Thursday, January 26, 2012

On Privilege and Choices

Some months ago, when you were still content to kick me from inside, your papa and I were out for dinner with friends.  We started talking about my old job, and some of the people I had worked with and the situations that they survived in (or didn't) around the world.  We talked about aid work, and reporters, and the choices people make in those lines of work when they are from comfy and privileged worlds like ours.

Someone remarked 'It must be so hard for people to leave that field and come back home.  I wonder how they do it.'

It was like, for just a moment, they had forgotten I was there.  Not that I was easy to miss as I was nearly nine months pregnant and huge.  When I commented on the fact that, indeed, I had left the field and come back home, they remarked 'Well, I hadn't really thought about you, you had to come back to have your family.  I think it would be harder for the men to leave than the women.'

To be clear, I adore the woman who said this, and I understand why she did.  She had met me when I was already pregnant, and to her, it was an innate aspect of Who I Was, Woman With Family. It was strange, because from my perspective, I was still a childless, free, woman who could up and go any time she wanted regardless of the airline restrictions on third trimester travel. But my identity was about to change, and I would likely notice all future meetings with people started with different labels than I was used to.

But the question of 'why?' or 'how?' can you leave the work when you've seen what you have seen.  Knowing that so much goes on in this world, and that I could be working directly to change it - and yet I have stopped. I am now here in Canada.  I live in a decent home with clean water and doors that won't be broken into.  I buy my little girl expensive car seats and invest in an educational fund.  How can I be here when I know the world that exists outside of this.

And until I decided to come home, I didn't really know the answer either.  Even now, there are times that I revert to the old standbys of 'I know I am still doing good', and 'You can make change by how you live your life'.  I believe both of these statements, but they aren't what resonates with me.  I remember in Papua New Guinea, walking through our clinic, the walls lined with benches filled with women and their children.  This is when what everyone had been telling me, in every place that I worked, finally sunk in.  All people want is to live their life in peace.  To live with their loved ones without violence. To pursue their dreams without persecution. I had so many conversations where I talked to people who did not understand why I had come to their part of the world, when I could be safely at home. And never was this more true than in PNG.

It was in that clinic, surrounded by women who had been beaten or raped, and children who had seen it, or been victims themselves, and who were all looking to find peace, if only in their own bodies and minds from that violence, that I realised I needed to honour my loved ones and take advantage of all that I had.  I have grown up believing that when you are privileged, you are responsible to use that privilege to fight injustice.  I've also realised though, that the gift of peace, which is so rare in our species and on this planet, must also be respected.  Very few people in this world get to have what I have.  And that is why I came home to my friends, my family, and your father. That is why we brought you here.  And I know your life will not always be peaceful, but I hope you can take advantage of the privilege that you do have to both fight for justice, as well as relax in the arms of your loved ones.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

The Cheshire Cat of Khartoum

I once knew a man who grinned like a Cheshire Cat.  He always wore button up collared shirts, and I remember them often deep blue in colour.

You knew when he came into the office; he announced his presence with long drawn out sighs and a rattle of activity at the tea station.  I would spy him from my desk, through my office door to the open area staff would congregate in, and inevitably, he would fix his tea, and drag himself into my office in a show of exhausted and overwhelmed exaggeration.  Leaning sideways in the chair, tea cup resting on one of my files, an elbow  propped on my inbox, his index finger would poke against his cheek as he rested his chin on his palm.  Then he would tell me stories of his trials and tribulations, with just the right dramatic flair.  Incredible the hardships he undertook everyday. And when I finally would lift an eyebrow in query, he'd smile.  A wide smile that stretched his lips, dimpled his cheeks and flashed his teeth against a mischievous face.  Then quickly, in an offhand offering, he'd toss me the key things I needed to know, what he'd been able to do, and what would have to wait yet another day. In a few short sentences I would have what I needed to plan the logistics around All Of This. I would advise what we needed most urgently and request it be top priority.  He would nod, and just as smoothly, he'd slip back into his smiling slump, drink his milky sweet tea, and hypothesize, that tomorrow, god willing, maybe.

This man lives far away, and I speak of his tendencies in past tense because I doubt I will ever see him again.  But when I think about his small patch of the world, and when I read geo-political news stories about oil and war, and when I hear what ignorant people say of Muslims, like they are some monolithic entity, I think of him and his stories. And I remember and love how he let us enjoy our time together.  I'm telling you about him because he keeps my would grey and nuanced.  He is one of the people in my mind who stop me from moving to absolutes or absurd assertions.  And I wish for you to know these people too.


Saturday, January 21, 2012

Pride and Toe Chewing

One day when you are a lofty teenager, I will think back to these days in general, when you cherish any time you can spend with your foot in your mouth, and today in specific, when you tried to suck on my big toe while I changed your diaper on the floor.
This photo is older, but I think it captures the right sentiment.

Friday, January 20, 2012

Zuzz

I'm sitting on the floor, setting up the layout for this blog, and you are lying behind me on the couch.  You've been sleeping for 2 1/2 hours.  Normally you won't sleep for longer than an hour during the day, but you are busy working through the vaccinations that you got yesterday at your four month appointment. Sleep is precious.  For both of us.  I'm hoping that you have finally realised this.

Why Are You Doing This?

Lesson One: Listen to your mother. And read her blog. But not her diary.


Dear daughter.  You don't understand me yet.  You know what your bottle is.  And you seem very interested in the Tabby.  But my words mean nothing.  And by the time you have the intellectual and physical ability to actually listen to me, you probably won't want to.  And by the time you finally, oh, I don't know, have your own baby and suddenly decide I'm worth listening to, I will most likely not remember any of my Great Words of Wisdom.  So I'm going to record them here.  I hope that you eventually enjoy.

PS. If you ever have a sibling, this is all for them too. Learn to share.