say Katrina? say Jeanne...

this world has been plagued by disasters recently and we have seen people respond emotionally and financially to many of them. some more than others, it seems. while guatemalans are languishing without much response to the deadly mudslides they have recently experienced, generous donations of food from england are stopped from distribution to Katrina-affected victims in the u.s. because of fears of mad cow disease. below is an article which updates my posting of September 23, 2004, regarding the city of gonaives in haiti, which was devastated by tropical storm jeanne. (Pa Za Pa Zwazo Fè Nich—Bit by Bit the Bird Builds Its Nest)


Haiti--One Year After Jeanne

By ALFRED de MONTESQUIOU

GONAIVES, Sept 19 (AP) -- A year after catastrophic floods unleashed by a tropical storm swallowed this gritty city in Haiti's barren northwest, residents are still struggling to recover from one of the impoverished country's worst natural disasters.

Tropical Storm Jeanne brushed a corner of Haiti's heavily deforested Artibonite region last Sept. 18, causing floods that killed 1,900 people and left 900 others missing in Gonaives, the third largest city.

About 200,000 of the city's 250,000 residents were left homeless and a large international humanitarian effort to bring food and medical aid to survivors was hampered for days by gangsters and looting.

Life has improved little since.

A huge lake sits where fields of scrubland once lay on the city's outskirts, sewers overflow with putrid, black sludge and thousands of people cram into a makeshift shantytown that sprang up to house survivors.

Jeanne's devastation was reminiscent of the destruction wrought by Hurricane Katrina along the U.S. Gulf Coast, but Haiti's smothering poverty has prevented many in Gonaives from learning of the disaster.

"I never heard about it," said Rosy-Claire Zepherin, who lost all her meager possessions during the floods. "Jeanne took all I had, my job, my home. Now I beg for food at the market."
Zepherin, 55, stood outside the tiny, wood-and-tin hut she shares with her five children and four grandchildren. Built with the wreckage from her destroyed home, Zepherin's shack is part of a new slum dubbed "Cite Jeanne" by its inhabitants, French for City of Jeanne.

The U.N. World Food Program had been supplying beans, flour, oil, rice and high-protein biscuits to 160,000 Gonaives residents each day but ended distribution in March, deeming the emergency mission completed.

Stagnant pools of water still dot the makeshift community, the remnants of old salt fields that were swept away by the floods, depriving the area of a key source of income.

Now, residents like Zepherin who once earned a living from the salt fields walk an hour to the market along rutted, muddy alleys to beg vendors for their rotten vegetables.

"At the beginning, charities gave us food, but now we're all alone," Zepherin said, a shy smile spread across her deeply lined face.

Anne Poulsen, spokeswoman for the World Food Program in Haiti, said the agency was focusing on long-term aid projects, and noted it was providing one meal a day to some 850,000 Haitians, or about 10 percent of the population, mainly through clinics and schools.
But that food doesn't reach Cite Jeanne, where there are no clinics and parents can't afford to send their children to school.

Many children in the slum spend their days playing amid mounds of trash and puddles of fetid water, their bellies distended and their hair reddish from severe malnutrition.

Other aid sent after the floods was slowed by gangs who blocked relief convoys in demand for payment or unscrupulous customs agents who wanted bribes to let goods through to the city, a five hours' drive north of the capital on a rocky, spine-jarring dirt-and-gravel road.
Some aid simply never arrived.

Dumarsais Simeus, a Haitian-born U.S. businessman who is running for president in the country's November elections, said he shipped a container of shovels and medicine to help victims. Almost a year later, it hasn't left Port-au-Prince's shipping port.

"It's still stuck at customs because of some civil servant who wants a bribe!" said Simeus, who rose from poverty to become a wealthy owner of a Texas food services company. "It's outrageous."

God & Other Dirty Words

CBC Radio has a show each week dedicated to thought about religion and spirituality, from a number of points of view. it is often a real treat. i am delighted to discover that some of these programs are available on the internet, and today i listened to one aired on October 23, 2005-- John Shelby Spong: God and Other Dirty Words.

