Waves of Change

Hi Everyone,

I hope you have been well. It has been a long time since I sent one of these updates, but you have all been in my thoughts.

My father is a numbers person so he has kept count; it has been 579 days since he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma and began treatments.

I remember the day he called, sitting on my bed in Gulu reading, after a long day of visiting students in different schools. He spoke, I listened, and his words dropped on me like a wave that takes the sand from under your toes and leaves you off balance, a magician’s curtain that falls and in an instant life is transformed. In the following weeks of goodbyes and packing, the waves kept coming, washing away the sand castle I had constructed in Gulu. Nothing can hold on the sand, like change it is comes and goes through the tiniest cracks.

I am not so much a numbers person, but more of sentimental one, so when I look through the memories, messages, cards, e mails, and pictures of the past 579 days, I see waves of change.

For me leaving Gulu and the wonderful Ocan family was difficult, for my family a year and a half of chemotherapy was a challenge, and yet for all we have lost, we have gained so much more. The time spent with my family and good friends in Boston, be it in Red Sox games, beautiful Boston gardens, snowy cold mornings, restaurants, our living room, or hospital waiting rooms has been a blessing. In challenging times, Pierre and I also found our way back to each other, from our corners in Africa to Boston, and it has been an incredible opportunity for Pierre and my family to get to know each other so well. I have taken classes in storytelling and healing, joined a writing group, met new people, learned to how to cook a few things from my mom, got to spend time with old friends, attend both of my sisters’ graduations; just a few of the pearls the waves dropped in my open palms, once I let go of the sand. The back and forth sounds of the waves, coming and going, going and coming, soothes and heals.

We had a family party this past weekend, to celebrate Lior’s graduation from high school, Neta’s graduation from University of Massachusetts, the engagement of Pierre and I, and my dad’s preparation for his stem-cell transplant. While I didn’t notice, the waves had constructed another castle in the sand. Change is the only constant we can count on. It reminds me in hard times that this too shall pass, and in good times to enjoy every moment because even happiness passes so that we can grow and learn and then be happy again in a new way.

So today, as my dad goes in for his stem-cell transplant, the procedure that will take him into remission and health, I feel another wave of change coming, and I am thankful. He will be in the hospital for three weeks, and then a few more months of recovery at home. My dad’s strength, courage, grace, and optimism have been an inspiration to all of us and many others. Thank you for your thoughts, prayers, wishes, and support over the past year and a half. It has meant a lot to all of us. In September, Pierre and I plan to move back to Uganda; life may not be predictable, but it has a way of taking us where we need to be.

I am also attaching a short fiction story I have written, as some of you have asked about my progress in the creative writing realm. It has been slow, but very enjoyable. This short story here is based on a moment at the airport, a split second of seeing someone stopped by immigration control, the rest is fictional… some story my mind visited.

We’ll be in touch soon.

Thank you for being in my life,

Inbal

Short story and a few pictures from the party below.

________________________________________________________

Jacob Dinka, a short work of fiction by Inbal Alon

‘Jacob Dinka,’ the passport control officer says in a quiet voice.

‘Yes,’ Jaco says trying to look like his picture, taken long ago in better days.

‘Jacob, when did you arrive in Uganda?

Jaco notices her hair, very finely braided, a sign of a woman who cares about her appearance.

‘Jacob, when did you arrive?’ She asks again, more sternly.

Jaco wishes she’d stop calling him Jacob, a good biblical name he wishes to forget and leave behind.

‘About a year ago,’ he says politely.

He can feel her glance on his dark skin, stopping around the three parallel lines scarred under each of his eyes.

‘Where are you from?’

His passport says Sudan, his skin says Sudan. Jaco feels annoyed that she has to ask, as if asking for a confession that no, I am not from your perfect little country.

‘Sudan, Madam, I am from Sudan.’

‘You’ve over stayed your visa sir, by months. According to my calculations you owe…’

She stops and looks down. The computer keys click loudly and repeatedly. Each click another penalty.

‘$258. The penalty for your illegal stay is Uganda is $258.’

Jaco doesn’t need to check his wallet. He knows that he has exactly $23.04. He changed all 44,928 Ugandan shillings with a money changer offering the best rate in all of Kampala. He pulls out his wallet slowly, counting the money one bill at a time. The passport officer seems happy to give him time to count. To his left Jaco notices the other passport control officer, a young Ugandan guy with a wide smile and shaved head. People are passing him continuously, Ugandan in business suits, children in their church clothes, and tourists with their over-paid straw baskets and African-print T-shirts. No one seems to have a problem getting through. The passport control officer on the left is just stamping each passport with no questions. The stamp has a loud clunk of authority. The sound is almost mocking Jaco.

Clunk, safe travels. Clunk, come again. Clunk, have a good vacation.

Silence, you’ll never leave.

‘You got it?’, the passport control officer on the right interrupts.

Jaco wishes he went to the left.

‘One second, let me check my bag.’

Jaco wonders if his brother has left the airport already. He is sure he is long gone and he feels scared for the first time. Jaco wishes Mo would come with him. Jaco is the older brother and he feels ashamed to leave Mo behind, especially since they are the only family they have left. Last time they saw their mother was when their village in South Sudan was bombed.

