For the past two weeks I had left a stack of books in the Religious Studies office on a shelf. With so many books to read, I let a few wait for me there. Today I retrieved them, and as if it were Christmas, was surprised by all the lovely titles I rediscovered. No wonder I requested them from other libraries!
One of the books is a very large, green volume with a golden emblem pressed into the front cover. It's titled Ireland in Poetry. Page after page has old and new poems and color photographs or images of paintings. And I don't know what it is about Irish poetry, but it makes me feel a deep sense of mourning, fear, and inspiration, almost anticipation (of what? I do not know). I don't even know that much about Ireland's history or conflicts, it's people or places. The most intimate look at Ireland I have (besides my Lit. professor Kathy) comes from Eavan Boland's Memoir-ish Object Lessons.
What is it about Irish poetry?
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Remembering the Gardens
This morning I am working on a few things: my reflection paper on poetry and peacemaking, packing and sorting for MN and the U.K., random life happenings, and a poem about the gardens in the Bethlehem refugee camp we visited in June. Only a month ago. All the images came flooding back of the home we visited with the garden planted into the ground, and the metal arch for vines. And I saw in my imagination the gardens comprised of sawed off plastic jugs and handleless buckets. Anything that would hold dirt was used to incubate life. Someday I want a garden like that. A garden that doesn't really care where it is or what could become of it; it climbs or spreads, or stands tall without fear or second thoughts.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Confessions of a Frequent Flyer
I know what it feels like to be completely lost in that limbotic land between terminals. Bags in hand in a country where I don’t speak the language, no less. I know what it feels like to only understand the hand motions of an airport security worker, and to look like a fool when I go through the line that she specifically motioned me to bypass.
I know what it feels like to wander around Frankfurt for three hours with no place to sit, the sound of a gate alarm screeching when I choose to buck the system. I know what it feels like to be caught in a cattle call boarding session.
I know what it feels like to be culturally ignorant, to have no idea what is socially acceptable. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of another person’s pursuit of a language not their own to help me in mine. I know what it feels like to not know who I can ask, who will understand my question, who will treat me with kindness.
And I know what it feels like to experience grace, to be the recipient of hospitality. I know what it feels like to receive sympathy from those who cannot help me. I know what it feels like, also, to be turned away, to be dealt with harshly, to not be trusted by people of my home country. To be perceived as a foreigner because of the shape of my facial features and my quiet mannerisms.
I also know what shame feels like—to stand again in the country of my childhood and to witness inhospitality. To hear guards question why international visitors continue to go to the incorrect passport check line when they have been speaking exclusively in English and signs are posted in English and Chinese. And we expect incoming French passengers to understand? I know what it feels like to want to yell at a security guard for snapping at a woman rudely. Then to realize that would not solve any of our problems.
And this knowledge makes me want to throw my arms around the world and shout out in every language known to humanity, “Bienvenidas, bienvenue, ah’len wa sah’len, welcome!” You are welcome in my life.
I know what it feels like to wander around Frankfurt for three hours with no place to sit, the sound of a gate alarm screeching when I choose to buck the system. I know what it feels like to be caught in a cattle call boarding session.
I know what it feels like to be culturally ignorant, to have no idea what is socially acceptable. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of another person’s pursuit of a language not their own to help me in mine. I know what it feels like to not know who I can ask, who will understand my question, who will treat me with kindness.
And I know what it feels like to experience grace, to be the recipient of hospitality. I know what it feels like to receive sympathy from those who cannot help me. I know what it feels like, also, to be turned away, to be dealt with harshly, to not be trusted by people of my home country. To be perceived as a foreigner because of the shape of my facial features and my quiet mannerisms.
I also know what shame feels like—to stand again in the country of my childhood and to witness inhospitality. To hear guards question why international visitors continue to go to the incorrect passport check line when they have been speaking exclusively in English and signs are posted in English and Chinese. And we expect incoming French passengers to understand? I know what it feels like to want to yell at a security guard for snapping at a woman rudely. Then to realize that would not solve any of our problems.
And this knowledge makes me want to throw my arms around the world and shout out in every language known to humanity, “Bienvenidas, bienvenue, ah’len wa sah’len, welcome!” You are welcome in my life.
Monday, July 14, 2008
A Letter to the President of the United States
To the President of the United States:
I am not a politician, or an official diplomat.
I am a university student, a philosopher, a poet,
a theologian, a woman, a novice world traveler,
a feminist, a peacemaker.
I love God, most of the time, and at others, do not know
how to love God, but like any honest
theologian, I must admit I often do not understand
what she/he has in mind for this world,
a world that is both beautiful and broken.
