Images and Restraint

I remember that it was a rainy morning in Dublin.  I was standing in the busy breakfast area of a buzzing youth hostel, balancing my cup of tea and plate of toast while scanning the area for two seats together where Byron and I might sit.

Glancing up, the 24-hour news cable happened to be giving coverage on the recent terrorist attack at Westgate mall in Nairobi.  I had been in Kenya on the day of the attack.  I was visiting my daughter at boarding school about an hour's drive from the mall.  On the day before, I had jumped into my friend George's taxi and we had calmly discussed where we should stop to pick up the things Heather needed me to bring.  We had considered Westgate, but decided another mall was closer to the route we wanted to take.

What happened at Westgate was too close for comfort.  As the events unfolded, waves of shock and grief washed over all of us.  Too many friends of friends were directly affected.  Heather knew people who hid from the gunmen, and others who lost relatives.  Someone in our home group had a dear friend who risked her life to help save children of a slain mother.  

All of that was 100% real.

What I didn't expect one month later was to look up at a big flat screen TV in the cafeteria of a youth hostel in Ireland and see images of masked men (walking through places where I have walked) randomly killing people and moving casually on.  

It was the elephant statue at Nakumatt that got me.  How many times had I walked right by it on my way in for some groceries?  Someone was obviously crouching behind it because a gunman paused and took a lazy aim, killing, I'm sure, the one who hid there.  

I just remember thinking, "I would have hid behind the elephant, too."  

Suddenly, the tea and toast lost all appeal.  I felt physically sick.  

It wasn't that the news was new.  It was more that it was out of context and felt out of the blue.  With no forewarning, I was confronted with graphic images of violence in a land that, to me, was not far away.  Like everyone around me, I just wanted breakfast.  But it wasn't their home on the screen above us all.

Tonight, I've been experiencing the same thing.  Scrolling through my social media newsfeed, I'm enjoying photos of a friend's new grand baby, some silly cat thing, heartfelt Easter happiness, random comments about all manner of light and cheery things.  

Then--BAM!-- a graphic photo of murdered Kenyan students.

I think of the Kenyan high school and university students I have known.  I think of the years I spent (forever ago) meeting with different ones, building relationship, praying, laughing, finding fullness of life together.  I think of the bright minds, the eager hearts, the depth of respect I still hold for them.  I think of my Kenyan friends who, like me, have university age kids today.  And I feel sick.  I'm hoping no parent or family member of those slain students has to stumble onto FB photos of their loved one lying in death.  

I appreciate that social media has, in many instances, brought my attention to things I needed to know.  What I don't appreciate is graphic, careless, jarring images.  I realize people are linking to pieces about this attack because they care.  I'm just wondering if there is a way to be better editors as we put ourselves in this self-appointed newsman roll.  I recall early footage from 9/11 showed live images of people falling from the towers as they leapt out of windows to escape engulfing fire, but fall to their deaths.  Very quickly, broadcasters realized these images were too horrific and they stopped showing them.  

I'm not trying to hide from the truth. I read the news and live with my eyes open. I am, however, interested in protecting my heart from being assaulted more than necessary by the reality of the world I call home. I'm having to block photos that folks who do not live in Africa don't seem to mind having as part of their status update. I believe folks are trying to show they care about this horrific attack in Kenya,  but I find it very jarring to come without warning upon photos of the slain.  

It makes me want to be more careful in my own posts and re-posts.

What seems distant to one of us, may be very raw to another.  

May we all proceed with caution.

To lift my eyes...

I'm not gonna lie, Africa can wear me right out.  See Exhibit A above, "The Road to Our House."

I'm not very good at remembering this, but it does dawn on me occasionally that I do actually get to choose where my eyes focus.

Here are five good things from the last few days...

1.  I watched two Muslim women share their sandwiches with a Catholic Sister on the 6 hour bus trip to Nairobi.

2.  I saw the setting moon hanging heavily over hills that would soon be lit by morning.  The moonlight cast shadows on my 5am bedroom floor.