John Shelby Spong is a Catholic Bishop and author of The Sins of Scripture: Exposing the Bible's Texts of Hate to Reveal the God of Love . as a result of his refreshing views, Bishop Spong has provoked everything from joy to hatred. He has received 16 death threats, all from Christians who believe he is perverting their faith. Spong is a thoughtful and kind man who is more interested in loving his neighbours--even the ones who hate him--than in fearing the wrath of anyone, God or human. and although he is opposed to the imposition of the Christian Fundamentalist agenda on the rest of the world, he himself was raised Fundamentalist and has respect and love for those of that faith--such as his mother--who do not see themselves as having the final word on God. Like fellow blogger Michael, a Christian from Washington state, Bishop Spong calls for a new Reformation of the Christian faith. very interesting program. have a listen at the link given above. and have a peek at Michael's blog, Deep Thought Pub, through the link on his name, or the link in the posting below: his thoughts on the needed Reformation.

Deep Thought Pub: A New Reformation

Deep Thought Pub: A New Reformation (of the Christian Church) Needed!

The Long Way Home

when i am suffering greatly, if i walk home slowly enough, the stars seem to stand out more clearly than they normally do. the grabbing thoughts, sinking heartbreaks, the menacing fears at the back of my skull slow, too. in their endless cage-walk, gradually, gradually they quiet, till at last for a moment one or another settles on the floor and places head on paws and looks out oblivious of the bars, just looks out. then together we can see the sky as it really is, empty and endless, filled with everything there is, and nothing comprehensible at all. in those moments, i find the most profound peace.

a couple of months ago i became overwhelmed by the pain and misunderstanding that was mounting up in my vicinity and withdrew from the water, the fur, and the flames. i needed to settle with those caged fears and see what i could see, let the roars gradually diminish in and around me, and it was not fun. i made some decisions in the height of the cacophony. i had to slow down again, take on less, gather strength, narrow focus. i had to step back from certain things that offered more pain than joy or growth at the moment, reassess another that has offered plenty of each (which includes reassessing my role in that), invest yet more in one pursuit i have been nurturing that proves to be nourishing me (writing fiction). meanwhile, i had to ride out the emotions that were stirred up by events several times in that short period, until i could feel pleasure in life again.

one of the gifts that lulled me and helped to shift my gaze from the cage bars to the sky itself was the practice of maum meditation. much as i love it, it seems like such a waste of time to me now and then, this practice, especially when i am so filled with distressing feelings and thoughts that i cannot concentrate. to sit or lie for two hours and look at a picture on the wall of the earth and stars around it, to go over the images and memories of my life in an orderly way—to see them, come to some understanding of them, and then throw them all away...a long and labourious process leading nowhere but deep into my navel, it sometimes seems.

in fact, though, this extremely simple practice, as simple practices so often are, is incredibly powerful. at the end of one or two sessions, whether i have seemed to do brilliant work or not, i sense that i have been somehow cleansed, that i truly have thrown away some portion of what has burdened me for too long, and that i have glimpsed my life in a slightly different way. i have recognized things i had not seen before. even areas where i have worked to clean up major hurts, this quiet and gentle reflection has offered insights and healing anew.

it is interesting to realize in doing this meditation that even issues i have thought about a lot, i have not thought about in their entirety. to gather together every memory i have on a certain topic reveals so much. generally i have focussed on one or several memories—defining memories, it would seem. but when i fill in all the other ones i can remember, i find information i had completely forgotten, and my perception of the situation shifts, expands. a small example: last night i spent two complete hours thinking and then throwing away the memories of only one sister, one who has refused to speak to me for maybe ten years, who tells everyone she hates me, without ever having explained to me (or them, to their satisfaction) why. for ten years i have reacted painfully to this rejection and assault on my character. in piecing together every memory i had of her, beginning from my youngest days, the picture of her, her relationship to me, and my perception of her relationship to me became much more clear. for one thing, i have been fixed on the furious rejection, and the previous kindliness. i had completely forgotten the earlier hatred of me, where for unknown reasons i was her favourite person to beat up for many years before the kindness briefly kicked in. that was revelation enough—this hatred of hers isn't new, it is part of an older pattern. but better yet was noticing that every memory i had of her had with it a feeling of sorrow about her, the suffering she has endured and the fact that she has never gotten to break out and do the things she expressed to me that she deeply wanted to do. after sitting with that a while i realized that my sorrow was something i brought to each interaction with her, that i felt guilty about her suffering and my not being able to do anything about it, and that this coloured how i see her life. this was a wonderful realization, because it gives me the opportunity to begin to see her, and me, and all my memories of her in a new and less rigid way. a healing has occurred, simply by sitting and thinking gently about a particular thing.

