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Sunday, January 13, 2013
Belval Plaza's final days.
I was clicking through some Facebook photos friends had posted from the Haiti days and found this one, which was particularly poignant for some reason. It's the roof of Belval Plaza, my home for a year and a half, in mid-to-late December 2011. All of us had broken down our tents and most had already gone, returning to wherever we came from, and leaving behind the pallets, cinderblocks, and hacked-together furniture that we used to keep ourselves dry and as comfortable as possible.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Interviews, writings, and updates.
I don't think I ever actually posted the NPR interview I was asked to give in response to my blog post back in April of last year, but they asked me at the start of this year to do a quick follow-up. Thanks to Tinbete, Neal and the rest of the "Talk of the Nation" team for giving me the chance to share some thoughts. Links:
NPR's Talk of the Nation - Closing The Circle: Memorable Stories of 2012 (Jan. 2nd, 2013)
NPR's Talk of the Nation - Aid Worker Leaves Haiti With A Sour Taste (May 10th, 2012)
Not many updates recently, but life is good. School is inspiring and keeps me busy, and while landing in London was a rough transition, I'm feeling more and more at home in this city, and more appreciative of it. I could see myself potentially staying put for a bit if I can find a job here post-graduation that can make good use of my talents, and inspires and challenges me. As much as I love academia, it is something of a solo process, and I love team dynamic and working toward a common goal. In that, a future career excites me. We shall see.
I have managed to write the "follow-up" piece to the April 2012 blog post that some people have asked me to write, but as it was requested by a magazine, it is still being edited. Once that's finished up and finalized, I'll post it. It by no means attempts to capture all of what the Haiti experience was for me, but it does probe deeper than anything I've written to date.
2013 then. Hello there.
NPR's Talk of the Nation - Closing The Circle: Memorable Stories of 2012 (Jan. 2nd, 2013)
NPR's Talk of the Nation - Aid Worker Leaves Haiti With A Sour Taste (May 10th, 2012)
Not many updates recently, but life is good. School is inspiring and keeps me busy, and while landing in London was a rough transition, I'm feeling more and more at home in this city, and more appreciative of it. I could see myself potentially staying put for a bit if I can find a job here post-graduation that can make good use of my talents, and inspires and challenges me. As much as I love academia, it is something of a solo process, and I love team dynamic and working toward a common goal. In that, a future career excites me. We shall see.
I have managed to write the "follow-up" piece to the April 2012 blog post that some people have asked me to write, but as it was requested by a magazine, it is still being edited. Once that's finished up and finalized, I'll post it. It by no means attempts to capture all of what the Haiti experience was for me, but it does probe deeper than anything I've written to date.
2013 then. Hello there.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
In the debate on the ills and goods of aid...
...let us not forget something important:
“The international aid community has a tendency to colonize, and this tendency is no less apparent in its moral debates where all too often it has shown signs of making all the moral problems of the world its own. In debates about humanitarian ethics, this has sometimes meant that relief agencies and their critics have tended to overstate the moral burden on humanitarianism – perhaps because it is easier to accuse a relief agency than a warlord these days. But it should never be forgotten that relief agencies are always responding to the violence of others. The difficult moral choices faced by relief agencies usually come about as a result of the immoral choices already made by political leaders and other individuals and groups. In most situations, relief agencies inherit an already uneven moral playing-field. It would therefore be morally negligent if excessive agonizing by or about relief agencies (the groaning of the white man and his burden) shouted out the accusations of blame which should be put squarely where they are most obviously due: with the killers, the rapists, the dispossessors and their political leaders who initiate and sustain the policies of excessive and unjust violence in today’s wars and genocides.”
Hugo Slim - Doing The Right Thing: Relief Agencies, Moral Dilemmas and Moral Responsibility in Political Emergencies and War (1997)
Damn good point. Spend days on end reading about the ills of irresponsible aid can get a fella aspiring to work in the field (or one related to it) somewhat down, but every now and again you read something that highlights the other, equally important side of things.
“The international aid community has a tendency to colonize, and this tendency is no less apparent in its moral debates where all too often it has shown signs of making all the moral problems of the world its own. In debates about humanitarian ethics, this has sometimes meant that relief agencies and their critics have tended to overstate the moral burden on humanitarianism – perhaps because it is easier to accuse a relief agency than a warlord these days. But it should never be forgotten that relief agencies are always responding to the violence of others. The difficult moral choices faced by relief agencies usually come about as a result of the immoral choices already made by political leaders and other individuals and groups. In most situations, relief agencies inherit an already uneven moral playing-field. It would therefore be morally negligent if excessive agonizing by or about relief agencies (the groaning of the white man and his burden) shouted out the accusations of blame which should be put squarely where they are most obviously due: with the killers, the rapists, the dispossessors and their political leaders who initiate and sustain the policies of excessive and unjust violence in today’s wars and genocides.”