3.  The crazy washed out bridge at the bottom of the long hill that connects us to the road to town HAS BEEN REPAIRED, AND a grader has been dealing with the other horrible bits on our way home.

4.  I bought a great big box of fresh produce, (bright, juicy mangos, tangy passion fruit and much more,) for a very reasonable price, and shared motherhood tales with the slender young mama whose veggie stand I frequent.

5.  Yesterday I enjoyed a long and pleasant lunch with someone who has prayed for us for going on thirty years.  We had never, ever met before.  Imagine!

And Some Days Are Lower Than Others

There are times, I have to admit, I tire of you.
I tire of your demands-- the way you take and take and take.
It seems that our efforts to placate you come to naught.

We travel.
Not for leisure.
We travel because there are hidden places where friends struggle.
And you make it very hard.

"He was dead," a dear one said.
"Perhaps thirty minutes before I got there."
"A shot to the head.  I could tell by where the blood was in the cab.
They dragged his body into the bushes.  I guess he didn't stop when they ambushed his car."

Do stop.
(Always stop.)
Who cares about the money?

And how about that fevering one?
Wracked and reeling.
Pounded.
Malaria beating the crap out of her.

Because she just loves hanging out in South Sudan?
Because she has nothing better to do?
She gives.
You take.

And last week,
in the crush of traffic.
The four lanes made six lanes, made eight lanes,
made I-don't-know-how-many lanes.

That man's body
fallen there.
No blanket.
No ambulance.

One casual policeman standing
as the rest of us
veered slightly round him.

I turned my eyes and thought of his family
hearing the news.
(However they finally do.)

Who do you think you are?
So ravenously needy.
So brutal, so broken
and so beautiful.

Oh, Africa.
Shall we at least try
to be friends?


-lisa, 26 February, 2013

Burst of Adrenaline (a guest post by Heather Borden)

As I nervously climbed over the cracking dead log, Dad looked through the binoculars and stared death in the eye. Only twenty feet away was an enormous hippopotamus, staring right at us from the shallow pond. Because hippos kill more people annually than any other African animal, we were certainly frightened. Slowly and timidly, the six of us scrambled over the fallen tree, one by one, to catch a glimpse of those threatening pupils.



Crawling carefully back out of the hippo's view, I suddenly heard splashing water and crashing bushes behind me. Turning around I saw Colin, Dad and Trevor panicking to rush out of there. When realizing what was happening, I dashed through the trees, sprinting for my life! The bunch of us fled in seconds. My heart pounded and my lips spoke prayers that we would come out alive.

Finally, at a safe distance away, we came to a stop. With stunned, pale faces we looked into each other's eyes with astonishment to find that we weren't dead. The hippo hadn't trompled us! In fact, it hadn't even chased us. Instead, it was merely swimming away from us. Beginning to giggle at ourselves, the adrenalin in our bloodstreams faded back to normal.

To Listen

It seems, then,
that the work of the poet
is to listen

To slow her gait
and to heed
little things

It's the way the palm bends
nodding slightly before
I feel the breeze

It's the hovering of the Qualia
dipping for water
in the falling light

-lisa, 26 August, 2011

Kaleidoscope Days (a.k.a. Jumbled, Happy, Tired)

Yesterday I was in a remote corner of Maasai--a terribly beautiful valley where the kids have experienced much hunger and a sore lack of education. Yet there is a presence of good there that can take your breath away.

I'm thankful for times in places like that. I'm thankful for the people who teach me about life. I'm thankful for the moonlight streaming into our tent, the soft clean sheets on our camp mats, the smell of the grass and the sound of the wind in the trees.

It's cold and grey in Nairobi, where I find myself tonight. We've come up 6 hours drive from Arusha to get Colin, who has just finished his junior year of high school. (Well done, Colin! One more to go!) We're hanging around in this too-busy, too-congested town so we can attend Chase's graduation tomorrow up at RVA. Chase is a brother or cousin, yet of no blood relation. We've just done life with the Russells F-O-R-E-V-E-R :-)

So we're in this (awful) town but I'm thankful in some contorted way for what it means to Africa--wealth, education, business, success. It's a crazy place. Heather and I stood in a busy, thoroughly loaded and very large grocery store and had a little surreal moment. They were playing "Hotel California" over the in-house sound system and we felt confused and whacked out.

