The Moon Listens, I think

Hey Everyone,

I hope you have been well. It has been a busy time with work, visitors, friends, and family. My father continues to be our hero and keeping strong despite unpleasant treatments, and my mother a hero also, for her never-ending support to all of us. I got to go to Israel for my cousin’s wedding and had a lovely time with family.

While visiting my grandfather in Israel, he told me that when I was little I used to ask for story after story. ‘After four or five stories I would get tired and just start reading the politics section to you.’ Perhaps, that’s the reason for my strong opinions, but for now, we’ll focus on the stories.

The story below is fictional, a random thought that came to mind during the song moon at an amazing outdoor Shlomo Artzi concert in Israel. Though I suppose, as often happens in fiction, you’ll find traces of me in the story, and, I hope also some traces of you.

I realize these updates have taken a turn for the more imaginative side, but I hope you enjoy, and if you want a less fictional catch up, I’m happy to talk, chat, email etc any time.

Thank you for being in my life.

Inbal

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The Moon Listens, I Think

‘You have a lot of time to listen to stories. Maybe, from time to time, you also listen to mine, I am not sure. You have a lot to choose from, sitting up there looking at all of us. Probably you listen to soldiers and thieves, lovers and the poor, fascinating stories I would think. But maybe sometimes you listen to mine, when you are trying to fall asleep and make way for the sun. It is not much of a story, really, at least nothing beyond the predictable text of middle class routine, but I hope you listen. You’ve always been my best friend.’

Hila whispers to the moon as she falls asleep. Her bed is positioned next to the window so she can see the moon as she drifts to sleep. Once a year ago, she moved to this new apartment because the window of her old room was blocked by a construction site. ‘The moon has always been my best friend,’ she tries to explain to friends who are concerned about her sanity. ‘The moon listens to me,’ she says when asked to explain, avoiding labeling the moon as he or she. ‘Without judgment,’ she often adds, pleading for acceptance.

As a small child, Hila is active and curious. She has the confidence of children who have recently mastered the art of walking and the world is theirs to discover. She picks up everything, thoughtfully, carefully, and examines all sides before putting close to her nose and then to her mouth. Sandy, the family cat, does not enjoy these examinations, but the scratches do not deter Hila; her curiosity, eve at this young age, is immune from attacks. Many evenings, Hila’s mother finds her sitting on the porch, reaching her hand up high, grabbing strongly at air and pulling back with full concentration. She glares angrily at her empty hand and tries again. ‘She’s trying to catch the moon, Hila’s mother might explain to an observant friend, ‘she will do well in life with this vigorous desire to learn and explore.’

By the time Hila is in middle school her parents are worried about her. She is quiet and does not have many friends. She does well in school, always, and although she has grown to need the ‘A+’ or ‘Well Done’ on her papers to feel some sense of self-worth, the satisfaction is more and more fleeting. ‘It’s easy,’ she explains to the moon at night, ‘I go to a good school, I have good teachers, and parents who help when I need.’ She tries to make friends, but finds it hard to talk about TV shows, clothes, and boys. She feels bad when the girls make fun of another girl who is out of their click, and when she sees this young girl cry in the bathroom, she stops talking to those friends. ‘I do not understand why they have to make fun of people? It makes me a bit sad, you know, that they don’t care about how others feel’ she tells the moon. She’s fairly sure they now make fun of her as well. She reads in science class that the moon is responsible for the ocean’s tides. ‘You do so much,’ she says in admiration, and here I thought you were just lighting up the night and listening to stories. I am not sure what I do, to be honest. I mean, what is the purpose of a quiet 13-year-old girl who likes to read and talk to the moon?’ When a teacher refers her to the school counselor, and Hila shares her uncertainty about her purpose in this world, she is diagnosed as prone to depression. ‘The records at school say I have a strange inner sadness,’ she laughs when she tells the moon.

In university, Hila’s ‘inexplicable sadness’ is transformed to a productive anger towards injustice in any corner of the world. ‘We all sleep under the same moon, and I don’t see why we should not have the same opportunities for self-actualization regardless of where we are born, our gender, or the color of our skin,’ she is known to say to her colleagues. Her frequent references to the moon, received an eye-roll here and there, but overall she is admired by friends for her deep, personal, and emotional level of empathy. She is fundraising money for schools in Africa, cooking food for a local homeless shelter, tutoring an inner-city student, and writing letters to newspapers on a variety of issues from racism to fair-trade and poverty. ‘You are my kind of revolutionary, a real dreamer,’ says a handsome guy she has been noticing in the student coalition meetings. She blushes and hopes the moon does not tell everyone her secret. ‘It is out of guilt, you know. I have not earned much in my life, there is not much I have had to struggle against. Do you think when you help someone, I mean really help them, instead of gratitude maybe you can earn respect?’

Five years after university, Hila feels unsettled. She has traveled the world working for different organizations, building schools, training teachers, counseling students, and mobilizing communities. She has visited 22 countries, flown 137 times, and has stories, recipes, and friends from all around the world. When she day-dreams, she still thinks about what she wants to do when she grows up: write a book, start a school, work with youth, inspire a movement of community service and peace. She feels a bit sad when she realizes she is grown up. At times, having pieces of her hearts all over the world feels liberating and she is tremendously thankful for the opportunities to love so many times. Other times she feels lonely; her heart stretched in so many places that she always feels alone, always missing someone, some place, some feeling. She wonders if the moon finds her story more interesting these days, but she knows this long-time friend well enough to know the answer is no. The places, the stamps in the passports, the spices in the food are all details in a story that has not changed. People often ask about her plans; what they mean is settling down. She is not sure what she wants, there is something deep inside that keeps her motivated. As years pass, perceptions of her change; those who admired her sense of adventure now think she is lost, her comrades in fighting injustice now think she is naïve.

When she is already a mother, Hila decides she owes it to her children to achieve one of her dreams. She wants to start a community youth center, when young people can interact in a positive environment and learn about local and global issues and their power to change the world. ‘The Imagine Project,’ she tells a friend. She writes letters, organizes bake sells, gives talks at high schools, lobbies to town council, and spends every hour of her day thinking about the project. The concept is gaining support. An amazing group of youth has gathered to work with her, and friends too have dedicated their time. They get a small room in an existing community center and the Imagine Project kicks off. Youth are organizing community meetings, volunteering in elderly homes and early childhood centers, and raising money for places far and near. The project is going so well, Hila resigns from her job to work fulltime with the youth group. She can’t imagine a greater happiness. Years later, when she looks backs, she still can’t understand how things fell apart so quickly. First, it was the budget cuts that closed the community center, but ‘things would be ok,’ they all thought. Meetings moved to her house, and some youth started to drop out because it was hard to get there. Then, schools starting canceling the youth group presentations, ‘not enough time these days, with the new standardized tests rules,’ apologetic teachers would explain. Soon, more and more members of the youth group got discouraged. ‘But, we’ll be ok,’ thought the remaining group, ‘we’ll come out of this.’ It took months before Hila realized that every meeting was spent discussing how bad things had gotten, that she and the remaining five members were holding on to a corpse. She promised the remaining five to keep in touch as their mentor, and together they ended the Imagine Project. ‘I had my dream, and I failed. That’s my story of ambition, dear friend,’ she would snarl at the moon. For years, she has felt pity in people’s eyes, they saw her as defeated.