hmmm... off on a tangent there. back to My Rough Couple of Months and Seeing Stars.

i was talking with a friend in the midst of the last two months, describing a very painful falling out that happened on a discussion list i cherish, where i had tried to make a point and was terribly misunderstood and seen to be attacking and judging when i truly was not. i said to her—to myself, i suppose—"sometimes i feel like i am too sensitive to be alive." this is not a reflection that i take things too seriously or too personally, although that is often how it is perceived. even when i don't take it personally at all, i am terribly affected by the suffering that steeps this world. and i am grieved anew each time i am seen to be terrible when i am trying so hard to live in a way that loves us all. i have watched day by day, year by year as people i love were torn to bits, where they went from passionate, lively people to sorrowful, rigid, angry ones, and i have seen so much more as well. i can't pretend the devastation of my beloved world away—i see it there in front of me and it hurts. so now and then, when my resources are low and i have taken too many blows, little and large, pain and hopelessness engulf me.

i remember a story by ursula leguin. it may have been The Word For World is Forest—i can't recall. in it there was a character who kept himself as far from the others as possible. his skin was transparent, i think, and his face seemed hostile. no one liked him at all. his problem was that he could feel everything they were feeling, could sense all that they denied. the torment was too much for him to bear. he reminds me of me.

obviously i am not really too sensitive to live, although i can't survive well in a really Out There kind of way. but i am not altogether sorry for this. i tried very hard to be like everyone else—or really, i believe now, like everyone else tries to be. to fit in and be cool and not take things too hard and so on. i was never able to, whether due to my own nature or the early hurts i endured, and their effect on me. but i am grateful, actually, that i haven't succeeded in that.

the gift i have received in return is that when i am not caught in the struggle, i live very close to the world. i am very aware of goodness and beauty everywhere i look, and i love all life intensely. i get down on my hands, cheek against the floor, and see the room from the cat's eye's view. i notice the smell of dust and the smell of fur and the sensation of the rug against my skin, and i revel in them. i feel the flight of the moth and the plight of the worm on the sidewalk. i befriend the slug, find a safe place for it, delight in its attempts to nibble at my palm. blow the mosquito away instead of smacking it. i feel the presence of a child, a friendly stranger, a laugh, a song, all the way through me as an inestimable richness. all of life takes on such vividness. i reach deeply into an understanding, an experience, and see how it is stitched together with many things else. i really do see the raincloud in the slip of paper, the craftsman in the wood. sorrow is as beautiful—almost indistinguishable from—joy. death truly does permit more robust life. suffering really does bring understanding, and with it, an intimacy with others that is impossible without it. the smallest pleasures buoy me up, the smallest communications, sharings, achievements, bring peace and well-being. then, at the same time that i seem so different from the world, i see without distortion how close we all are, and i am filled with love.

when i can crouch down, settle on my paws and gaze out between the bars until i am not even aware of them anymore, there is nowhere in the universe i would rather be than here, in the embrace of this cool night and the empty sky, the ageless stars.

in that way, my curse is my greatest gift. my depression, my anger with a certain situation and unwillingness to simply let it go, my sorrow—though old, they are also young, a response to the world around me right now, a self-correcting though very difficult mechanism that, when listened to and cared for, eventually leads me around to a truer grounding once again.

many things help on that journey. friends who are capable of even the smallest kindness—it has a huge effect when i am twirling on the point of some sharp stick. writers who have thought deeply about the spirit and the world. ancient myths that put our pain into context and make sense of it.

do you know the story of innana's descent into the underworld?

innana was the queen of ancient sumer in mesopotamia. she was the morning star, the queen of heaven, the brightly decorated goddess of the world who married the farmer and was the field, who brought life and richness to the land.