Hugo Slim - Doing The Right Thing: Relief Agencies, Moral Dilemmas and Moral Responsibility in Political Emergencies and War (1997)
Damn good point. Spend days on end reading about the ills of irresponsible aid can get a fella aspiring to work in the field (or one related to it) somewhat down, but every now and again you read something that highlights the other, equally important side of things.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
The Whiplash
People who've been at this longer than I have told me it'd come. They told me to be patient with myself, to recognize the effects, to understand the process, to keep perspective and push on, even if it meant faking it for a while. I trusted what they told me but I didn't really ever quite believe it. The whiplash, perhaps one of the most highlighted aspects of the international humanitarian experience, is well documented, but I can be stubborn in my moments, allowing myself the think that maybe I'm different. I'm not.
It's the unseen approach that's the trickiest bit. There's really no way to know. Like that unexpected burst of manic, overwhelming energy that flattened the city I called home for two years, the whiplash just hits. I've gotten in the habit of trying to avoid it through movement. A body in motion seems harder to knock down. Maybe that's completely wrong.
I'm walking down the street, fast, boots echoing off the pavement. I've been doing a lot of this recently. Blisters on my feet. Bandaids on my pinky toes. It's dark and crisp, and I can see my breath when I exhale. I'm wearing a lot of clothing, but the cooling sweat under it makes it cold. My iPod is in, set to repeat my "Rollin' in the Deep" playlist. There are no Adele songs on it. I'm thinking I'd like to be drinking right now. Bottle of red or a few cans of beer? Red would keep me warmer, but the beer's cheaper. I go for the beer. They tell me you can drink on the streets of London. No problems yet, so I suppose I believe them.
I walk in a direction with no destination but proximity. I know there's no point to it, but I do it anyway. I walk along the south bank of the Thames, past the London Eye and the OXO Tower and the Tate Modern. I like the look of the Millennium Bridge and tell myself I need to walk that too. I do, a few days later. I continue down into the darkened shadows of Southwark Cathedral and Borough Market, one my favorite places in the city, and linger there, indulging a few memories. I finish the beer, find a trash can, and keep moving. I'm headed south, closer now, and cross the street.
The pub has a little window at the top, connected to what I imagine might be a little room. The window was open a few days ago, but it's closed now. Through the larger streetside windows I can see there are a handful of people left inside, but they're just lingering, easing down the final sips. I'm tempted to stop and study them, but I don't. It is cold. I don't stop walking. It's something akin to morbid curiosity that brought me here, or maybe just a deep loneliness, and now it's time to go.
I'm down a side street, doubling back in the direction I came, headed back to the river, moving west this time. It's all in reverse: Borough Market, Southwark Cathedral, The Tate Modern and the Millennium Bridge, the OXO Tower. I almost make it to Waterloo Bridge before what I've been trying to stay ahead of catches up. I sit on a bench under a tree, feel the wet through my jeans because it's raining now, and it comes. I'm quiet about it, not that anyone's around to hear. I can't even hear myself for the headphones. It doesn't last long, a few minutes, and then I'm still. The moisture is collecting on the edge of my beanie, which I keep pulling as low as I can. My nose is running, and I taste salt. I'm cold, but the release leaves me feeling peaceful. I'm OK with just sitting here for a while.
Big Ben looks pretty big. I walk under it a few nights later. It is big. Not New York City big, but this is London. It doesn't need to be that big. I think that this city is beautiful at night. I feel like I could love it, and at the same time want to fast forward through it all. I ask myself questions that are impossible for me to answer, and feel OK in my unknowing. I'm off balance, but collected, and it's time to move again.
It's slow now, the boots don't make much noise, a light scuffing along the ground. I keep the playlist going. I'm on Waterloo Bridge, looking at Somerset House, and next to it my university. I feel incredibly lucky to be there. I take my time in the middle of the span, looking down at the water. It moves faster than I would have thought.
Underneath the city it's warmer, and I've caught one of the final trains headed north to Manor House. Coming up again I can see it's rained here too. Harder, by the looks of it. My boots splash along the sidewalk. I hope the off license is open. I want a few more cans, and I like the German Shepherd puppy that lives behind the counter. It's not. I consider getting a kebab, mostly because I know I should probably eat something, but I'm not hungry, and I don't.