A long time has passed, and Hila now feels she can hug her sorrow. ‘I did fail,’ she explains to her husband, who has processed these lessons with her for many years, ‘and I am glad I did. It is not that I am happy that the project ended and it was painful for many people involved. Yet, through the experience I discovered a trace of my ability to overcome, to fail and to wake up the next day. Deep in that sadness are hidden the joys of resilience and strength.’ Hila is not sure anymore what she will do some day. Today, she is teaching, and so far days are going well, one by one. Sometimes, students tell her stories, funny and sad, hopeful and frightening, and she hopes the moon is listening too. She’s still a bit unsure of her story; but after years of uncertainty, she is confident the moon is listening. ‘Neither you nor I know what happens tomorrow, and that, my friend, is the most exciting story one can tell.’

Celebrating Healing

Hey Everyone,

Hope you are well. I don't have too much to report from my end. Life has been good and interesting, and I feel thankful.

I am taking a storytelling class that is making me write a lot, so don't be surprised if some future entries are in story format.

This month, for my dad's birthday, I want to share with you all part of our story.

Thanks for being in my life,

Inbal

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He walks in twice a week, always on time, rushing through the lobby as if going to an exciting meeting. Lap top, extra batteries, and work files slung on his shoulder, he walks through the corridors. He arrives in quick strides and the nurses waive, “Hi Guy! Great to see you this morning. How are you?”

“All good. I’ve had three cans of V8, a salted fish, and Inbal sprinkled some salt on top. Sodium levels should be a record high.”

He sets up his mobile office, and before the nurses even start the chemotherapy treatment, he is already on a conference call, “Yes, I am fine here, lots of people taking care of me. How are you? How’s the family?”

š* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I was young, my dad loved to support my curiosity.

“You have a project on flamingos! That is so exciting. We’ll go to the zoo and see them, and take some pictures,” he smiled enthusiastically and took out a piece of paper. Instead of opening the encyclopedia to the letter F and sending me to my room, he wrote a letter to the national zoo. They wrote back, inviting us to spend a day with the flamingo caretakers. My dad could get anyone to do anything with a letter. We spent the day at the zoo watching the flamingos, feeding them, interviewing the caretakers, and wondering what color they would be if they didn’t eat so many carrots.

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Later in life, when I started to travel on my own, my dad self-titled his role as travel agent.

“My flight is delayed, so I have to stay the night in Philadelphia,” I announce with fall confidence, after a high-school speech and debate tournament. Five minutes later, he calls back, “you can stay at the airport hotel. There is a flight tomorrow morning at 8:30, and the customer service desk should have some meal vouchers for you. Have a sate trip back, we miss you.”

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As the scope of my dreams expanded, so did his reach. During my first journey to Africa, to a small town in Eastern Ghana, my dad put aside his natural parental worries of malaria medicine and safety on decrepit buses, and engaged in my reactions to a new world around me: the kids I loved, the women I admired, the injustices that enraged me. When the phone lines went down for a week, I felt worried and anxious. When we finally connected after some time, he was calm. “The lines were down to a flood west of Accra, practically the entire country without communication! The ministry of internal works has had every person on this, seems today, they succeeded.”

“Did this make international news?” I ask, somewhat skeptical and bewildered.

“Oh, no no! Not a chance. I called some number I found online, made some friends, and they kept me in the loop.” I remember feeling safe, but also independent, the right amount of having someone to lean on and exploring on your own.

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

šHe’s done this a million times, every day; he is the enabler and organizer of our family. Directions, frequent flier miles, applications, rules, dates, and regulations, along side with jokes, stories, and pictures, he can tell you anything about any of us with a few clicks on his computer. These days, not much has changed, we might have changed our lives to be together in his time of need, but he still helps us to manage.

At the bone marrow tests performed every two months, the nurse comments, “you’re brave. Most people come in here contemplating when they’ll faint.”

“It will hurt a lot, I know,” he says, making a funny face, “but it will be ok after two days, so what’s the point getting all worked up. Besides, this is the last one.” He tells her this every two months with the same belief and determination that he is right this time.

I remember times I have been sick and the weight of the emotional gloom and doom and feeling sorry for myself that accompanied the physical discomfort. I wonder where people find strength to heal.

“How are you feeling, really?” I ask sometimes, when we managed to slow down and really talk.

“The body does it own thing, struggling, creating discomforts, but you have to control it and do what you need, or else this illness control you. Life moves on, and you say ok and move on with it.”

This week, when we celebrated his birthday, he cheered to “a big party this time next year, celebrating the end of this.” On his birthday, we celebrate that he has not surrendered to being ‘a sick person.’ That despite medical challenges, he is the same energetic father, friend, and colleague who loves us and is always there for us. We celebrate his personality, kindness, spirit, and humor. When the doctors find the treatment that works for my dad, they’ll be catching up to him because he already knows how to heal sickness by being true to himself.

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Video by Kalpna

This video was made by my friends Kalpna and Bisola for the Voices for Africa Conference, which a group of us organized together while at the Harvard Graduate School of Education.

To me the video is a celebration of diversity, as Kalpna explained in her own words: "This project shows how the simple act of talking to someone, especially of a different background, can have a significant, positive impact on the lives of youth."

In her memory, I hope that we can all continue to live with empathy, to celebrate diversity, and to do it all with a beautiful smile.

To watch the video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVVM9TGIvpI

A Teacher, and forever a student

Hey everyone,

I usually write updates about recent events in my life, but this time I want to look back and remember a friend. A friend that I knew for a short-time but that has taken a big place in my heart. Kalpna Mistry, a friend and classmate from the Harvard Graduate School of Education (HGSE), passed away on August 4, 2008, in the Philippines. This update is in loving memory of Kalpna, and an attempt to share the amazing energy and beautiful smile she added to the lives of those around her.