at one time, she was invited to visit her sister ereshkigal in the underworld. ereshkigal was an anger-filled deity, a frightening creature who planned to spoil the happy little world of her sister and bring her low.

when innana went to visit the underworld, she met a series of guards who slowly stripped her of her implements of sovereignty, her clothes, everything until she arrived possessing nothing at her sister's palace. there, ereshkigal fixed her with the eye that killed her, and had innana hung on a hook to rot.

well, it all sounds pretty depressing, doesn't it? but it is a powerful myth (which does go on, and which ends with innana back in the world but changed, deepened, perhaps, though definitely hurt.). it is a hook i can hang my suffering on when it becomes more than a mere human can handle. the great goddess of heaven experienced this, too. she was stripped of all that defined her in the world, died to who she was and was reborn with a greater understanding of the world, and in a strange way, with a greater connection to, and understanding of, that part of her that is normally hidden below. for we are all one goddess together—above and below, not parts divided up and capable of living separately.

i have much grief for this world, and yes, for me. but i have so much more than that. so i have endured the transforming descent once more. i have found stillness in between the bars. i'm back, fellow bloggers, but i have changed.

again.

much love to you.

mael brigde

All Intelligence Temporarily Suspended

i am hiding in a cave.

till further notice, then.

sweet blessings.

m.

A Pagan Rethinks Saint Patrick

i used to dislike and resent St. Patrick, because he
was the guy who brought Christianity to Ireland and i
wasn't thrilled about that.  but my feelings have
changed as i've gotten to know a little about the
actual man and the circumstances of his life.  i
realize now that within the context of his world, he
was actually a very brave individual who suffered
harshly and had an amazing commitment to facing his
fears and doing what looked right to him, even when he
didn't want to do it.

like going back to ireland to bring christianity to
the people who had enslaved him and thousands of
others of his country people.

apparently before he was taken captive at 16, he was a
privileged young man with a fair dollop of arrogance.
his capture and immersion in a culture he feared and
could little understand (he spoke latin and they spoke
irish) was a harsh circumstance that lasted i think
about 6 years.  during that time he was a shepherd,
spending much of his time alone in the hills--"naked,
alone, and always hungry".  by this time he firmly
believed in God and was very committed to him. 

he had a vision (a dream, i think it was) telling him
that he would return to his homeland, and so he
finally escaped and walked 200 miles across ireland to
the east coast.  this would have been like a slave in
the united states walking away from the plantation he
was on--and clearly he was NOT a native irishman.  we
know the retribution that american slaves faced if
they escaped, and it is hard to imagine that irish
investors, having gone to such trouble to acquire
them, would have let slaves wander off willy-nilly.
how did he manage it without being sent back?

once on the coast, he got on a boat headed for
brittany, i think, which wrecked there and the lot of
them nearly starved.  it took another 3 years or so to
get back to england.

he didn't spend very long in england.  he returned to
the continent and studied in france where he
eventually was made a bishop.  he was in his forties
by the time he finally stopped resisting what seemed
to him God's call to return to ireland.

interestingly, patrick wasn't following a well-laid
path.  although christianity had spread across europe,
it had done so at the point of a sword.  he was in
fact the first missionary. when he went to ireland, a
place he knew well and respected the people of, he
didn't attempt to cow them into becoming romanized
christians, but instead spoke to them in terms they
would understand and encouraged the development of a
unique and playful christianity that many people are
turning back to today as a wholesome alternative to
the stark european brand. 

he was not feared and hated by the irish--he was one
man after all.  if they'd wanted rid of him that would
have been it.  instead he honoured their love of
knowledge and offered his own, and when he competed
with the pagan religion he did so on their terms--such
as pre-empting the bealtaine lighting of the year's
fires by lighting the easter fire first.

in the end, he brought not only christianity but
reading and writing to ireland, which served the
unexpected function of resupplying those arts to the
continent in the hands of irish monks, bringing to a
close the dark ages which had extinguished learning in
europe.

is it a good thing or a bad thing that patrick was
enslaved by the irish, thus sowing the seeds of their
eventual conversion?  i think it is neither.  it
simply is what is, and was inevitable in its time.
christianity would have come eventually, and how much
harsher it could have been if it had come in someone
else's hands.  yes, it did become harsh in ireland in
time, as the gentler form of christianity was forced
into the margins, but there was a period where a
marrying of pagan irish and christian sensibilities
brought a great flowering to that land.

given all this, i see patrick in a different light.  a
man who struggled within the context of his own
experiences and his historical moment to live with the
greatest integrity he could and to bring something he
valued greatly to a people he had feared and came to
love.  saint brigit herself was born less than a
century later--what was the spirituality she grew up
with really like?  i think neither pagan nor christian
today would recognize it, but i suspect there was much
of wonder in it.

thoughts?  corrections?

