We Would Have Met

Subject: We Would Have Met
From: Ali Boyd
Date: July 28, 2010 12:13:20 AM EDT
To: Dean Chahim

Dear Dean,
We would have met Sunday in a tiny pueblo with only one phone. I would have been standing next to the plaza, in between the tourist office and the replica of a dinosaur. We would have not even mentioned the dinosaur, because, it was of course normal. (This is Toro Toro, famous for its prolific dinosaur footprints). I would have seen you first because I was facing the exit from the main road as I waited. I met Claudia when she asked me, without an introduction, if I had been into the cave yet. I would have told you, as I told her, that yes we went the day before. After formal introductions, we would talk logistics - where we work, where we live, where we stayed in Toro Toro, what time we were leaving. I would have told the same antecodoate about waking up in a sketchy hostal, 5 of us sharing 3 beds, and finding another man in the bed reserved for our driver, Ricardo.

We could have laughed about the absurdity of a $5 room and the stranger we did not pay for, and then left to go talk Bolivian politics. I could ask you if you saw the abandoned houses flanking the Santa Cruz road. Our conversation could have played out effortlessly. "Did you read the El Diario article about the police forcefully evicting the squatters? The pictures were so intense! It looked like a war zone, with all the tear gas and riot gear! What do you think about squatters rights? The Landless Workers' Movement?"

But, we did not meet Sunday. In your place, I met your Engineers Without Borders posse and a friendly girl named Claudia. Maybe one day we can line up time zones and I won't have to explain that we have yet to meet, frente a frente, that we have only worked for Beyond Good Intentions. This "six degrees theory" is starting to seem like a joke -

Until then, we will continue sharing the Latin America we love so much,
Ali

God and Graffitti

If you ever come visit, I can give you directions. In other words, I just passed the halfway mark and feel that I can confidently say that I have settled into Cochabamba. I ran through all the basics - bought a cell phone, a Bolivian SIMM card and minutes, secured internet and a working computer charger. (This was done after Raffo, my Bolivian dad, pulled out the pesky third prong of my charger). I became the proud owner of a TIGO USB internet stick so I could go mobile and connect to a 3G network; imagine trying to browse the internet and run an inappropriate amount of tabs on Firefox using an iPhone. I just assumed I had the when-traveling-in-a-developing-country-do-the-following¨ formula down. Not in Cochabamba.

I intentionally arrived on a Friday to have the weekend to familiarize myself. I quickly realized I was limited effectively to the the suburbs for three days. I panicked because I am in a very nice apartment building, Cochabamba Proper, if you will. I had come to apply what I study at Furman - Political Science/poverty/Latin American studies - and found myself in a sanitized suburb. One can´t exactly feel the movement from 3b. Surely I was cheating on solidarity with my fancy address!

My home-stay is very "safe" meaning I live in a very modern apartment building kilometers away from the city center, and thus the Plaza Principal that hosts all the political activity. As I write this, the hunger strike just ended Sunday and there have already been two protests this week (it is Tuesday). Ironically, part of me is slightly relieved because I am more aware of my personal safety here then every before. Stories circulate about the friends of friends who have been mugged, hurt or scared. So for now 3b will work until my Spanish catches up with my political curiosity. I can't exactly ask the person with the knife to wait while I conjugate verbs.

The first day my orientation started when I was picked up and shown how to use public transportation. You might be thinking, shouldn’t you know how to use public transportation if your traveling this much? Maybe you should re-think your blog name... I know it seems basic, but it really is a game you have to learn. There are cultural cues, social norms and rules you have to be introduced to. I catch a trufi, a glorified minivan/microbus, five times a day. Line 260. You exit and leave at any time. I try my best not to be conscious of my Spanish and therefore rendered mute, but it is hard. Especially after I learned I was yelling the wrong phrase, instead of "voy a bajar," I was confidently parroting "voy a dejar." I now just stick with ¨la esquina por favor¨ or simply follow someone out. The other day when I asked to stop, a man in the front seat literally turned around to see who was speaking with the accent.

My research paid off because my school,Bolivia Sostinable is legit. It is exactly like the Vista House, an intentional community. It is a communal house hosting residents, the office, and classrooms. There is even an Art Resident (Vista house addition, no ve?).

My saving grace was catalyzed by an announcement my first day at Bolivia Sostinable for a politics lecture! I was able to get more of a grasp on the last 8 years, 5 presidents, the Water War, Gas War, and exactly why there is no longer a US Ambassador, DEA or Peace Corps presence. This was complimented by my city tour where I witnessed a military demonstration and my first Cochabamba protest. I don't exactly know what the issue was, but I think land rights. My protest vocabulary set was not exactly up to par yet, but I did recognize the word justicia.

