remain a lot of work, but, right now, when I see my students, I can't help but smile. And when one shouts out at the end of the class, “Teacher, where are you from?” or whatever small little phrase from the past that they want me to know they've learned (regardless of whether or not they understand the answer), I laugh with enjoyment and answer their question with gusto. It's a good feeling.

The heritage that drives me.

In the last three weeks, I've been asked a dozen or so times why I care... why I care about the Shan... why I care about the victims of this genocide... why I care enough to move around the world to teach in a relatively remote location. Each time I've basically stumbled through this answer, mumbling something about the last time I was in Thailand and visiting a refugee camp and memories that stay in your head... etc.

But something absolutely fundamental is missed in this answer. Why do some memories stay forever in one's head? Why do some life experiences become the driving force of direction in one's life, while others pass away with only a gently nagging tug of guilt? It's not merely the idea of responding to the other in compassion, because I have seen suffering in many places around the world, including my own country. For me, it's this soul-sickening word called "genocide" that grips me.

You see, my response is fully rooted in the narrative into which I was born. Much literature has been written about the sense of guilt many children of the Jewish diaspora feel for surviving, for living, in light of the Holocaust and the pogroms of the 20th century in Europe. I have also witnessed the shame and guilt that is expressed in German culture over the Holocaust. As a product of American culture, where old world family histories do not determine new relationships, the memory of both types of guilt run deeply through my veins and perhaps more intensely than usual. It has always felt easier to claim solidarity with those that died (the distant Jewish relatives and the not so distant Bohemian relatives) than to recognize the ugly history of a few times removed cousin, who stood beside Hitler as one of his right hand men and directed the murder of millions. I am Bohemian, Jewish, and German (and by this I do not mean German Jewish, rather the relative a Nazi war criminal), and the histories of each have gripped me and caused me to wonder how it is that entire people groups can turn to hatred. It is what forces me to respond and to refuse to passively ignore genocide as it exists in this world.

I suppose this is not an easy answer to give when someone asks casually (as if any answer can be casual) why I care, and I will probably continue to mumble and stumble through in response, but here's the truth: I care, because the blood running through my veins dictates only two options in response to the face of genocide, either an actively compassionate response or a sickening hardening of heart. I choose the first.

Mud.

Today someone at the Partners staff meeting asked how the drive up to and back down from the camp was. This question greatly perplexed me, because I am not sure how to describe the drive.

Well, there's the first four hours from Chiang Mai to Pai, which are fine. Twisty but paved roads. Beautiful views. Fine really. Lovely even.

And then there's the last four hours, which apparently is only a 45 minute trip during the dry season. Only one word suffices here:

Mud.

Deep, deep red gooey mud. Not the kind of mud that feels nice to squeeze between your toes, but the kind of mud that if you step in, you will literally have strain your muscles to then pull your shoe (and foot) out of. Not the kind of mud that goes up to your ankle, but the kind of mud that swallows half your calf or more. Not the kind of mud that SUVs equipped with chains merely sink into and stop, but the kind of mud where you feel the truck slipping side to side as you get thrust around the back.

Mud on stunning mountain vistas.

Mud on slicing twists of road.

Totally obliterating mud sweeping across the road, reminding you of a recent mudslide.

Mud.

"Are you afraid to return to your village?"

I've learned a lot in the last week. I had no clue that I could begin learning a language, particularly a non-Germanic or tonal language so quickly (thankfully this one is closely related to Thai, which I had studied in the past). Yet I have found myself in those wonderful moments in which 25 or so "teachers" sat around me pointing to objects, telling me their names, correcting my tones, and repeating questions multiple times until I learned how to answer them correctly. I felt like a real linguist, trying to quickly scribble things down in IPA (International Phonetic Alphabet) until eventually the Shan alphabet began to unfold itself into consonants, vowels, and tones to me that actually made sense and which I could read. Don't get me wrong, I can only utter the most basic phrases, but this last week caused me to learn more and quicker than I ever imagined. In this regard, I give all the credit to my teachers, the young female community health worker and medic students at the clinic, who took me under their wing. These girls, valuing education highly, know how to study, and they know how to guide studying. They will go hours with me, without pause, studying, reviewing, laughing, and studying more. We've now entered the stage, where they will allow me to play games with them as part of my learning, but they never ease up on their intensity regarding my own learning of the Shan language. I cannot even begin to express my gratitude enough for these girls (most of them between the ages of 16 and 21). They look out for me, and because of them, I am learning to express myself in their language.