I met Kalpna in September 2006, the beginning of our brief and intense year at HGSE. It was in the first days of schools, when a group of young adults behaves very much like first graders: selecting outfits for the first impressions, observing quietly and sensing the social order of interactions, trying to be remembered but not stand-out. It was at the first Voices for Africa meeting, a student group that for three years had organized an annual conference to highlight and discuss education issues in Africa. Were we up to the task of organizing the fourth conference? I remember my introduction being cautious, listing my previous connections to Africa, justifying to myself the involvement with the group, trying to receive acceptance. Kalpna introduced herself with a huge smile, ‘I’ll help with anything,’ she said. She did not know so much about Africa, she admitted without any pretense, but she wanted to learn, and she wanted to share with others as she learned, her students, fellow classmates, everyone, so eager to learn and teach from the very beginning.

In time, Kalpna became an essential part of the team. She came to every meeting with energy and new ideas. She livened up the room with stories from her student-teaching experiences, with questions, and with a wide, kind smile we all grew to love and count on. She worked with another friend on a youth engagement project, making a short video to open the conference with youth’s perceptions of Africa. We all wanted to portray the challenges alongside solutions and optimism, to confront the stereotypical image of Africa dire with despair. We named the conference Alive with Hope! And it was a hopeful day, with a 180 participants who gave their Saturday to learn about Africa, speakers sharing best practices and lessons learned about the connection between education, health, and human rights, an African lunch, an NGO forum for people to connect and interact, and even dancing to live West African drum music. We shared this amazing day as a team, a real team, where everyone contributed how they could, and it was an incredible feeling, the power of efforts coming together. After the conference Kalpna continued with enthusiasm, helping to organize smaller events, including a session on ideas for teaching about Africa. She was always bringing people together to learn from each other and improve the collective ability to teach others.

On a different day, Kalpna attended a workshop organized by another group I was a member of, Education for Global Citizenship. We organized a session about Global Classrooms, a program by the United Nations Association of Greater Boston with the aim of developing global understanding among students. I always wonder about these sessions; people listen, write down notes, ask a few questions, but outside the room, I’m not sure what happens. After the session, Kalpna asked questions about the program and how she could bring it to her secondary school. A few days later I put her in touch with the organizers of the program. That is how I will always remember Kalpna. She was never just learning, but always soaking in with incredible thirst all the opportunities around her. She never saw something interesting and waited passively to see how things work out, but rather took it upon herself to make it happen, to act. She made global classroom happen in her school, and more than that, with her guidance her students won the Massachusetts conference and were sent to New York for the national UN Model Conference. When I wrote Kalpna to congratulate her, she responded: “thanks sweets! It was all you - you planted the seeds. Thank you for working so hard this year - you impacted me and my students!”

We all work hard to leave the world a little bit better than we found it, and rarely to the results of our effort fold out in-front of us. Often, we carry on faith, that somehow, somewhere, in some complex hidden web of connections our kindness makes a difference. Kalpna reminded me to believe in the power of enthusiasm, dedication, and passion, that every day is an opportunity to impact someone in a way we can’t even imagine and might never understand. We’re like passengers on trains that cross each other occasionally and we get to wave, reach out, smile, and then we continue on our journeys, and often we don’t see the ripples of our interactions. Kalpna was the true embodiment of one of my favorite quotations, author unknown: "I shall pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again." Since Kalpna passed away so many people, her students, colleagues, classmates, and friends have left messages about how she impacted our lives. We probably should have said thank you earlier, but I hope she knows how fortunate we all feel to have known her, to be blessed with her energy.

Since we graduated from HGSE in June 2007, Kalpna and I exchanged one or two brief e mails. I went to Uganda, and she went to San Francisco. It probably would have been years before we would have seen each other again. And yet, her sudden departure from this world leaves a tremendous hole. Somehow, knowing that she is not in California, being an amazing teacher and bringing issues of compassion and social justice to her classes, makes me feel empty. We walk around with empty spaces for those we have lost. It is hard not to fill these spaces with sadness, but in memory of Kalpna, I hope to overflow the space in my heart with inspiration. Kalpna described her profession as a teacher (and forever a student), and I will forever be guided by her passion to understand and to share in all we do.

Not much to report on the home front, we are all well and continuing with work, medical treatments, and the simple joy of being all together.

Thank you for being in my life,

and a special thank you to Kalpna, I will always remember you.

Inbal

Kalpna and our team at the Voices for Africa Conference

The bonds that free us

Hello everyone,

I hope you have been well. It has been a long time since I have written, and the hiatus has not been for lack of activity, but rather a temporary disconnect between thoughts and words.

A few weeks ago, Pierre finished his contract in Niger and arrived in Boston. Before settling into our new life together, we went to Vermont for a weekend. It was nice to get away from the city and spend some time hiking and enjoying beautiful views. During our hike, I was intrigued by the roots of the trees among us. The roots from each tree do whatever it takes to bring water and nourishment. The roots of some trees spread far and wide, capturing water for the tree, painting the ground with an intricate system of pathways. The roots of one tree have forced through a rock, struggling against the odds through the tough surface. As for forest is more dense, the roots dance around each other, entangled in a graceful competition, until each reaches deep into the ground to fetch water for the green leaves above. On the pine trees, the newest addition of leaves is a bright green, the green of youth ever reaching for the sky, away from the roots that make this growth possible. We come back feeling refreshed and the experiences of the past few months have settled deep enough to find meaning in the soul.