People do many things in the name of “God”
that I also do not understand. Contradiction
is everywhere. And Jesus, let’s not get started
on the things people say about Jesus. I believe
he was God and human, but schizophrenic? Well,
it’s possible. I find it dangerous to talk about
what Jesus could or could not be.
But enough about theology and those confusions.
I recently traveled to the Middle East. My goal
was to speak with women, hear their stories, see
their faces. And from that, write poems about their lives
in their voices, about their homes, their families, their
thoughts, their struggles, their power. Some of these women
were of Jordanian heritage, one an Iraqi, a couple more
Lebanese, most were Palestinian, forced from their homes
and welcomed by Jordan, but Jordan is a small country.
For five and a half weeks, I was based in Amman, and traveled
for too short a time to Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
Do you want to know why? Because of peace.
I am sure, Mr. President, that you know Jerusalem
is in Israel, and Bethlehem is in the West Bank.
I am sure you also know the United States gives a disproportionate
amount of funds to the Israeli government to use to their “benefit.”
I think it’s great to live in a country that helps others.
A country that makes friends of other countries.
But true friends hold each other accountable.
True friends do not let each other do harm.
True friends stay close, and ask questions.
True friends treat each other as equals, not spoiled children.
And I mean no disrespect,
but after my visit, I am sure you do not know these women’s
stories. You do not know their land or their voices,
their struggles, their thoughts, their homes,
their families, their power. You do not know Palestinians.
You do not know hot tea with mint, directions from a kind stranger,
breakfast and lunch that could make you pop—all daily
occurrences, not rare kind Arabs. Normal kind Arabs, who are pained
by their rare, violent cousins.
You do not know the empty streets of Bethlehem,
fresh plums—a gift—from a woman in the market whose land
has been taken from her. I am sure, though, you know who
took it. You do not know the horror of a checkpoint gate, the wall,
or how long six hours waiting at the Israel border for wanting to
visit Bethlehem feels. You do not know the humiliation
human beings suffer every day. You do not know the inequity.
You do not know how closely refugee camps resemble the ghettos
of Eastern Europe during the Holocaust of WWII,
how much hurt the Israelis are still facing, and how much healing
I wish I could bring them. You do not know how they remind me
of children who grew up with abusive parents, vowing to never
be like that, but who bruise and batter their children. When they are old,
they cry themselves to sleep, and whisper prayers of regret.
Their children cry too.
Mr. President, do you want to know why I believe you
do not know these things?
Because if you did, if you knew them, they would be different.
You would be different.
Knowing details makes peace possible. Our enemies become
neighbors. People have faces that cannot be blown up.
I do not know your reasons for aiding Israel with such gusto.
Perhaps you wish to help God’s “chosen” people. But aren’t we all?
Perhaps you want to make up for America’s late entry into WWII,
and the masses of human beings with families and wishes who
should not have been treated as they were. But is this the way to do that?
Won’t our next generation have a debt to pay the Palestinians?
Perhaps you want Americans to feel safe from Arabs. But aren’t we
more afraid?
Again, I do not know, and I am sure it is complicated.
Perhaps we should make it simple again.
I will make a few things
simple for you.
I do not support any violence Palestinians inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Israelis inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Americans inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence any humans inflict, on anyone.
I do support the kindness of Israelis. The kindness of Arabs.
The kindness of Americans. The kindness of humanity.
I do not want tax money that comes from my paycheck, that I
have earned in peaceable ways, to go toward the systematic
destruction of lives, those of Arabs or Israelis or Americans.
When we are no longer inspired by the humanity of our neighbors,
something has been destroyed. Many Israelis have been destroyed,
as they destroy Palestinians. And the United States pays for this.
Is that being a good friend?
This is the United States’ conflict. We are involved.
This, quite simply, must stop.
Mr. President, what have you done this week to bring peace
among Israel, Palestine, and the United States?
I will ask again next week. And the week after that. Like the mother
in Bethlehem who will wait 500 years for her son’s prison sentence to end,
I will keep asking, until we are free. Until we have peace.
Salaam, Peace, Shalom.
Respectfully and with great hope,
Kohleun A.
I am not a politician, or an official diplomat.
I am a university student, a philosopher, a poet,
a theologian, a woman, a novice world traveler,
a feminist, a peacemaker.
I love God, most of the time, and at others, do not know
how to love God, but like any honest
theologian, I must admit I often do not understand
what she/he has in mind for this world,
a world that is both beautiful and broken.
People do many things in the name of “God”
that I also do not understand. Contradiction
is everywhere. And Jesus, let’s not get started
on the things people say about Jesus. I believe
he was God and human, but schizophrenic? Well,
it’s possible. I find it dangerous to talk about
what Jesus could or could not be.
But enough about theology and those confusions.
I recently traveled to the Middle East. My goal
was to speak with women, hear their stories, see
their faces. And from that, write poems about their lives
in their voices, about their homes, their families, their
thoughts, their struggles, their power. Some of these women
were of Jordanian heritage, one an Iraqi, a couple more
Lebanese, most were Palestinian, forced from their homes
and welcomed by Jordan, but Jordan is a small country.
For five and a half weeks, I was based in Amman, and traveled
for too short a time to Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
Do you want to know why? Because of peace.
I am sure, Mr. President, that you know Jerusalem
is in Israel, and Bethlehem is in the West Bank.
I am sure you also know the United States gives a disproportionate
amount of funds to the Israeli government to use to their “benefit.”
I think it’s great to live in a country that helps others.
A country that makes friends of other countries.
But true friends hold each other accountable.
True friends do not let each other do harm.
True friends stay close, and ask questions.
True friends treat each other as equals, not spoiled children.
And I mean no disrespect,
but after my visit, I am sure you do not know these women’s
stories. You do not know their land or their voices,
their struggles, their thoughts, their homes,
their families, their power. You do not know Palestinians.
You do not know hot tea with mint, directions from a kind stranger,
breakfast and lunch that could make you pop—all daily
occurrences, not rare kind Arabs. Normal kind Arabs, who are pained
by their rare, violent cousins.
You do not know the empty streets of Bethlehem,
fresh plums—a gift—from a woman in the market whose land
has been taken from her. I am sure, though, you know who
took it. You do not know the horror of a checkpoint gate, the wall,
or how long six hours waiting at the Israel border for wanting to
visit Bethlehem feels. You do not know the humiliation
human beings suffer every day. You do not know the inequity.
You do not know how closely refugee camps resemble the ghettos
of Eastern Europe during the Holocaust of WWII,
how much hurt the Israelis are still facing, and how much healing
I wish I could bring them. You do not know how they remind me
of children who grew up with abusive parents, vowing to never
be like that, but who bruise and batter their children. When they are old,
they cry themselves to sleep, and whisper prayers of regret.
Their children cry too.
Mr. President, do you want to know why I believe you
do not know these things?
Because if you did, if you knew them, they would be different.
You would be different.
Knowing details makes peace possible. Our enemies become
neighbors. People have faces that cannot be blown up.
I do not know your reasons for aiding Israel with such gusto.
Perhaps you wish to help God’s “chosen” people. But aren’t we all?
Perhaps you want to make up for America’s late entry into WWII,
and the masses of human beings with families and wishes who
should not have been treated as they were. But is this the way to do that?
Won’t our next generation have a debt to pay the Palestinians?
Perhaps you want Americans to feel safe from Arabs. But aren’t we
more afraid?
Again, I do not know, and I am sure it is complicated.
Perhaps we should make it simple again.
I will make a few things
simple for you.
I do not support any violence Palestinians inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Israelis inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Americans inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence any humans inflict, on anyone.
I do support the kindness of Israelis. The kindness of Arabs.
The kindness of Americans. The kindness of humanity.
I do not want tax money that comes from my paycheck, that I
have earned in peaceable ways, to go toward the systematic
destruction of lives, those of Arabs or Israelis or Americans.
When we are no longer inspired by the humanity of our neighbors,
something has been destroyed. Many Israelis have been destroyed,
as they destroy Palestinians. And the United States pays for this.
Is that being a good friend?
This is the United States’ conflict. We are involved.
This, quite simply, must stop.
Mr. President, what have you done this week to bring peace
among Israel, Palestine, and the United States?
I will ask again next week. And the week after that. Like the mother
in Bethlehem who will wait 500 years for her son’s prison sentence to end,
I will keep asking, until we are free. Until we have peace.
Salaam, Peace, Shalom.
Respectfully and with great hope,
Kohleun A.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Here's to Strong Arab Women!
This will be a growing tribute list to Arab women who still dare to hope in the presence a world-wide epidemic--social inequality. You all touch my life, even those whom I have never met face-to-face.
Naomi Shihab Nye: Palestinian-American poet
Her Majesty Queen Rania of Jordan: social advocate for Jordan, the Middle East, and the world, breaking stereotypes and breaking new ground humankind.
Mary: Gracious Palestinian woman who has been all over the world, learning, growing, and celebrating faith and culture.
All the women and girls who will remain anonymous: whose stories, no matter how grand or small, have weight and worth.