One particular lesson stands out to me however. I had previously learned the word "afraid," and they just taught me the words "return" and "village." I took a risk and attempted to ask them if they were afraid to return to their villages. I must have succeeded, because, without any hesitation, all four girls sitting around me nodded their heads. Then one girl (my closest friend of these girls) went a bit further and told me in Shan (and lots of hand motions) that she's not afraid if the Burmese military never knows she was here, but if they find out, they will shoot her. I asked them then if the military had ever attacked their villages, she drew a map and pointed to one dot which she told me was her village. She drew a line and wrote "3 miles" over it and connected it to another dot, which was another village. She then said that her village had not been attacked, but this other one had.

Every one of these girls intends to take their medical training back to their villages. I'm selfish and wish they were a little less brave so I would fear for my friends a little less.

I love food.

Finally I'm somewhere familiar. For the last five days, I've been wandering (or more often tagging along with others) through unfamiliar parts of Chiang Mai. Though so much of Chiang Mai contains extraordinarily vivid images in my mind, the part of the city that I've been staying in is utterly removed from those memories. Unfortunately, without an inborn sense of direction, I feared returning to the Chiang Mai University area, where I know my way, because I wouldn't be able to get back. However today, five days into my time here, I did it. I grabbed a tuk tuk and met with my friend from three years ago, Kratai, for lunch.

Not only was it nice to find myself in a part of town I knew and with a friend I'd not seen in a long time, but Kratai took me to her favorite restaurant and ordered the food. Perfect. I told her I would eat anything, so she went to town. Green mango salad. Spicy calamari salad. Pork neck with sweet chili sauce. Chicken som tum soup (a clear broth and lemongrass soup). Everything was spicy; everything was delicious. My tastebuds were alive with all the reasons I love this city.

It is true, I'm getting ready to leave this lovely town to head up to the refugee camp, and my eating will quite possibly change dramatically. But the thing is, at the end of the day, I can claim no great hardship, because I get to leave when I choose, and I get to come back to a city like this where a friend can order a feast, and still we both pay less than two and a half dollars. I can only be grateful that in my life I get a choice.

listening to the rain

I seem to sleep in 3 hour chunks right now. 4:30 PM to 7:30 PM (oops!). 11:30 PM to 2:30 AM. I'm not sure when the next sleep shift is coming, but it's hard to be upset to be awake right now when all around me outside I hear the sound of a soft rain on tin roofs everywhere. It's a beautiful sound. There's a light breeze carrying with it other wonderful smells of Chiang Mai into my room through the open windows, and in this sleepless moment, I am happy to be here and happy to be awake and able to store this moment in my memory.

Chiang Mai

First day in Chiang Mai: talk to Partners, attempt to read which turned into a 3 hour nap, pad thai, Quiz Night at the local Irish pub. Not a bad start.

Ramadan Mubarak!

Safely made it to my layover in Doha, where I'm very grateful the sun set shortly before we landed so I could freely drink water in public (during Ramadan). The Doha airport is also quite a pleasant layover airport--clean, relatively small, and clearly marked signs. Getting a whole row all to myself on the 14 hour flight here makes flying Qatar Airways something I will attempt every chance I get. I am rested and refreshed, ready for the next 7 hour flight.

Where I start and end...

I'm in DC, and tonight I get on a flight that will begin the journey to the Thai-Burma border.

Documents and anxiety...

Today is my final full day in North Carolina. It frightens me to think that tomorrow I load my suitcase into a car and drive with my parents to DC. Thankfully, nearly every new life experience (minus just a few) has started in DC for me, and the ritual will bring about its own calmness.

At the moment, however, I don't feel the calmness of my DC ritual. I keep staring at my duffel bag and thinking I've got too much stuff and thinking about weeding out still a little more. Then I run through my list of documents that I need on the airplane: Qatar Airways itinerary, Qmiles membership card... wait, what airline is it that I'm flying from Bangkok to Chiang Mai? My mind freezes and for a few horrible seconds I wonder if it's all in my head that I've even purchased a ticket from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Being stuck in Bangkok without any plans sounds horrid, but, good news, I'm flying Bangkok Airways. I will also need the paper with my membership to that airline's frequent flyer list. Additionally, I need the address of the couple I'm staying with when I get to Chiang Mai, and I should probably have the address of Partners. Oh, and my virtual insurance card. I definitely need to print that. Somehow, all of this makes me feel slightly anxious that I might forget any one of them and then reminds me that I'm not coming back, which scares me, even as I'm simultaneously so excited to be going.

Of course, there's also all the things I'd like to copy for my parents before I leave (passport, itinerary, vaccination records, etc.), and still all the other things I'd like to accomplish. For example, I'd really like to see my mom's new food blog set up and ready to go: Grandma's Gone Global (she's hasn't written anything yet, but I cannot imagine a better chef for a global food blog).