In the absence of a map (naturally, the tourist office shut down for the week while the government changed over) I started using God and graffiti to orient myself. They are static and easy to remember. Street names are more challenging – they are mostly other inanimate objects such as countries (Espana, Ecuador, America) or dates (14 de septiembre, 9 de abril). I assume with 188 coups in 157 years, it is safer to name streets after famous dates than fleeting heads-of-state.

I know that I need to keep Jesus (that statue that is) on my left on the way to school and behind me to go home. If I take a taxi to the school, I follow the wall that begins with instructions to ¨resist the working class¨and concludes with the ominous "Assassinate Evo." To go to the Plaza Principal, I connect the dots of unimaginative communist graffiti all the way down calle Sucre. It is time to get off for Taraja when I am informed, in English, PUNK IS DEAD. I was terribly late on morning when I passed a huge mural depicting the Water Wars and their slogan ¨el agua es nuestro, carajo." (The fact I liked the mural and would have trouble relocating it meant I was kilometers away from my destination). I eventually was able to consecrate my fresh-from-the-US-it-took-2-weeks-thanks-mom and dad for all your help-debit card in the Anarchy ATM Machine, instructing us to "destroy and rebuild." Finally, I designated my favorite work of graffiti ¨libre palestina,¨ complete with a picture and a slogan. It is not Banksy, but I take it as a christening each time I pass under the bridge that welcomes me back to the suburbs. I am reminded why I am here. I am in Cochabamba, laying my pride on the line, to learn radical spanish, one saturated with politics. I am "arming my voice."



From 3b to Bolivia Sostinable:

Leave Edificio Altamira, calle America


Flag a truffie from line 260


Keep Jesus on your left as you head into the city




Arrive at Bolivia Sostinable


My teacher and I abandoned the charming 2 person classrooms to work outside



Important Landmarks:

"Resist the Working Class"


"Free Palestine"


"Destroy and Rebuild"


This is my "I-am-a-quasi-tourist-but-live-here, don't-rob-me-outfit"
No bag + pants = cell phone + cash --> I bought flowers for my home-stay family on my first visit to La Cancha, the largest market in South America

To: dgourdin@uchicago.edu / Subject: Visas

Yet another email. They seem to be the most effective way to show the tension between real life and politics:

Subject: Visas
From: aliboyd@mac.com
Date: July 17, 2010 11:06:25 PM EDT
To: dgourdin@uchicago.edu

They are 135, approximately the same amount it is for Bolivians to enter the US. Though its a little different when you are the poorest country in South America and the American government is convinced your life goal is to fly legally into a country and then never return. From Rio, it is about a 5 day trip one way via bus and/or train.

Your only option would be to fly or meet me in Paraguay (Asuncion on the 11th) but I think would push your Chicago schedule too far. Also, that is another Visa. Maybe you should just change your citizenship ... The tickets are running at about $800. [Because] we have no infrastructure here thanks to extreme poverty and no real commercial airlines thanks to former President Goni who sold the airlines to cut a World Bank deal. Even though he fled after The Gas Wars for the sanctuary of the US, there are only 3 commercial airlines, one of which is military.

I would still say come. I am convinced if I could show you this version of the Global South you would be permanently recruited from Africa. Did I mention the Bolivian VP is a sociologist?"

ATM vs. Anarchy

One of my favorite emails sent to my mother while trying to live in Bolivia:

Subject: ATM

Tried it again. I even went to my favorite ATM in the city - the machine conveniently next to la Universidad San Simón and placed above the anarchy graffiti, instructing us to "destroy and rebuild" ...
I thought since I was trying to fight The Man but still use The Man, it would show a little grace.
Alas, nada... hypocrisy is transparent.

On the Edge of the Kingdom

The 15th anniversary of Srebrenica is today;  these strong women buried 775 Muslim men and boys this year. See "Boxing a Youtube Genocide" for my post from the anniversary last year.
The following is a piece I wrote for Jottings, the literary publication of the Mere Christianity Forum. I reflect on my experiences in the wake of war. Where others seem to lose God, I found Him/Her in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. 

Though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil

Psalm 23:4

My Jottings submission: 

I was ready. I had no choice. I had to go in prepared, rehearsed and researched. Three visits to massacre sites in less than two years. Yet, this time I was alone to visit and conduct research in Srebrenica, the site of the worst European massacre since World War II.