With Her Father's Killer; Working With All We Have

there is a link under my "favourite sites" called The Forgiveness Project. if you haven't looked at it, i recommend that you do.

TFP, as they call themselves, has as its goal to support the efforts of individuals and groups to find alternatives to answering violence with more violence. in one section of the site there are the stories and photos of people such as Jo Berry and Patrick Magee. Jo's father, Sir Anthony Berry MP, was killed by the IRA bomb in Brighton 20 years ago that was planted by Patrick. Jo determined at the time to not abandon her principles of nonviolence, to come to understand the situation that had led Patrick to murder her father and others in that blast. she began going to Northern Ireland within the year, to meet Catholics who would talk to her about their suffering and the violence all around them, and she would in turn tell them her own story. she was invited thus to speak to more and more people, and indeed, it was the only place where she could speak with anyone; at home in England, no one wanted to hear.

in 1999, Patrick Magee was released from prison as part of the Good Friday Agreement, and not long afterward Jo decided to try to meet him, to learn his story, and if he wanted, to tell him hers. in October 2004, on the 20th anniversary of the bombing that killed her father and sent Patrick to prison for 14 years, the two of them were interviewed together under the auspices of TFP in a church in Brighton. for the transcripts of that interview, go to the News section of their site and look for 20th anniversary of the Brighton bomb.

it is with a very sad joy that i read the stories on this site. i know the intense struggle that lies behind coming to understanding of terrible things, and i believe it is the only way we can ever put an end to the horrors of this world. i invite you to explore gently the courage and wisdom of the people linked together by The Forgiveness Project. they are an inspiration for me as i daily seek some fraction of that courage in myself.

blessings,
Mael

The Shaman's Daughter, After Park Kyong-ni

The Shaman's Daughter
a poem based on a paragraph of the beloved Korean novel, Land, by Park Kyong-ni
13 March 2005, by Mael Brigde, for Kim Mi-jin

The shadow of her head trembled on the mottled walls. Perhaps a pedlar had spent a night in the empty house, for in relation to the time it had been left, not much dust had collected on the floor. Holding up the lighted candle, she went to the altar where the spirit-table was kept—it was just as it used to be. She blew the dust off the holder and put the candle into it...Since the death of her mother not as much as a single spoon remained of her household goods, but as though even thieves feared the punishment of the spirits, around the altar nothing had been touched.
from Land, by Park Kyong-Ni, pg. 160



The shadow of her head trembled on the mottled walls
This place, long home to her shaman mother
now empty and moulding
At home at the inn, the daughter always places out
a bowl of water for her new ancestor
Mother, once witty and sharp of eye
no longer dances wildly
or chants her spirit-songs

Perhaps a pedlar had spent a night in the empty house, for in relation
to the time it had been left, not much dust had collected on the floor
This house so low among tall bamboo
broad-leafed japonica dropping petals in darkness without
Had this pedlar known the exorcisms her mother had conducted
the blessings at birth and death
the soul-wanderings
and still dared sleep curled shrimp-like on her floor
Or had there been no pedlar
Was dust itself reluctant to settle
in the shadows of the dead shaman's home

Holding up the lighted candle, she went to the altar where the
spirit-table was kept—it was just as it used to be
Candle-holders
carved from mahogany
their delicate forms reaching up on remembered smoke
Incense burners
low and brazen
long-cold ashes with light impressions
made by a rodent's paw
paper flowers parched to pale reminders of once vivid hues
standing faithful in white porcelain
honouring

She blew the dust off the holder and put the candle into it
Mother, where are you now