In May, I had the incredible opportunity to travel back to Uganda. The Bantwana Initiative, the organization I work for in Boston which supports children orphaned and made vulnerable by HIV and AIDS, is starting a new project in Western Uganda, supporting ten community groups to care for orphans in their communities. Western Uganda is stunningly beautiful, covered with green hills as far as the eye can see. The variety of greens, mixing and merging as the car zooms between the hills, seems like a painting of life. The mango trees are a wise green, dark and old with age, and appear especially dignified in contrast to the light, birth green of beans and corn, growing anew each year. The eucalyptus green is deceiving, dark as if mature with age, but somehow in its speed as the fastest growing tree, distinguishable as less experienced. The tea plantations are a succulent green, bursting with flavor and highlighting the bright-colored fabrics that adorn the women working for hours in the sun. In this painting of green, villages are hidden, communities flourish and struggle, and individuals grow and wilt. We visit a few community groups that have organized to provide services for orphans and vulnerable children. The community spirit is inspiring; when parents die and families are unable to take care of children left behind, the community steps in and protects. Whether it is through collecting money to send sick children to the hospital, or teaching adolescent to grow and sell pineapples to generate income, whether it is through protecting vulnerable children from those who might exploit them, or listening to worries and concerns with a compassionate ear, community members do what it takes to nourish the body and spirit of children so they can grow into healthy adults. The challenges are immense, but the roots of hope are there, and as part of Bantwana it is an honor to nourish those community roots, and although the support is modest, it is powerful. Working with the team in Uganda is fantastic and we always have interesting conversations. On another field visit, we travel to a remote region of Northern Uganda I have not been to before. There is something incredibly exhilarating about traveling on an unknown road, not knowing what to expect beyond the winding curves. As the road gets narrower and the bumps get larger, I feel thankful for the companionship of my colleagues and the comfort we have together; an unknown path is an adventure when one feels in good company. I feel thankful for all the positive experiences I have had in Uganda, a country where the earth, and air, and feeling make me stable enough to enjoy surprises. We drive across a swamp, a rice field, tiny villages, people resting by the road, and even a group of Ugandan Crested Cranes, majestic birds with golden feather crowns. At the end of our road, we meet with welcoming representatives of the community we are visiting and discuss potential ideas for working together, and on the way back we feel sufficiently welcomed that the road feels familiar and we’re on the way home.

In this busy work schedule, I manage to take two days off and rush to Gulu to visit family and friends. Arriving in Gulu is like being air-dropped into a memory. The overall feeling is familiar, like I never left. Baby Kilama is a bit older and growing teeth, Marion is finished school, and Samson and Babu can swim the length of the pool, but aside from these signals of growth and passage of time, the place feels the same. I go to the Windle Trust office and visit my colleagues whom I have missed and feel energized again about the project, about staying involved, and about how much it means to war-affected youth to go to school and dream of a future. I run into a student of the program on the street, and I am delighted to hear she is doing so well in school. By the end of one day, I feel the routine has waited for me, with its wonders and frustrations. We have dinner together, Betty’s and Mike’s large family, which consists of family, neighbors, and friends, and we enjoy the simple time together. The girls spend the night making me odi, the peanut paste that is so thick and delicious it coats every part of my mouth with the taste and memory of Gulu. Back in Kampala I see Betty, who is back and forth between Kampala, Gulu, and Juba, putting all her heart and soul into a peace process campaign with the LRA, which has recently ended without an agreement and fills our hearts with disappointment. I also see the Kampala girls, Betty’s daughters who attend university, and as we share our stories of the past few months and feel a renewed closeness, I feel thankful for the resiliency of friendship. Leaving Gulu almost six months ago, I felt an intense fear that departure symbolized an ending. As months go by the intensity withers but the fear lingers, that a place, a people, a life that meant so much is now in the past, something that was but not is and may not again be. Coming back to Gulu is an affirmation that it will always be in my life, the details may change, but the important aspects remain. Return is a confirmation that past bonds are strong enough to be sustained into the future. It is a sort of settling of roots in a place and people and memory that allow you to leave and come back and never leave at the same time. There is an immense freedom from being welcomed back.

Back at home, in Needham, we’re a full family, all my sisters are home, and with Pierre, we’re as large a family as we have ever been. Unfortunately, after five months on a clinical trial, my dad is not responding as well as hoped to the treatment, and in the coming month he will be changing to a new treatment. On the bright side, he is still feeling well and will take the break between treatments as an opportunity to go visit family in Israel. Certainly, this change is a bit of a setback, but my dad is so sure that in time he will be ok that these hills along the way do not set him off course. As I watch him go through these ups and downs, I am amazed at the speed and grace with which he shakes off frustrations and at the pure power of believing in a dream. He is so strongly attached to his optimism that he is freed from dwelling on concerns.

Among memories and dreams of Uganda, treasured moments with family, and looking forward to surprises of the future, I find myself amazed at the inner peace of the past few weeks. I realize that for those of us for whom home is not a place, we grow roots into people, feelings, memories, and dreams. Whether it is burrowing toes into earth, entangling fingers with someone who gives us strength, or sending seedlings of dreams into the sky, roots stabilize us through the ups and downs and nourish the soul. And while we may spend so much of our life trying to escape and overcome the paths forged for us by history, we struggle even more to settle roots that water our hopes. In the end, we find security and comfort in adhering to people, places, and memories we love, and it is these bonds that free us to explore, and grow, and come back.

Thank you for being in my life,

Inbal

Pictures from Uganda:

With the family, and baby Kilama





From Western Uganda,




With Betty and the girls, and Kampala from Above



Back in Needham, celebrating Pierre's arrival, and watching the Celtics win the championship



Beautiful Vermont:

Desperate Optimism

Hey Everyone,

I hope you have been doing well.

For those of you that have followed my updates for a few years now, you remember that I always learn something through public transportation. Well, Boston is no exception, and during my many rides on the T (Boston’s very old subway system), I meet some interesting people.

I met two very different women on the T the other day. The first woman is a bit strange; she has large and oddly vacant eyes and curly red hair, giving her a little bit of that crazy person look. She starts knitting very colorful sox as the train shakes and moves. After a few minutes, she turns to me, glances at the apple I am eating, and says that apples are the best snack. I nod in agreement, and between apple bites, we begin to talk. Turns out she is half blind, thus the strange looking eyes, but she makes an effort to live a normal life. She’s even learned to knit and ski, and plays ultimate frisbee with a team that has welcomed her and agreed to play with a bright orange Frisbee so she can see it better. She is taking her friend who is fully blind to ski in Colorado. He will have a full time instructor the entire time to give him verbal instructions. Even though people had hurt her, like her recent boyfriend who broke up with her because it was "too difficult" for him, she is so kind and interesting and open minded.

I get off the train to change grains, and while waiting, I notice this other lady, average looking, even pretty. She has an interesting and very intellectual conversation with her friend about social work and health care services for the poor. When her friend goes on another train, she begins to talk to me. We talk about social work, and all of a sudden she is angry, about Boston being taken over by immigrants who refuse to assimilate, about immigrants who dilute our good culture, until "our water turns their color." Immigrants who have no respect for women, and think they can come here and continue to be abusive, she says. I recognize the problem of people coming from societies with high rates of abuse towards women, and that it is unacceptable to use the “culture card” to justify violence again women, but I am uncomfortable by her generalizations. I can't keep quiet, and talk back about balance. “Immigrants also bring good additions to our culture and we do not want to lose that. And besides, Americans do not have all the answers either… I mean we produce more angry young people who shoot their university classmates for fun out of any country in the world.” But she is stuck in her anger and continues with comments about Asians being like this, and Blacks being like that, etc etc. I am relieved when she gets off the train. I feel embarrassed to even be next to her. She seems normal but anger her made her crazy, she seem smart but hatred is stupid, she seems pretty but there is nothing beautiful about prejudice.