And then in that rare moment, when my thoughts are not focused on all that I must accomplish, I remember why I'm doing this. I'm going for people like this one:

Not So Different from Partners Relief & Development on Vimeo.

And these:

War Refugee from Partners Relief & Development on Vimeo.

The first video is of a Karen girl, and the next video is of a Kachin refugee camp, which are both different than the Shan, with whom I'll be working, but I cannot find a better way to explain why I'm going, because all three groups have been victims of the same military regime. And when I remember these, I feel strangely very focused, and all anxiety about the details of this document or that falls away in light of the purpose of going.

Journey without an end date...

In the last few days I have most undoubtedly begun procrastinating the very final touches that would allow me to zip up my bags and call them packed. It's not that I am any less excited to go, because I am excited... but... there's something final in those last actions that reminds that this time I do not know when I'll return. In five days I get on an airplane and fly to Thailand. This time my itinerary doesn't have "round trip" checked in the little box, and there's not a return ticket saved somewhere in cyberspace. For once I am not planning with an end date looming.

I've lived a rather nomadic life for the last eight years, and each experience has always come with a specified amount of time and commitment. I've welcomed those end dates, knowing that I could plan based on them. Paging - 9 mos. Germany - 11 mos. College - 4 years. Egypt - 4 mos. Thailand (the first time) - 4 mos. Teach for America - 2 years. During this time, I've lived with 35 different people, and each housing/rooming experience likewise had a start and end date, sometimes a fact I mourned and other times a fact I hung onto.

One distinctive part of my life has, therefore, necessarily become planning for the "thing after this thing." On the one hand, I have a real strength for long-term planning and casting vision. On the other hand, my futuristic dreams have also pulled me away at times from the present moment. Sometimes I wanted that and admittedly used the future as an escape, and sometimes that's just how life worked, because I had some application or resume to work on.

But now: Thailand (the second time) - indefinite.

So here's to the present and living life, for a little while, without leaning on my knowledge of what comes next. :)

Who loses under sanctions?

Sanctions have always been one of those tricky subjects. In my mind, there has to be a place for the tools of soft diplomacy... and, yet, what do economic sanctions actually accomplish?

Today I stumbled across this article from the Financial Times, titled "How sanctions made Burma's richest man." Referring to a man too close to the Burmese government for American interests, it describes,

"European and US nationals are banned from doing business with him – and his estranged wife, oldest son, mother, brother or sister-in-law. Yet his wine cellar is stocked with a series of vintages from Chateaux Petrus and Margaux, while a Rolls-Royce and a Lamborghini stand next to the Ferrari. His palatial Rangoon home sits down the street from the dilapidated villa where Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi spent more than 15 years under house arrest."

If only the powerful, well-connected, and government officials have continued to be able to profit while under sanctions, one can't help but wonder who are they hurting? Is it just those who would have made up a middle class through trade and foreign exchange?

I am neither for nor against the sanctions, because I do not have the economic background to really examine whether they are successfully impacting the intended individuals, but articles like this one make me nervous and frustrated. I want there to be some sort of soft diplomacy magic pill that puts all the right pressure on regimes that abuse their people.

What if I had never been a Page?

When I was 16, I left home to travel to DC and spend my junior year of high school working for Congress as a U.S. House of Representatives Page. During this time I attended school from 6:45 AM to an hour before Congress went into session or 11:30 AM at the latest. I frequently worked late nights, often after midnight, and when I didn't, I still had homework to do until midnight and then got up at 5am the next day. I was exhausted all the time, and yet I consider it the best choice I ever made, and I know I would not be who I am today, were it not for the Page Program. I learned discipline there, in a way I could not have learned anywhere else, and a passion was lit in me for people and places that I never imagined. Sadly, yesterday the Speaker of the House, John Boehner (R-Ohio), announced the ending of the Page Progam, a 235 year tradition, due to the prohibitive costs. I cannot tell you the travesty this is for all the young high schoolers of every economic background that the program accepts and gives the opportunity of a lifetime to. In fact, I cannot tell you the travesty this is for the country who gains far more than the annual $5 million it pays to run the program from the kinds of individuals that the program produces.