The temporary roommates have given me a key so I don't have to wake them. I let myself in. A few blinking lights illuminate the place, but it's silent. Opening the fridge I see an open bottle of white. I know I shouldn't but I pour half of it into a glass, and head up the stairs to the room I sleep in. I try and be quiet when I put the mattress on the ground. There's a little sleeping bag too, but I'm too big for it. I fold the pillow over itself in the silence and tuck my arm under it, the ringing in my ears amplifying and the wet of my beanie on my face as I put my head down. In the morning I can see my boots are water stained and have dirtied the sheet, but they've kept my feet warm through the night. I take a shower. It's really hot, and I like that. I use someone's shampoo. Some bandaids fall off. I flush them down the toilet, and put on new ones.
I'm outside and headed south again, back to the city. It's sunny. It feels like it could be a good day. People ride bikes past me, and I'm moving fast, my boots hammering the sidewalk, one hand rolling through the playlists, the other jammed into the pocket with my phone in it, hoping it will vibrate.
It's the unseen approach that's the trickiest bit. There's really no way to know. Like that unexpected burst of manic, overwhelming energy that flattened the city I called home for two years, the whiplash just hits. I've gotten in the habit of trying to avoid it through movement. A body in motion seems harder to knock down. Maybe that's completely wrong.
I'm walking down the street, fast, boots echoing off the pavement. I've been doing a lot of this recently. Blisters on my feet. Bandaids on my pinky toes. It's dark and crisp, and I can see my breath when I exhale. I'm wearing a lot of clothing, but the cooling sweat under it makes it cold. My iPod is in, set to repeat my "Rollin' in the Deep" playlist. There are no Adele songs on it. I'm thinking I'd like to be drinking right now. Bottle of red or a few cans of beer? Red would keep me warmer, but the beer's cheaper. I go for the beer. They tell me you can drink on the streets of London. No problems yet, so I suppose I believe them.
I walk in a direction with no destination but proximity. I know there's no point to it, but I do it anyway. I walk along the south bank of the Thames, past the London Eye and the OXO Tower and the Tate Modern. I like the look of the Millennium Bridge and tell myself I need to walk that too. I do, a few days later. I continue down into the darkened shadows of Southwark Cathedral and Borough Market, one my favorite places in the city, and linger there, indulging a few memories. I finish the beer, find a trash can, and keep moving. I'm headed south, closer now, and cross the street.
The pub has a little window at the top, connected to what I imagine might be a little room. The window was open a few days ago, but it's closed now. Through the larger streetside windows I can see there are a handful of people left inside, but they're just lingering, easing down the final sips. I'm tempted to stop and study them, but I don't. It is cold. I don't stop walking. It's something akin to morbid curiosity that brought me here, or maybe just a deep loneliness, and now it's time to go.
I'm down a side street, doubling back in the direction I came, headed back to the river, moving west this time. It's all in reverse: Borough Market, Southwark Cathedral, The Tate Modern and the Millennium Bridge, the OXO Tower. I almost make it to Waterloo Bridge before what I've been trying to stay ahead of catches up. I sit on a bench under a tree, feel the wet through my jeans because it's raining now, and it comes. I'm quiet about it, not that anyone's around to hear. I can't even hear myself for the headphones. It doesn't last long, a few minutes, and then I'm still. The moisture is collecting on the edge of my beanie, which I keep pulling as low as I can. My nose is running, and I taste salt. I'm cold, but the release leaves me feeling peaceful. I'm OK with just sitting here for a while.
Big Ben looks pretty big. I walk under it a few nights later. It is big. Not New York City big, but this is London. It doesn't need to be that big. I think that this city is beautiful at night. I feel like I could love it, and at the same time want to fast forward through it all. I ask myself questions that are impossible for me to answer, and feel OK in my unknowing. I'm off balance, but collected, and it's time to move again.
It's slow now, the boots don't make much noise, a light scuffing along the ground. I keep the playlist going. I'm on Waterloo Bridge, looking at Somerset House, and next to it my university. I feel incredibly lucky to be there. I take my time in the middle of the span, looking down at the water. It moves faster than I would have thought.
Underneath the city it's warmer, and I've caught one of the final trains headed north to Manor House. Coming up again I can see it's rained here too. Harder, by the looks of it. My boots splash along the sidewalk. I hope the off license is open. I want a few more cans, and I like the German Shepherd puppy that lives behind the counter. It's not. I consider getting a kebab, mostly because I know I should probably eat something, but I'm not hungry, and I don't.
The temporary roommates have given me a key so I don't have to wake them. I let myself in. A few blinking lights illuminate the place, but it's silent. Opening the fridge I see an open bottle of white. I know I shouldn't but I pour half of it into a glass, and head up the stairs to the room I sleep in. I try and be quiet when I put the mattress on the ground. There's a little sleeping bag too, but I'm too big for it. I fold the pillow over itself in the silence and tuck my arm under it, the ringing in my ears amplifying and the wet of my beanie on my face as I put my head down. In the morning I can see my boots are water stained and have dirtied the sheet, but they've kept my feet warm through the night. I take a shower. It's really hot, and I like that. I use someone's shampoo. Some bandaids fall off. I flush them down the toilet, and put on new ones.