I do not know these women and so I cannot judge them. However, from these brief interactions, I appreciate the power of attitude. One woman has chosen to blame the world for her woes, and the other had decided to make the best out of everything in life. The difference is in their attitudes, the decision to make life happy, the optimism to believe that it can be happy. I’ll always remember my friend on the train; though life has taken away her ability to see, she dazzles the world with brightly colored sox.

This amazing sense of optimism, reminds me of one of my best friends, Lindsey. When Lindsey’s auntie Nancy died of cancer last year, I remember the sense of anger that it was not fair that a person loved by so many is no longer with us. Lindsey could have drowned in that sadness, but she did not. In honor of her aunt, Lindsey decided to run the Boston Marathon as a fundraiser for the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. We’ve talked about this often, and between her law school papers and other responsibilities, Lindsey is determined to support others to win the battle against cancer. In a few months, Lindsey raises over $10,000 in donations for Dana Farber. A few days ago, we have the privilege of watching Lindsey run a marathon. My dad made a lovely poster, Run Lindsey Run, and along with my mom we join the crowd of supporters on the course. Lindsey runs by us, and 18 miles into the race, she manages to smile, wave, and say “Guy, you are my hero.” My dad is very touched and happy, and I, the eternal sentimentalist, break down in tears of joy, and happiness, and sadness. I then rush to the T, to try to see Lindsey at the finish line. People are being super nice on the T even though we are cramped like sardines. A nice woman has her blackberry and is checking people’s time online for everyone. Lindsey is running fast and at the rate the T is going, she’ll get to the finish line before me! We’re all talking to each other about our friends and family who are running, and there is a sense of unity around this simple event of having loved ones on the running course. I wonder why we can’t find this unity every day. We all love our children and friends in their life courses, but somehow we find it harder to unite around our more abstract similarities. After the finish line, as Lindsey is struggling to step over the side-walk curb, I realize it is purely on the strength of will power that she ran the marathon. We often wave off optimism and something foolish, silly, perhaps even naïve. There is something incredibly real, inspiring, and foolishly powerful about positive energy that carries a person 26.2 miles.

The power of optimism is a good opportunity to update you about the Football Tournament for Peace in Kibera. Earlier this year, in the aftermath of post-election violence in Kenya, many of us watched Kenya with great concern. During one of many worried phone calls and text messages to friends in Kenya, a dear friend of mine shares the idea of a football tournament for peace in Kibera, as an opportunity to bring the community back together. From this conversation, the idea is written into a document, shared with other friends in Kenya and abroad, discussed over the phone again and again. Within a week or so, we decide to really go for it, to make this event happen. People in Kibera join the effort and soon enough we have an organizing team on the ground, with individuals whose commitment to this cause is phenomenal and whose creativity makes this idea their own. We ask for support from friends and family, and the response is overwhelming. People care about Kenya, about peace, about not watching suffering with indifference, about giving hope a chance. In less than two months, we raise $4,500 to support youth activities for peace and non-violence in Kibera. On April 17-20, the tournament took place in Kibera. In the days leading to the event, 100 students were educated on peace and non-violence. In the tournament, 640 youth, both boys and girls, played in football matches, watched by over 1000 community members who gathered from all parts of Kibera. The tournament brought together groups from various villages within the slum - in this way breaking down fears of moving outside their own “safe” areas which many residents have faced since the unrest. Local women’s groups, in-school youth, artists and musicians participated by performing skits, songs and poems about peace and non-violence at the event. The most amazing aspect for me has been the formation of a true coalition for peace in Kibera. The organization of this tournament brought together community groups and non-governmental organizations who after seeing the power of working together are considering continuing the coalition into the future. Thank you all for your support, this experience has taught me the force of optimism to turn an idea into reality.

And yet sometimes our optimism is challenged, and our hope humbled, and the world really is a tough place. I was recently in Paris, on a wonderful visit with Pierre and his family. We had a lovely time, a magical week, of meeting family and friends, enjoying art, savoring delicious food (and cheese!) and cherishing our moments with each other. In the midst of this joy, we come across a beautiful photo exhibition outside the Luxemboug gardens. The exhibit has pictures from the past 30 years of various events and places in the world. The mixture of spectacular places, beautiful people, and devastating events and circumstances is challenging to see. We live in such a beautiful world, and yet there is so much bad in it. I feel a bit silly, standing in beautiful Paris, hand-in-hand with my loved one, and shedding tears in front of a picture of mother and her son in a Darfur internally displaced persons camp. I realize in this moment just how much we need each other, all of us, loved ones and strangers; how we depend on love and happiness to protect our optimism and hope when the world seems so dark.

Here is Boston we are doing well. I am working on Uganda programs for the Bantwana Initiative at World Education, and it keeps me somehow connected the my beloved Uganda.

My father is continuing with his clinical trial and his numbers are improving slowly. On May 10, he will be walking 5 kilometers to raise money for the Multiple Myeloma Research Fund. You can support his effort at: www.active.com/donate/bos08/teamorbotech

I find it remarkable that through his personal health struggles, he can see with hope into the future, not only for himself, but for others, a world without cancer.

Gandhi said “be the change you wish to see in the world,” but perhaps before we can be the change, we need the hope to believe in it. So I try to be the hope I wish to feel in the world; to start each day with a desperate search for optimism, look for it like it is gold, search for it in people’s eyes, gasp for it like it is oxygen needed to breathe, and find it in the most unexpected places, a smile, an act of kindness. I savior it, hang on to it when I can. When a blind woman is knitting, admire her. When a friend is crazy enough to run a marathon and raise 10,000, support her absolutely. When someone shares an idea, act on it. It may seem desperate, but in the end, we are all looking for our own way to both save the world and savior it, and optimism is the fuel that keeps us going.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal

Pictures from the tournament in Kibera:


One of the girls teams, and the crowds in Kibera




Coalition members talking about peace and non-violence


Pictures from Paris:







With my dad:

The best we can

A few days ago, after waiting with my mother in the kitchen and talking, I go upstairs to check where my father is? He has promised to make us his famous coffee, using the very loud coffee machine. I find him in his office, sitting by his computer, and looking hard at work. I glance at the screen over his shoulder to see what has delayed our caffeine intake, and I am perplexed by the different graphs adorning the computer screen. “These are all my test results, layered on top of the treatment cycles, and the other indicators.” I try to understand. “See over here,” he says while pointing at an intersection, “that’s now, when I feel pretty well.” Eventually, we get our coffee, and it is good, very good. In thinking about my dad’s graphs and enjoying his professionally brewed coffee, I think that he has responded to all of life’s recent mysteries in the most authentic manner, in a way that is so exactly him. When there is a challenge, he tries to understand, and this time around, he is trying to understand what is happening inside his cells. When we need support, he is always ready to give, a kind smile, an uplifting cup of coffee.