The wake of war became shockingly casual - burned houses with naked skeletons of three story houses were familiar. I continued with my daily routine, trying to forget that the house in front of mine suffered the loss of three boys. I continued shopping for groceries even after realizing the man in the juice aisle has no left arm; then rationalizing that it was more important that was a man still alive.

I joined the 30, 000 people at the Memorial Ceremony of July 11, 2009. Fourteen years after the war ended, Srebrenica had only to bury 534 men and boys that year. They laid to rest 534 more from the over 8, 000 Muslims killed while seeking sanctuary in a UN Safe Zone. As I witnessed the line of coffins filing by me, I paid my respect with such meager offerings - my camera, my witness, this voice. I didn't break, didn't cry. I had no right to cry, I have lost nothing.

The funeral and memorial ceremony were an act of solidarity. This gave me hope because I was part of thousands who continue to remind the world that we pledged “never again” after the Holocaust. I felt the raw edges between the “Kingdom Come” and a world trying to bring the Kingdom now as we echo the mantra “never again” through Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda and now Darfur.

 Consequently, what scared me and moved me to tears was a video I saw on Youtube. It was recorded by a Serb soldier during the massacre; a father was yelling for his son to come down from hiding in the mountains while surrounded by soldiers that would eventually add him to a mass grave. Genocide had found Youtube, and I couldn't take it. If we can now watch people literally being marched to their grave and not react, what kind of sick game is this? When taught about the Holocaust, why are we not also taught about the concentration camps in Argentina or the 677 camps that filled Bosnia? I used to imagine my “Valley of the Shadow of Death" as natural worse case scenarios - cancer, death of a family member, or a serious accident. My Valley was quite small because I was raised in a world that gave me a perfect childhood sanitized of extreme pain. Yet, I had found a manufactured Valley of the Shadow of Death – one filled with structural violence – such war, poverty and inequality.

 As a result, I almost drowned in the face of “daily crucifixions.” For a while, I merely treaded water among questions of solidarity, suffering and my personal anger. By day I would meet concentration camp survivors and by night I would read their stories. In Sarajevo I waited in the same line to buy lunch where 16 people died in during the war*. Walking home, I knew what areas to avoid because they had yet to be de-mined. As my Valley encountered and absorbed more violence, I became polarized. How could I not only remain neutral, but also forgive people for crimes I never witnessed?

The day after the Srebrenica funeral, I heard young Serb Nationalists came into Srebrenica and yell “we will rid the Balkans of all Muslims.” How could I love these kids, younger than me, who screamed death threats the day after the community buried 534 beloved ones? All I wanted to do was vomit; I needed a concrete physical release from the disgust I felt from inside a preventable Valley of Death.

I was no longer in the shadows, I was meeting people who had survived war and lost others from preventable murder. One of the people I would encounter was Miroslav Volf, torture survivor and theologian; his work offers a transparent theology that reminds us we are called to a relationship of love, reconciliation and forgiveness. I was shown a Valley so deep and wide that it both brings me to my knees and revives me. Where others seem to lose God, I found Him/Her. It was on the edge, that I could hear God whispering the same words an Iraqi father spoke to his child: “Come back my son, come to my lap. I am your father.”  Both fathers have known intimate violence and the pain of losing their children to war.

I came to realize that the “Valley of the Shadow of Death” is supposed to be a magnificent Valley that testifies of the Kingdom. I used to consider the natural splendor a cruel exaggeration of the suffering, but now I know it is God challenging affliction. Killing fields such as Srebrenica and El Mozote are truly sacred because they are Holy Ground. It is here we feel the edges of the Kingdom; for it is in profound beauty and profound oppression that concrete theology manifests; it is an opportunity to bring the kingdom now, not just to come.

We must stop saying "Never Again” if we make this promise and then remain neutral.  "Until Next Time" is more appropriate until justice has been served and violence prevented.  If I wanted to consume information and remain neutral, I would have stayed home and googled Srebrenica. As the July 11 anniversary of Srebrenica approaches each year, I fight for “they kingdom come:” I educate myself on the current wars by complimenting mainstream media with independent sources such as Democracy Now! or Al Jazeera English (they are not embedded with American troops). I “speak truth to power” by signing petitions and notifying my representatives that there is accountability. I also offer my support to organizations such as Witness for Peace who refuse to leave the conflict zones the world seems to have abandoned.

Please start to bring the Kingdom now by signing the petition to say “Never Again” in the face of the current genocide in Darfur, Sudan.

May those who never forget remind us who try!

---

* 27 May 1992. Bread Line Massacre, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

 Resources

 The Srebrenica Genocide Blog is constantly updating with new information.
General background information on the worst European massacre (in a UN Safe Zone) since WWII can be found here.