For me, Paging snowballed into a series of events that fundamentally changed my life direction for infinitely better. So, in light of that, and in honor of the program that this country should truly grieve, I ask what if I had never been a page? If I had never been a Page, then I, who entered with a desire to go into medicine, would never have encountered the hard questions that eventually led me into the humanities. I would never have known a self-proclaimed communist friend or a socialist government teacher. I would have maintained a black-and-white view that such ideas lacked no merit or logic, rather than see them in a three dimensional understanding. I would also have not met a gay friend until sometime in college and probably would have been still firmer in my black-and-white stance on that one, showing little understanding and finding no need to address the issue. I would also not have encountered the feelings of facing beggars on a daily basis and trying to juggle compassionate and sustainable responses. I wouldn't have met a man on the streets from my hometown and realized how quickly one's privilege can disappear in a few short bad choices or bad luck. I would today be far less of a compassionate individual than I am, and I would not have met my dearest friend, Mike, who has walked with me through all of life's twists and turns and challenged me into being a better me. In short, my views would not have been stretched, and I would have remained fully enmeshed in a conservative, evangelical subculture without any opportunity to see the greater world or understand another perspective.

Moreover, I certainly would not have ever learned of the Congress-Bundestag Youth Exchange, so I would never have gone to Germany on a full scholarship. I would never have become fluent in a second language, meaning my brain would be far less developed and I would be culturally less understanding. I would not have developed a deeper compassion for immigrants into America or some understanding of minority-hood. I probably would not have paid so much attention to racism in the church in America, and I would not have gotten involved in groups to help compassionately bring understanding of white privilege in college. I would also not have met my German friend, Judith, who grew up in Egypt and challenged my biases about Arabs. I wouldn't have experienced those conversations or have been nearly as open to the possibility of one day traveling to Egypt myself, having only a very negative stereotypical (and racist) view of that part of the world. I wouldn't have experienced my German family or friends, who taught me what real cultural immersion meant and have proven to me that true immersion is possible and not a frightening thing to be avoided. I wouldn't have been nearly as courageous about travel later.

Of course, not having been a Page and not having gone to Germany, I would not have looked nearly as impressive on college applications either. I would likely have continued through my last two years of high school taking classes at the community college. Even with strong SAT scores, I would not have been so exciting for the College Honors Program at Messiah College and probably would not have gotten a 60% scholarship. Being surrounded by North Carolinians, who all went to state schools, I would likely have done the same and attended school in Chapel Hill, because it was more affordable. I would have found myself involved campus ministries that affirmed my faith, but I would not have had theology classes that gave me the space to question everything or forced me to ask myself if my faith had become more American than loving. I probably would have kept God in my religious, evangelical box.

Of course, having stayed at the community college throughout high school, I would have had only two years of college left and would not have had time to study abroad. I would not have ever participated in the Middle East Studies Program, traveling to Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, and Israel, and the Arab Spring that occurred this past spring would have meant nothing to me, save for how it affected my sister's security. I would also not have gone to Thailand, because, even if a program was offered at the state school of my choice and I had the time to participate, it would have been far too exotic for a first-time overseas experience. I might have studied in a place like England, where I wouldn't been really forced so much to face the fact that people of deep faith commitments practice different religions than me. I wouldn't have noticed how much I respected certain faith leaders, regardless of religion, and how much others disgusted me--that this fact remained as true for other religions as for Christianity. Most definitely, I would not have ever made it to a refugee camp on the Thai-Burma border, where a long-term commitment would form for the victims of the Burmese regime.

And Teach for America? Well, at that point, I would have been just an ordinary student with an ordinary educational background. Perhaps I would have been very successful in my couple years of college, and perhaps I would have taken a couple leadership positions that would have made me stand out in the areas that mattered most to Teach for America. Perhaps I would have had a chance of acceptance, but, most likely, I would never have developed a passion or deep interest in alleviating the achievement gap formed out of my own privilege, so I probably wouldn't have even applied and would probably be finishing up medical school or something like that right now. I would not have met Kalanda or Braylen or Coddie or Travis or Lederricka or Camisha or Trevis or Chris or Crystal or so many other students who fundamentally changed my approach towards youth. I wouldn't know now about loving others, regardless of the returned sentiment. I wouldn't know how to lead or manage the way I learned in controlling my classroom.

I would not be a teacher. I would not have found this calling, and I would not have given back to society in that way or be about to head over to the Thai-Burma border as a teacher. Perhaps I would plan on doing medical missions one day, but probably those would be distant dreams. I would be leading a good life, even a compassionate life, but my world would be small, and I would not know the kind of deep caring that I have discovered in far away places.

I will never put a price tag on what the Page Program gave me or any of the other thousands of students who had the opportunity to serve in DC under its auspices. We are who we are because of this opportunity. I am so grateful and so deeply grieved that future students will never have this opportunity again. Ending it simply does not make good economic sense, for we will always give back more than we received in mere dollar amounts.