Just yesterday, I attended an event called “Crisis, Creativity, and Courage,” organized by Physicians for Human Rights (http://www.physiciansforhumanrights.org/), in honor of International Women’s Day. Throughout the symposium we hear from artists who share poems, stories, songs and music related to the challenges faced by women around the world. Two women with beautiful voices sing a song of solidarity for women in Darfur. “We are all connected,” they sing with confident and emotional voices that carry loudly across the auditorium and fill the otherwise cold room with emotions. Another artist reads monologues by women. Although she is portraying women from far away places with experiences that seem farther than imagination, her ability to act takes us all outside our homes, our skins, our realities, into the lives of these women: a young girl in Morocco who is forced to marry at age 15, an Afghani mother in Holland who is a refugee with her children. The author of Monique and the Mango Rains, Kris Holloway, shares with us her experience of living in Mali, and why 20 years later she still feels passionate about community work in her host village. She reminds us all that if we define community as the people we love and care about, than there is no reason to stop our caring at the end of our street, or town, or country, or even continent. Towards the end, a group of young women share their stories of human rights work, and I feel honored to be among them, sharing what I have learned from the girls of Northern Uganda: the importance of hope and livelihoods in a human rights framework. In the evening, we are all treated to beautiful classical music, played passionately by the Longwood Symphony Orchestra, composed of physicians-musicians who in their work add years to life, and with their music, give meaning to years.

Listening to the beautiful orchestra, I look at all the talented people around me, and I can’t help but be thankful for the diversity. We all deal with the good and the bad events in a personal way, in a manner that makes sense with who are, our talents, skills, and passions. We often think, desperate times call for grand measures, and I think that pressure can lead to inaction. The best we can ask of ourselves is to respond in the best way we can, in our individual way, which is unique, and different, and important.

In response to the post-elections violence in Kenya, I have been involved with amazing groups of people that in the face of crisis have responded with creativity and courage. With the power-sharing agreement signed between the government and the rival parties, it is more important than ever to keep the momentum for peace, non-violence, and reconciliation in Kenya. Kibera is Kenya’s largest slum and like other slums in Kenya, it has borne the brunt of post-election violence and destruction. Home to an estimated one million inhabitants of mixed ethnic descent, the violence has polarized communities that have lived in peace for many years. Youth in Kibera want to shine again in the best way they can. They want to play football (soccer) and run across the fields with joy that showcases that friendships outlast violence and joy resurfaces from the worst of times. They want to sing and dance and share messages of what is important to them, to their future.

In response to these needs, I have worked with friends to support the Coalition for Peace in Kibera, a consortium of community-based organizations and interested individuals, led by the Community Support Group, who are committed to restoring peace and multi-ethnic harmony in Kibera slum in Nairobi. The Coalition is organizing a football tournament for peace on April 17-21, 2008. The football tournament for peace will be a great opportunity to bring together residents of Kibera in the spirit of peace and reconciliation. Youth will play football games in mixed ethnic teams to showcase reconciliation and enjoying together. Most importantly, youth will not only play football, but also present messages for peace. Youth will be engaged before the tournament to design peace messages, thereby building their skills as mediators and representatives of peace in their communities. The event will also showcase leaders who promote peace, as well as provide an opportunity for organizations working in Kibera to showcase their services. The planning for the tournament is well underway, and we need your support, in any way you can, by making a donation, by telling your friends, by sharing ideas with us about peace initiatives and youth programs. To make donations go to https://www.kiberafoundation.org/communities_together.asp and make sure you write “Kibera Football Tournament” in the comment box to designate your donation for this event. Every little bit helps, and with your support, I am hoping to raise $1000 for peace education in Kibera.

When I think about my dad’s graphs or about people who have suffered in Kibera, I wish with all my heart there was more I could to help, that I could solve complex scientific questions or compose music of peace. But my way is to write, and it is the best I can do. And as I write, I hope that the words dance in front of your eyes with various experiences; that words sing in your ears memoirs of a distant friend; that these few moments of reading heal a hidden scar that perhaps we share. As I write, I hope that these words connect us, collect us from chair in front of computer screens, and transport us to a future where we dare to imagine the beautiful potential of humanity, and future where we all care about each other.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal


Some pictures from my time to Kibera in June 2006

Chemotherapy for the Soul

“Cancer is a group of diseases in which cells are aggressive (grow and divide without respect to normal limits), invasive (invade and destroy adjacent tissues), and sometimes metastatic (spread to other locations in the body)” (Wikipedia).

Sometimes, on the long train-ride home, anonymous among a tight crowd of people that ride in silence, I think negative thoughts. Its sounds like an odd confession, but even the eternally optimistic have difficult moments. The “what ifs” and the “why us” and occasional the “it’s not fair” creep into my mind and with watery eyes I fight back the tears. Negative thoughts are a lot like cancer; they are aggressive, invasive, and seem to spread quickly in the mind. After a long day my mind drifts, and then, without warning, a negative thought appears, in the corner of my brain, a black spot. It is aggressive and moves all the other thoughts out of the way, worst; it invades the positive thoughts with doubt. Soon, the negative though is everywhere; it has taken over, ridiculing any attempt at a smile, a dream, or a joyful memory. I step off the train, and usually my father is waiting to pick me up with a warm car and smile, and I think, “we’ve survived to fight another day, and that is a reason to enjoy.”

Life has been about a lot of adjustments in the past month. At home, we are used to my father being the most energetic of all of us. As a kid, I used to tell my friends, in a state of bewilderment, how when my father walks next to candles, they blow out from the wind. In high school, my father and I amazed friends and family when we managed to see most of Los Angeles in two days; for us, vacation meant making the most of 48 hours. Therefore, it is hard to see my father feeling tired sometimes, not having the physical energy to keep up with his lively spirit. Though he has been feeling fine most of the time, it is even harder to see him sick, in the hospital. Despite these tough adjustments for all of us at home, my father has kept us all laughing. Those of you who read his blog (http://guyalon.blogspot.com/) know the jokes, about being a test-bunny in the clinical trial, about meeting a drug dealer in the hospital, about staying motivated at work so he could go to Italy for work meetings and enjoy the food. Laughter is perhaps the best medicine for pessimism. It does not simply fight back the negative thoughts; instead it takes the mind and shakes it all up, by the time the chaos of joy settles, you have a new perspective.