I tried to skype the older boys, who are currently in Colorado. They played a gig in Boulder last night and are playing in Englewood tonight. The call didn't really work but I heard Trevor's voice briefly all the way over here. And I just heard Heather's laugh from the tent that she's sharing with Colin. (It's so good to have him home in our little circle again.)

Life is all jumbled with love and scenarios and voices across the (wireless) wires. I think of so many people and places to hold close and I just feel full.

Full, full, full. The depth of it all is truly unspeakable.

This is How it Works... or Doesn't (the joys of transition shock)

So I was in the States for about 3 weeks and WOW!

What I just couldn't get over was just how nice everything was and, maybe mostly, how everything just works there. Smooth roads, wide sidewalks, easy shopping, hot water, cold water, electricity, street lights, the postal system... you name it!

Funny, eh? I mean, I do carry an American passport and I do go there about every 2 years and I have lived there plenty and I am 48 and fairly bright... But I just found the whole experience so surprising and kind of overwhelming.

For instance...

I was borrowing my parents little old grey Volvo ( I love that thing!) for a couple of days while I was up to Santa Barbara and a girlfriend decided we needed to go shopping to pick up a birthday gift for me. (Nice idea!) We finished and I jumped in the car and found that it wouldn't start. Turned over but wouldn't fire up. So I called my dad and the call went straight through because there were absolutely no problems with the network. I asked him to listen as I tried to start the car and he decided it sounded like the fuel wasn't getting where it needed to go.

Dad called AAA and they said OF COURSE they would come help me immediately because it was Dad's car and he's been a member for 30 years. The AAA guy was there in about 20 minutes and he was so nice and I never once worried that he might be incompetent or untrustworthy. He cheerfully hauled the car away to a mechanic across town who specializes in Volvos with whom I'd just spoken and who came with the highest recommendations. (I immediately regretted having not told the AAA guy that his tattoos were beautiful. Sheesh. How could I let him get away without that?)

My dad called his Volvo guy down in Pasadena and described the situation. He said it sounded like the fuel pump relay. It wasn't too long before the SB Volvo guy had listened to the car and he told my dad that it sounded like the fuel pump relay. All these phones working and intelligent diagnostics confirming each other and efficient systems! It just boggled me. But that wasn't enough. The car was repaired quickly and for a reasonable price and I got it back in a matter of just a few hours. I just couldn't get over it. It was so simple and safe and honest and well done.

Now, I'm not going to complain about how things are here in East Africa. I love Africa and there is plenty here to cherish. But this simple efficiency, proficiency and trustworthiness surrounding my little Volvo scene, well, that's not how things go when we have car issues here. My word. The number of places Byron has to go to just to get a spark plug that will actually spark... The days spent chasing spares... The mechanics that have made him almost lose his mind... Let's just say that Africa has other strengths to enjoy.

You might say that landing home again in Tanzania has felt a little bumpy in some ways. Transition is always harder when I'm not expecting it to be anything but easy. And it's the funniest little things that get to me. But I came up with a symbolic gesture to help me embrace it all...

I hadn't cut my nails short for the last couple of weeks before I left Tanzania for the wedding in North Carolina and, on the day before the ceremony, I joined Tait and her mom and the other bridesmaids for a manicure. (A manicure!) I had a bit of length to my nails and, I must say, I liked the way my hands prettied up. Over the course of my visit, I managed to keep them nice and I returned to Africa with hands that don't really go with the circumstances of this life. You know, I chop my nails short here, don't put anything on them at all, and try to remember lotion from time to time.. That's what works for me and I'm happy with it.

So, after a few days of bumping into the roughness of transition every time I turned around, I sat down with finger nail polish remover and my nail clippers. Back to reality-- the reality of the life I've chosen. I smiled with every snip, snip.

Hello, Africa... I'm home :-)