Since the death of her mother not as much as a single spoon remained
of her household goods
The hand-mill
the wooden buckets she shouldered up the hill each day
from the fragrant stream that feeds the paddies
the cracked dishes from which the two had eaten
even the picture-frame that once held her parents
grey and stiff

but as though even thieves feared the punishment of the spirits,
around the altar nothing had been touched
and in the closet, she knew
would still hang the outer coat
and flowered crown and headband
the lute and cymbals and drum
Mother
said the daughter silently
I bring the spirits honey-biscuits, wine and dok
I bring flowers and fruit for them
Mother
She wept as she placed the offerings
Oh, Mother
let me be possessed

*********************************************************************************

the experience of reading the novel, Land, by Park Kyong-Ni, has been an exceptional one for me. this roaming story bypasses the familiar approach of linear plotting, and as much or more time is spent on the "peripheral" characters and subplots as on the "main" ones. the story is not just about a certain man or a certain family but all of the people living in a small community on the single estate of one wealthy family, and in a way, about all of the Korean people at a time of great change and conflict. the shifting structures of tradition and power are felt throughout. the duties and suffering and desires of all bear great importance, and the background of imminent Japanese takeover of Korea affects everything.

settling into the life of this village, walking its paths and watching mosquitoe larvae in the paddies, sewing in the women's quarters, root-digging in the fields, listening to sometimes short-tempered, sometimes thoughtful debates between commoners or aristocrats of varying status, seeing the world through the eyes of women and men, villains and those of a gentle heart...it is a gift to be invited into this mountain home and into the hearts and minds of people a century and a complex culture away.

Park Kyong-ni wrote this novel over 25 years, publishing it serially, and completing it in 1998. the 600-some pages in Land are only the introductory part of a 7000 page story that has not yet been translated in its entirety from the Korean.

if you want to know more about the background of this absorbing and often beautifully written book, please look to the review by Chun Kyung-Ja (herself a translator) in the Korean Studies Internet Discussion List. and click below to learn Pak Kyong-Ni's thoughts about The Feelings and Thoughts of the Korean People in Literature.

Roots of Racism

i was reading Vicky Lee Wei Kay (李韋岐)'s blog, Irish Born Chinese, and she referred to an interesting article in timesonline on the development of racism in Ireland with the increase of immigration there. the basic observation is that Irish racism develops from an existing prejudice against Travellers (formerly known as Tinkers), and builds from there, whereas American racism develops from the primary White against Black racism.

this is a concept i struggle with a little. what does racism really develop from? why are we so quick to adopt new prejudices when new people come to our countries, or when we move to new countries? it is as if there is a pre-recorded assumption that some people are better, others worse, some more deserving, some worth stamping out if they get the slightest bit out of line.

i believe there is such a recording, but i don't believe we are born with it. in infancy, we don't blink at a different coloured face or cry because someone has no teeth, or too many teeth, dingy clothes or too much jewellry. as the song says, "you have to be taught before it's too late, to hate all the people your relatives hate, you've got to be carefully taught."

but it isn't just about race, or class, or the other obvious Isms. the way we depict two people in a struggle--one is right, the other is a jerk. the way we juxtapose two groups of animals. mice and snakes are bad, dogs and horses are good. the way we see the power between different but related groups: the father is right, the children must be silent, the mother must defer. that man is normal, the other man is strange. don't trust the person who does things differently than you. and so on and on.

how did we get this way? why is it in every aspect of our lives? why is it so difficult to question the assumptions that we have made, or have had made for us?

i suppose it's all historical in origin, when we found ourselves competing with other groups of animals, humans and so on for limited resources. i don't know the in-depth anthropology of that. i am just glad that we have the opportunity now to question those assumptions, to set aside our good guy, not-good guy perspective--including Racist Bad, NonRacist Good--and bit by bit find ways to accept each other, see each other, see and stop condemning on some levels even ourselves. there is so much activity in this department, on so many fronts, and i don't think any of us are doing it perfectly, but that we are doing it at all is a wonderful thing.

as they say in haiti: pa za pa zwazo fè nich—bit by bit the bird builds its nest.

now, to that article:

The Sunday Times - Ireland
March 13, 2005
Black Africans ‘most likely to suffer racism in Ireland’
Scott Millar