In development work, we tend to refer to working abroad as being in the field; not being in the field is hard for me. Though people often ask “how does it feel to be back in civilization” and with our many comforts, I often wonder why it is the most people don’t ask “how does it feel to be away from Uganda?” While my life in Uganda was certainly not glamorous, and at times even difficult, I loved my time there. I enjoyed waking up every morning and being around a family that infuses me with their support of each other, going to work with students who inspire me with their strength, and discussing with teachers who persevere in the face of tremendous challenges. There is a sense of satisfaction in the daily interactions with people, the small tasks, and the relationships. Being away from all of that is hard. And yet, I have been extremely lucky. In a city without a plethora of international development opportunities, I have been fortunate enough to work with Bantwana on issues regarding orphans and vulnerable children, a topic dear to my heart. Although I do not see the children daily, nor work with their caregivers, I find hope in the work that we do, in the belief that each small grant, each report, each document we write up, contributes to their well-being. It would be hard to see this big picture -- the children assisted by memos, the communities uplifted by long technical proposals for funding, and the lives changes among the mountains of paperwork -- were it not for my wonderful World Education colleagues, who support me in a steep learning curve and energize me with their own dedication to others. I’m also inspired by my work with the Human Rights Committee at Harvard. I’m working on a unit about children’s rights for a high school class at Boston Latin, and it is an interesting experiment for me in teaching about international rights frameworks, and indirectly, about compassion.

Among these ups and down, I find solace in books, in worlds far far away and friends who share fascinating stories. I recently finished, The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. In the book there is a character called May and in describing her the narrator says, "see, when you and I hear about some misery out there, it might makes us feel bad for a while, but it doesn't wreck our whole world. It is like we have a built in protection around our hearts that keeps the pain from overwhelming us. But May - she does not have that. Everything just comes into her - all the suffering out there - and she feels as if it is happening to her. She can't tell the difference."

At times I feel like May, like I can look at a person and share their stories. When I walk to the subway stop, I cross over the bridge and look at Boston, the high buildings with all the lights against the dark sky. I think about what those lights mean. Each light is an office, an apartment, a store. Each office, a person, a life, a story. I think of love, and I
imagine a couple holding hands and chatting in the office. I wish for them happiness, as much happiness as I know is possible from love. I think of my dad. I know somewhere in those tall bright buildings is someone who survived cancer. I admire that person, her strength, his resilience. Somewhere in those cold cubicle spaces is someone holding back tears, also thinking of a loved one fighting an illness. I want to give that person a hug and I hope someone will. I look at the lights and I see people, people I don't know, and yet I feel like I do. It can be beautiful -- the life in a city -- silent, organized, but with a bit of imagination every bit as real.

At times I feel like May, sharing the pain of the world’s troubles, and these days it is hard to be a world citizen. With Chad threatening to expel 300,000 refugees from Darfur, violence continuing in Kenya, and the ongoing turbulence in Iraq, it is tough to find hope. I talk to friends in Kenya who support their families through fearful times, who think about channels for peace, who wake up every morning and hope for a better day. I remember that hope is a choice and strength is practiced. There is something we can all do. If you feel the threat of being displaced, again, even after escaping genocide in Darfur, check out the Genocide Intervention Network (http://www.genocideintervention.net/) and take a stand. If you feel how fragile life is, that a country as brilliant and remarkable as Kenya can fall victim to political ambitions and greed, check out how the Stephen Lewis Foundation is supporting communities (http://www.stephenlewisfoundation.org/) or how Kenyans in the US are organizing for their brothers and sisters at home (http://www.vumakenya.org/). And there are other causes, and we all connect to humanity in different ways, the key is to connect.

Sometimes we all need a little hug, a smile, and encouragement to overcome the sad moments. People battling cancer, though strong in spirit, need a little bit of help from researchers and new treatments. My friend Lindsey is running the Boston Marathon for Dana Farber, in order to raise funds for cancer research. To find out more about her journey and to support her efforts, check out http://www.runlindsrun.org/

Negative thoughts are easy to drown in; they surround you and deceive with false promises of numbness and apathy. But you can fight these thoughts, with hope, support, and a little bit of faith in the positive. I think of you all, my friends and family, who have been so incredibly supportive and although I do not have a clinical trial to prove this, I know, you are chemotherapy to the soul.

And all of this happens in an instant, a brief moment on the train, and then I overcome, we overcome, and life goes on, as it always does.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal




Our cat, Shadow, in her favorite place




With parents out of dinner






With my sisters




At an art gallery in Western Mass.



With my dad

A time to share

Hey everyone,

I hope you are well. I wish you a happy (belated) New Year. I have not written for a long time, and a lot has changed in my life, and so it seems this is a time to share.

A new café opened for the large (and rapidly growing) expatriate population in Gulu. I mean a real proper yuppie café, with beautiful decorations, wooden furniture, an espresso machine, movies on Friday nights, and pancakes on Sunday mornings. I wonder how that fits with everyone’s war-zone stereotypes of Gulu, and hopefully it is an indication of peaceful times ahead. All benefits from the café go to support a children and youth art centre, and in order to promote the work of the centre, there is a beautiful exhibition of photographs taken by children in Gulu. The pictures portray everything, from the home, to the farm, to the camps, to the schools, and in order to present them all together, the theme chosen was: A time to… Each photograph shows a time to: a time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones, a time to plant, and a time to uproot, and time to cry and a time to laugh, a time for war and a time for peace. It is a creative show, and it has really made me think, there is a time for everything in life.

At work we have been very busy with organizing one-day educational workshops for our sponsored students. The purpose of the workshops is to supplement the secondary educational programme with topics that enrich the lives of students and motivate them to stay in school. We invite a hundred students at a time, and it is so much fun to interact with them on a more personal level. A couple of the workshops focused on career guidance and future planning, encouraging students to think about their future in a positive way, and strive towards their goals. Students got to interact with professionals from many fields and it was amazing, with a little bit of support, to see dreams grow in their eyes. Another workshop focused on communications skills through debating and performing arts. Students got to go on stage and present their talents, and it was wonderful to celebrate them. The last two workshops were for girls, and we talked about career planning, staying in school, reproductive health, and women’s leadership. The girls were so enthusiastic. We had honest conversations throughout the day. The one that affected me the most was about motivating ourselves despite challenges. One of the girls, who I have known quite well and has had a series of bad experiences because of the war, says when she feels really down she tells herself, “suffering is not the end of me.” I was amazed that at such a young age she has so much wisdom, that life is not about avoiding suffering, but realizing there is more joy afterwards. At the end of the workshop, we play the girls a song by India Arie called Beautiful Flower; they listen and sing along, and the sparkle in their eyes makes me feel proud, that for a brief day, we’ve give our students a time to dream.