¡Bienvenidos a Cochabamba!

Note: I sent this as an email because I am behind on my blogging. I am still trying to publish posts from traveling in southern Africa on study abroad with Furman. But, I need to get this up, so here it is:

I promised myself I would never do an update email. I have a blog, after all. Except when your blogging as if you are still in Africa when you are very much in Bolivia. Besides, I am using a keyboard where 9 1/2 of the keys have labels taped to them. It is just too tempting...

I am in Cochabamba. Thanks to skype. Before you read any further, please go make a skype account. It is a life necessity. My flight left almost 2 hours late from Miami so in addition to listening to a two hiker´s litany of every outdoor vacation they have taken, their new gear, and the family that just ¨let them go¨I missed my flight to Cochabamba. I had to buy a visa upon arrival, 135 USD. My first taste of the progressive government of Evo Morales. He mirrored US immigration policy and consequently made American entry into the country just as expensive and complicated as we make our frontera. I was told I could fly standby at 7 pm that night, 12 hours from then. I called my school in Cochabamba and informed them I was not on the flight that should be arriving in a few minutes. The phone cut out just in time for me to hear them say go to another airline. Oh, ok. Not as an experienced traveler as I thought I was.

So, after buying 2 bottles of water to combat the altitude, (La Paz is the highest capital in the world) I went and stored my luggage. I learned that in SFO - I could lap that tiny airport free of my bag. Realizing I couldn't work the pay phone, I went to the internet cafe and called the school followed by a call to my mom. I booked a flight for 9.30 that morning and then went to get my bags back out of storage. Try conjugating verbs while clearly affected by the altitude. I could barely think in English. I called my mom back and asked her to please call Cochabamba, I couldn't miss my next flight and the cell phone number I was given wasn't working.

Round two. I go to the gate, confidant because I just bought a plane ticket in Bolivia. I was promptly told to turn around, I had to pay the national tax -paid it, went through. Not hard, I will just wait until they line up and fall in the back. So, I am sitting in my gate, just sitting there. My head hurts too much to read and then they announce my full name. I go the man and try to give him my plane ticket. No, we are not boarding, he needs me to follow him. I am led outside, onto The tarmac and into a back room. Surely, it cant be this sketchy hours into the country. My dad is going to be worried. So, what now? A bribe? Questioning? They searched my bag and saw the amount of political books I was importing? They ask if I have any gas in my bag? No, no gas. I am not a terrorist. I am coming to your country to learn extreme activism, remember? Aren't you the people who stage a coup every 8 months? I finally show them my shaving cream nicely tucked under and beside books, they are after all, books about Bolivia and public interest lawyers, not exactly threatening.

I am on the plane not worrying that I have no ride and no way of contacting the school once I arrive. I am traveling much looser than I would have liked. The 30 minute flight takes us over the Andes. I mark myself as the tourist when I get my camera out. I couldn't resist the cliche tourist photo.  Then, I realize this flight is going to both Cochabamba and Sucre. 2nd touristy act. I get out my guide book and open the map to see which city is first. I get off in the right one. In Cochabamba I grab my bag from the 13 that are circling and sit down. Do I have enough nerve to roll with all my luggage, between the crowd of men blocking the telephones? No. I will just wait; they are all watching the world cup, these are serious fans. I spot gringos, stare them down, they keep going. Finally, the director arrives to take me to the school. My mom called from SC and left a message on their voice mail. She's legit; instead of panicking she uses Skype to set up a carpool for me.

I check in and leave to go meet my home stay family. They are a retired couple who live in a nice apartment building. They don't seem to reflect the same frequency in which I want to discuss politics,  but love to talk about family, the medical alert dog my brother has for his diabetes and how much I like to read. They send me out the next night with their 23 year-old nephew and instructions to only speak in Spanish. He doesn't seem to have an affinity for politics either.

Just in case I get scared of a life with no politics, I know that Jesus is always watching. He stands outside my bedroom window. Personally, I think he wishes the Cochabambinos were a little more creative, though he is taller here, they still copied him from Brazil. 

So, I am here. Cochabamba: home of the Water Wars and the first successful fight against a multinational corporation attempting to privatize a life necessity. I can attend language school anywhere, so I came for this city - for a politicized environment.  I am here to learn Spanish and sophisticated social movements (after a strict warning from the school´s director not to become involved in politics. I can look, but not touch. No really, I can get deported -we learned that in South Africa.) 

Moral of my narration - go abroad. Each and every time you have a chance, go south. Save the West for when you are old, with a Volvo and a mortgage. I promise, you will never be bored -

I suggest using this map from Information is Beautiful as a guide