‘Run Moses, do not stop, she begged.’

Moses, another good biblical name. She’d hate to know Jaco turned it into Mo. Their father, woke up one morning, not long before the village was bombed, and joined the SPLA, the liberation army. That was the last time they saw him. When they walked from Sudan to Ethiopia, Jaco told everyone their names were Mo and Jaco. Now, he does not really remember why. After years in refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya, many of the lost boys of Sudan got resettled all over the world. Jaco and Mo stayed in Kakuma camp. Jaco got sick of camp life and they escaped, hitch-hiked to Uganda, and bribed a young border control officer to give them 6 months tourist visas.

‘Sir, please step aside while you find the money. I need to help others in line.’

Jaco steps aside, his thoughts racing.

After they got their visas, Jaco and Mo got a small room in an iron roof shack in Namuongo, one of Kampala’s muddy slums. They opened a radio fixing shop in the market, a skill Mo had learned in the refugee camp. Jaco kept records and walked around the market finding customers. Money was always tight; sometimes not even enough for food. The business was losing money, spending more on parts and rent than the revenue from customers. Jaco wanted to keep Mo’s dreams alive so he took out loans in secret. It did not take long before he started defaulting on the payments. When he started to get beat up every other day by bullies to whom he owed money, Mo was convinced that he drank their money and was getting into trouble. Mo told Harriet, Jaco’s girlfriend, who was four months pregnant. Harriet left immediately; abused by her own alcoholic father for many years, she did not even given Jaco a chance to explain. Jaco has spent every night since then dreaming about his baby girl who he will never know. He remembers how Harriet used to kiss his scarred decorations and how much he loved her for it. Perhaps I should have told her, he thinks.

Without his brother’s partnerships and Harriet’s love, Jaco felt there was nothing left for him in Uganda. He saw an add in the paper: some sleazy looking entrepreneur that helps with applications to foreign universities and makes money when students send back some of their living stipends to pay their debts. The advert did not say anything about what happens to those who do not get in to any university. Jaco did not like the man’s picture in the newspaper, but he felt out of ideas and contacted him. He applied for a university in Atlanta, the applications man had some intelligence that they were looking for more Africa students, and Jaco got accepted with a full scholarship; the entrepreneur made his money. Jaco had good grades at the refugee camp school and with all the hype around the Lost Boys, each university was looking for its own alumni magazine article. Mo dropped Jaco at the airport, wished him a good life, and walked away as fast as he could. Jaco wished that bombs were falling on his head, to make this hurried, non-emotional goodbye feel necessary, not chosen.

From behind him, other passengers keep passing through in both lanes. I step to the side and the right lane becomes an express, Jaco thinks with a tint of resentment. Minutes ago he was just like the other passengers, passing through, checking in, looking at duty free windows, heading towards his gate of departure. Behind him is the path from which he came. He can’t go back; he gave Kampala all he had and he does not think he’ll survive long, he wouldn’t want to if he had to go back. In front is the path to a new life, an educated life in a new country, but the road seems blocked. To his sides, Jaco notices the duty free windows. There are bottles of alcohol lined up on clean shelves, expensive imported alcohol that makes you just as stupid. He hates alcohol, and shifts his glance. There is a poster of a white lady, sitting in a suggestive position, with a huge diamond necklace on her neck. He thinks of Harriet and looks away. A tourist has picked up a lion doll with bright yellow fur; Jaco feels confused why anyone would spend so much money on a toy that is not even accurate. Was the woman not just back from safari? Did she not notice lions are an earthy brown? Above her a flat screen TV is sitting by the window, its screen blank. Even if something was showing on that TV, no one would watch, too busy with the travels ahead. Mo would die for a TV like this; he’ll never have one. On another shelf chocolates wrapped in bright colors adorn the wall; the price of one pack could feed a family in Namuongo for a month. He observed this world of money, a world in which he knows he does not belong, and should have never tried to cross. All of a sudden he feels dizzy.

‘Sir, are you ok? The passport control officer looks at him with a glimpse of concern.

‘I think so.’

‘I cannot let you through without the money.’

Clunk

The gate is on the right, so close but so far away.

Clunk

‘Please hurry up, the flight is departing soon.’

Clunk

Everyone is going

Clunk

Everyone but you

Clunk

Clunk

Clunk

The ceiling seems to be spinning, the blue tiles on the floor seem to shift from side to side. People are walking fast from both sides of Jaco, announcements are made on the loud speaker for boarding. The noises and sights mix in Jaco’s head and Mo is all alone in Kampala and his baby has no father and the university has no lost boy. Jaco runs to the bathroom and sits on the floor, which is cleaner than any toilet he’s used in a long time. He holds his head and cries, tears that are years over due. He knows that soon airport security will find him. He’s not sure where they will take him – back to Kampala, a detention center, on to his flight to Atlanta – and he really does not care. ‘Wherever they take me next, Ma, I’ll start again as Jacob, I promise.’

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pictures from the Family Party

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

____________________________________________

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

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

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.

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

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.”

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

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.

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

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: