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