. . .
Naomi Shihab Nye: Palestinian-American poet
Her Majesty Queen Rania of Jordan: social advocate for Jordan, the Middle East, and the world, breaking stereotypes and breaking new ground humankind.
Mary: Gracious Palestinian woman who has been all over the world, learning, growing, and celebrating faith and culture.
All the women and girls who will remain anonymous: whose stories, no matter how grand or small, have weight and worth.
. . .
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Food
Ironic, isn't it, that the United States hosts the cultural phenomenon of wanting to whittle the waist and tighten thighs, but it also suffers from a very high obesity rate. To balance another oddity on this tower, consider how food is consumed and valued in the U.S. versus in other countries.
In the U.S. food is big. Big Mac. Supersize. Big Gulp. Not only grande, but venti. We eat on the run, eat at our desks, I've seen people practically inhale food. Resturaunts serve enough food for an average person to have three meals, but often times leftover don't make it home. Thanksgiving is called "turkey day." Coffee shops fill our cups with sugar and flavors and lots of milk.
In France I saw very few overweight people (especially in Paris), but food was all over the place. Patisseries were at least two to a block, and you could always find a brassarie with its street-facing tables and chairs. To my great pleasure, the French understand some key foods very well: coffee (served strong, and if you order cafe au lait or cafe creme, it's still strong with rich milk), yaourt (yogurt- the best I've had in the world came from French supermarkets), pastries (try pain au chocolat or pain au amandes avec chocolat), and bread and soft cheeses. I hear that food is so important to French social life that many people would rather go all day without eating than eat alone. It's worth it to wait.
In Italy food and wine go together (in France wine is important as well, but I did not experience that first-hand). Even at our hostel they served (cheap) wine with dinner every night. Again, food was everywhere, in resturaunts, open markets, fruit stands, and grocery markets. We weren't in Italy long enough to pick up on their food traditions, but I have a feeling they are similar to those in France. I suppose the only way to find out for sure is to return for another visit.
And this brings me to Jordan. Food in the Middle East is diverse, but there are a few staples in every kitchen: couscous, bread, lamb, coffee, coriander, and mint, as well as seasonal fruits and veggies. Meals are a family affair, and if you happen to be in the house (regardless of whether you live in this particular house), you're family, and you will eat.
In the household where I am spending the summer, dinner time is quite the production and it takes at least most if not all the family to prepare and serve the meal. When we host guests, the kitchen is a lively place of simmering pots, hands chopping vegetables, slicing fruit, and scooping melon into neat little balls. Then we take food out in Palestinian serving dishes of blue and white pottery.
Today I ate "fast food" like no other fast food I have ever eaten (I must note, however, the posh atmosphere of McDonald's in Italy-- very nice, with free toilets). I went to Lebnani Snack, a Lebanese fast food chain. They have fresh fruit cocktails and fresh squeezed juices. The food is also fresh, made after it has been ordered. And oh so yummy. If they did fast food in the States like the do Lebnani Snack here, I would eat fast food.
In the U.S. food is big. Big Mac. Supersize. Big Gulp. Not only grande, but venti. We eat on the run, eat at our desks, I've seen people practically inhale food. Resturaunts serve enough food for an average person to have three meals, but often times leftover don't make it home. Thanksgiving is called "turkey day." Coffee shops fill our cups with sugar and flavors and lots of milk.
In France I saw very few overweight people (especially in Paris), but food was all over the place. Patisseries were at least two to a block, and you could always find a brassarie with its street-facing tables and chairs. To my great pleasure, the French understand some key foods very well: coffee (served strong, and if you order cafe au lait or cafe creme, it's still strong with rich milk), yaourt (yogurt- the best I've had in the world came from French supermarkets), pastries (try pain au chocolat or pain au amandes avec chocolat), and bread and soft cheeses. I hear that food is so important to French social life that many people would rather go all day without eating than eat alone. It's worth it to wait.
In Italy food and wine go together (in France wine is important as well, but I did not experience that first-hand). Even at our hostel they served (cheap) wine with dinner every night. Again, food was everywhere, in resturaunts, open markets, fruit stands, and grocery markets. We weren't in Italy long enough to pick up on their food traditions, but I have a feeling they are similar to those in France. I suppose the only way to find out for sure is to return for another visit.
And this brings me to Jordan. Food in the Middle East is diverse, but there are a few staples in every kitchen: couscous, bread, lamb, coffee, coriander, and mint, as well as seasonal fruits and veggies. Meals are a family affair, and if you happen to be in the house (regardless of whether you live in this particular house), you're family, and you will eat.