I'm outside and headed south again, back to the city. It's sunny. It feels like it could be a good day. People ride bikes past me, and I'm moving fast, my boots hammering the sidewalk, one hand rolling through the playlists, the other jammed into the pocket with my phone in it, hoping it will vibrate.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Day XX - Restart: London
London. I’m here. Two years ago nearly to the day I had a
feeling I would find my way to this city eventually, and it’s happened. I’m
sitting in my friend Briony’s room in her flat north of city center, listening
to Dug G, a Haitian rapper, and waiting. Waiting for a phone call from a
friend, yes, but also waiting to see what’s going to come. This is the first
time since leaving New York for Haiti on July 1st, 2010 that I know
I won’t be needing to pack up again and shove off once more. London is home, at
least for the next year, but perhaps longer. This year is only transitional if
I choose it to be. My roots could eventually be English. Knowing that, knowing
that this is where I stabilize, leaves me waiting for the post-Haiti fallout
that hasn’t happened yet. Yes, I left Haiti at the end of July, nearly two
months ago now, but in that time I’ve bounced from New York to Madrid to SE
Asia and back to Madrid before landing at Gatwick last Tuesday, which is simply
to say I’ve had no real chance to just be still and see what happens.
Not that I’m all that still here. I’ve got a lot of things
to do before my course at King’s kicks off on the 24th, my 31st
birthday as it happens. If it plays out as I hope, I’ll be getting a flat with
two friends from Haiti, one of whom was there for just about as long as I was.
That will be great. We’re pretty tight, and she’ll be someone I know will
understand when the conversations inevitably drift back to the Caribbean, and
the last two years. We’re very different in many ways – she inspires me and
makes me realize that I’ve a long way yet to go – but we have Haiti in common,
and have a tendency toward making one another crack up. It’ll be good.
People have been asking me to write something akin to a
follow-up to the unexpectedly popular entry that I posted back in April of this year. I’ve thought about how I’d like to do that, and the simple truth is I
haven’t followed that entry up because I don’t know quite what else to say.
This isn’t that follow-up entry. What resonated
with people about the original entry isn’t my highlighting of Haiti’s problems,
or my description of my work there, but rather my coming clean about my
experience. I’m no expert on Haiti, and while I know quite a bit about a very
specific technology that I worked with there (biosand filters), and about a
community (Leogane), and I can speak to what it is like to live there, I’m not
an aid expert by any means. Haiti was my jumping into the deep end – my attempt
at challenging myself to see if the humanitarian world is something I can both
do and been fulfilled by in doing. It was my Step 1. I’m just getting started.
I’ve made the decision to remain committed to the field, hence my pursuing a
degree in conflict, security & development for the next year, but I’d be
very hesitant to ever try and write as if I know something fundamentally true
or real about Haiti that many others before me know better and can probably
explain in much better detail. I don’t want to provide a weak second voice if
there are so many powerful primary voices already in the discussion. Two years,
even though it is longer than most internationals spend in the country, is still
just scratching the surface when compared to truly committed humanitarians that
have decided to make Haiti part of, or the entirety of, their life’s work. Their
answers are the ones that should be listened to.
So no, don’t ask me to give answers. I don’t have that many,
and the ones I do have will just be simplified versions of what much more
capable people have already said. I won’t give you answers. But I will try and give
you a continued glimpse into what my experiences in Haiti have done in me: how
they’ve changed me, how they linger in me now that I’m not in Haiti any longer,
and how they might manifest themselves in my life going forward. I’ve no doubt
that the academic challenge coming my way in just over a week, in which I’ll be
taking a much more rigorous intellectual look at elements of development, and
at conflict, an area I’m particularly interested in (even though it was not
work I was involved with in Haiti), will bring out questions. I’ve also people
here in London that I shared the Haiti experience with. And, my ties to Haiti
are not severed completely. I am still working to make sure Jenny gets through
high school, and I do stay in touch with my friends there. Which is simply to
say there are things in my life that will keep me connected.
I can feel it right now, as I sit in this chair staring at
my laptop - that unknown something, the cumulative effect of that beautiful, devastating,
and even absurd experience. It is so big. The energy in me is palpable. And
yet, the result, at least for now, is silence. It’s thinking. It’s stillness. It’s
sleeping. A lot of sleeping. It’s internal conversations that go in circles and
don’t quite come away with anything. Not yet. It’s big, and it’s led to my
choice to commit myself in ways I’ve not done ever in my life prior. And yet,
it’s just beginning. It’s over, but it’s just started. That’s what I have to offer
right now. It’s not much, yet, but it’s growing.
London. You’ve been a long time coming.
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