On another day, I attend a girl’s advocacy day regarding reproductive health. An organization called Marie Stopes Uganda has trained young women in the internally displaced persons camps to be counselors. As girls who live in the camp, they are much more trusted and accessible than organizations coming into the camps for brief visits. On the advocacy day, the girls prepare a variety of presentations, speeches, songs, dances, and a photo exhibit. Their main concerns are sexual violence in the camps, early marriage, and being forced to drop out of school. They remind us there is still so much work to do with girls, and to be humble, because they are the real heroes. It is their time to speak and our time to listen.

On another day at work, it is a time to learn. Colleagues from GUSCO, a local organization providing counseling services to children and youth affected by war, came to train our staff on counseling skills. The most interesting conversation of the day was about the differences between sympathy and empathy, and the importance of empathy in counseling. The differences are subtle, but they feel important. We can think of sympathy as feeling sorry for someone. Empathy is trying to understand what someone feels like in a situation that may be unfamiliar to us. Sympathy is feeling sorrow that someone has to walk a hard path. Empathy is putting on their shoes and walking besides them. Acts of sympathy are motivated by a desire to feel better, to remove our own sorrow at others’ suffering, and are therefore driven by our own needs. Acts of empathy are motivated by compassion and kindness to the needs of others. Sympathy dulls over time, the more we hear about difficult circumstances of others, the more we desensitize ourselves to the pain. Empathy grows exponentially: the more we can see the world through the eyes of others, the more we yearn to act. Sympathy often leads us to work on behalf of people, empathy to work together.

Out of work, I am still living at Betty’s and Mike’s house, and the time home is a time to love. On Sundays, I take Baboo and Samson to the pool. They learn to swim and play with other children, and it is so wonderful to enjoy special moments together. Marion and Esther, two of Betty’s daughters, teach me how to make beads out of recycled paper. We make a few beautiful necklaces. Marion has a new job, and we go to buy her a bicycle to get to work. At home, it is the new toy, and everyone takes turns riding around the compound. At thanksgiving, my friend Jessica hosts a lunch, and we share with our Ugandan friends some of our traditions. At the end of the day, despite the detailed explanations of the tradition of thanksgiving and the large amount of stuffing prepared, Samson still says his favorite part of thanksgiving is the unlimited soda and the cartoons on Jessica’s TV. One day, a small kitten arrives at our house. Everyone decides he is my cat. I name him Cooch, which means peace, and from that day on he waits for me everyday at the entrance to the compound. My Ugandan family thinks I am a bit nuts for treating this cat like a baby, but it provides good entertainment for all at home. We spend the nights talking and watching Pilipino tele-novelas. And into this mix of joy, one normal morning, arrive Lakot and Kilama, and change my life in Gulu. Lakot is the daughter of one of Betty’s relatives. She is a young shy girl, with curious eyes and a soft smile. She has dropped out of school in her fifth year of primary school, after getting pregnant. She stays at one of the camps with her baby, Kilama, a chubby little boy, with soft brown skin, puffy hair, and large eyes. They’ve come because he is sick. They go to the hospital and he is treated for malaria. In a few days, he is healthy again and full of smiles. He is such a sweet baby, even when he pees on me through the cloth diapers. I hold him as soon as I get home, I sing to him French love songs, I tell him stories, he learns to crawl and stands up when we hold him. It is hard for me to watch Lakot struggle to take care of baby Kilama. She has so few opportunities in life, and now those challenges are passing on to her child. After a few conversations, I decide to support Lakot to attend a tailoring school for one year. The school has a daycare and she can attend with baby Kilama. She is scheduled to start in February. When you love, and you can, there is always a time to give. One evening, my friend Jessica is hosting a Wangoo, an Acholi practice of sitting around a bone-fire and telling stories. I sit with my Ugandan family, and Mike is telling us all stories of joyous times, and times of war, of hopes for peace, and of past memories, and it is wonderful to have this time together.

It has taken a long time, but I feel like I have settled in Gulu, that I have a life here. But life is always unpredictable. I receive a phone call from my father who sadly tells me that he has been diagnosed with cancer. He is beginning treatment, chemotherapy and eventually a stem-cell transplant, but the road to recovery is a long one. I listen and though he is the one with the illness, he is comforting me. It is a hard night, a time to cry. But I learn from my father, and in the morning it is a time to be strong. I remember that suffering is not the end, and somehow the pain opens my heart to empathy, like a wound that’s open. It is a strange overwhelming feeling, like I can hear stories as people walk by, feel challenges in people around me. It is painful, but it is also wonderful. Happiness is often fleeting, momentary, and very personal, and we rarely understand what makes other people happy. But in suffering we find a common bond, a shared optimism, an ability to understand each other, and oddly, a determination towards shared happiness.

I know in my heart I need to be home with my family. Now is the time to leave. I leave Gulu with sad goodbyes and a deep feeling in my heart that there will be a time to come back.

On route to Boston, I visit family in Israel and learn the amazing bond that exists in family, how despite time and distance, you always have a credit for kindness with family. I stop in Nairobi, Kenya, on Christmas Eve and visit friends who are also my family. By the time I get off the plane in Boston, Nairobi is in chaos over a fraud election, and although all my friends are ok, I feel deep sorrow that such wonderful people have yet again been robbed of a bright future.

Setting back in Boston for the next six months is going well, mostly thanks to good friends and my incredibly resilient family. I’ll be working part-time with Bantwana, an initiative for orphans and vulnerable children in Africa, based at World Education, a Boston-based international organization. I’ll also be doing some work with the Harvard University Committee on Human Rights. Despite the challenges, I’ve learned that even a long a tough road, there are times to enjoy and a time to be thankful.

If you think of my family as we support my father through his battle with cancer, think of us with empathy and with a prayer for health. Mostly, think of us with smiles for the incredible lessons we are learning from my father about the strength of the human spirit.

Thank you for being in my life,
Inbal

Student workshops in Gulu and Kitgum




The market in Gulu



At home


The cows coming back from grazing and interrupting laundry day


My cat, Cooch.


Lakot and Kilama, and Kilama, Cooch, and I.

Learning to make paper beads with Marion

Samson and Kilama enjoying the new toy

Goodbye partys


A street view of Kampala

Friends in Nairobi