In the household where I am spending the summer, dinner time is quite the production and it takes at least most if not all the family to prepare and serve the meal. When we host guests, the kitchen is a lively place of simmering pots, hands chopping vegetables, slicing fruit, and scooping melon into neat little balls. Then we take food out in Palestinian serving dishes of blue and white pottery.
Today I ate "fast food" like no other fast food I have ever eaten (I must note, however, the posh atmosphere of McDonald's in Italy-- very nice, with free toilets). I went to Lebnani Snack, a Lebanese fast food chain. They have fresh fruit cocktails and fresh squeezed juices. The food is also fresh, made after it has been ordered. And oh so yummy. If they did fast food in the States like the do Lebnani Snack here, I would eat fast food.
Much reality, too many words, not enough words-- a la vez
In the time frame of a month, I have been in 5 different countries (counting my layover in Frankfurt), which have their own distinct cultures, and their own distinct languages. Since I have never traveled overseas before this summer, I was gearing up my psyche for serious culture shock. And while there has been much cultural richness to process along the way (details to follow shortly), I have actually experienced language shock. Funny, considering I have never studied or spoken French, Italian, German, or Arabic.
Regardless of my linguistic background, I found (and find) myself struggling to acclimate to each new language. In France, I listened carefully for commonly used phrases and mimicked them, while making reasonable connections between French and my knowledge of Spanish, un otro idioma romantico. This, of course, led to some moments of complete confusion, and I would break down and ask French locals if they spoke Spanish. Haha.
Italy was not as difficult a switch, since I was used to hearing French and I missed English and Spanish (Italian is a close relative of French and Spanish-- it's rather amusing how it seems to be a mix of the two-- and Portuguese. Sometimes I could fake Italian by slurring Spanish really fast. :D
But the shift into hearing Arabic has been, predictably, the toughest. I hear no Latin roots, and when I do hear things that sound similar, I cannot be safe in assuming that they mean what they would in a Romantic language. I'm finding it hard to write here in Jordan. Yes, I believe the reality of our humanity far surpasses the limitations of languages and symbols; that is why I'm here. But it is foolish to think that I can fully understand another's story when I know so little of her language, of the way she interacts with reality.
There are so many words, so many, and yet so few. How do we share our stories in the first place? Through more than words, I suspect. Dangerous words for a poet to write (could be out of a job, but it's not like poetry has ever been written for its grand monetary income). We share our stories through silence, what's not said along with what is; an embrace; in sobs and laughter; in the books we pass to others with exclamations scribbled in the margins, saying, "You must read this. It changed my life" (always read books that have changed friends lives); in our poetry; our music; the way we fidget with serviettes at the table or pamphlets at a recital. How do we share our stories? I don't know how exactly, how they transfer from one person to another (maybe we don't own them as individuals in the first place). How do we share our stories? By the grace of God? Perhaps. Perhaps.
Regardless of my linguistic background, I found (and find) myself struggling to acclimate to each new language. In France, I listened carefully for commonly used phrases and mimicked them, while making reasonable connections between French and my knowledge of Spanish, un otro idioma romantico. This, of course, led to some moments of complete confusion, and I would break down and ask French locals if they spoke Spanish. Haha.
Italy was not as difficult a switch, since I was used to hearing French and I missed English and Spanish (Italian is a close relative of French and Spanish-- it's rather amusing how it seems to be a mix of the two-- and Portuguese. Sometimes I could fake Italian by slurring Spanish really fast. :D
But the shift into hearing Arabic has been, predictably, the toughest. I hear no Latin roots, and when I do hear things that sound similar, I cannot be safe in assuming that they mean what they would in a Romantic language. I'm finding it hard to write here in Jordan. Yes, I believe the reality of our humanity far surpasses the limitations of languages and symbols; that is why I'm here. But it is foolish to think that I can fully understand another's story when I know so little of her language, of the way she interacts with reality.
There are so many words, so many, and yet so few. How do we share our stories in the first place? Through more than words, I suspect. Dangerous words for a poet to write (could be out of a job, but it's not like poetry has ever been written for its grand monetary income). We share our stories through silence, what's not said along with what is; an embrace; in sobs and laughter; in the books we pass to others with exclamations scribbled in the margins, saying, "You must read this. It changed my life" (always read books that have changed friends lives); in our poetry; our music; the way we fidget with serviettes at the table or pamphlets at a recital. How do we share our stories? I don't know how exactly, how they transfer from one person to another (maybe we don't own them as individuals in the first place). How do we share our stories? By the grace of God? Perhaps. Perhaps.
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