The reluctant Buddha soldier

Seeing myslef, my true self from the outside, seated, crossleged like some Buddha. I took part in a positive thinking course about three weeks ago. Exactly. I was there to find out about this organization called ‘Burma Khumaris’ lifelong university. And I did. They gave the course. Or should I say he gave the course, the one Dutch man that runs the house just across from Louis Botha store. I was seated there and really I listened to the tape he put on for us as we closed our eyes. My cousin was there, two of them actually you. They sat on chairs while I was on the ground on a cushion.

The breathing I experienced was unbelievably profound. I realized my potential is so infinite and it starts with me and the thoughts I bring into this existence.

It was as if I hovered above myself and saw me from afar.

I especially want to recall that experience now. I can now hear the voice of that man on the tape, a calm, soothing voice as if he came straight from an aristocratic residence in the 17^th century.

I am a person. I have a great deal of potential. I am free to do what I want.

So then I am free to approach my role within the new organization, LGBTI as I see fit. The founder, or one of them, of the organization wants me to do a hell lot more. He came up to me , or I actually came up to him at the end of the party last night to say good bye. It was particularly successful party for our community and I was set to leave, with my friend Chinonto who came from his party just to drive me home. Then this man, whom I had first just known as a face on a social network who I then came to know as an impassioned individual began talking to me about how I need to take the lead:

“From what you wrote on your blog, it seems you want nothing to do with LGBTI. You must take the lead – look at this, we had to create the forms ourselves and do it all ourselves.” I could only listen though I felt how unsettling this conversation had become. “Don’t shy away from your duties, take the lead…” he kept on saying, like papa bear talking to baby bear or a teacher to a student or a boss to his new employee. But he is not any of these to me, so why this tone? Now when I think on it, it seems rather insidious like someone trying to lure me into his cult. A cult! “Just imagine, the gays have dragged me into their, OUR, cult!”

But I know it is not so. I am just reacting to how I felt. He wants more from me that I am willing to give and that was all I could actually say to him then in there, amongst all those people and the loud music and I leaned to him so I could be heard “I am willing, but I don’t how much I can give.”

“Well than ask for help, we are all volunteers.” So he did say. I realize now I was subjected to an unnerving charismatic talk. It was unnerving because I did not make my self heard. I wanted to say that I when I agreed to join as a ‘research co-ordinator’ I was elated at the prospect of ‘research’ – as generic as it sounds – without realizing what I was getting myself into. The whole organization needs support. I am willing to help get there on its feet, but beyond that I would like to exercise my autonomy. I want to chose what projects constitute as research for me. I know there are a slew of operational things that will need to run once a whole ‘monitoring and evaluation’ department starts. I do not want to that. Not me.

There are a lot of challenges one faces when joining any new movement. Especially when it is a new movement and especially when it seeks to achieve a social aim. I wonder what experience the revolutionaries faced when they enlisted. What am I revolutionary? But I have thought of the members of the movement as ‘rainbow warriors’ so I believe it is not such a far fetched metaphor. All I want though is to learn more about research in epidemiology and anthropology. I can put myself to the challenges of adopting statistics capture software to questionnaires created by the organization or following a same-sex couple’s journey through the adoption process. Yet I realize that to have an organization that is operational a lot more hard work, even monotonous, work is needed. Moreover, I sense they (the trustees of the organization) want a lot more from me. They want what I am willing to contribute.

“The trustees don’t trust you, they have a lot of faith in you, but don’t trust you. You have to prove yourself.” Prove yourself. I heard that so many times when I spoke to this same person who (co)-founded the movement. I dare not mention his name, lest someone identify who he is.

Prove myself. I am not here to prove myself to anyone. Honestly. That was what I wanted to say. This man, though, has such a charismatic way, that his smile quelled any efforts to resist. Estuve ante su discurso, callado y por esto de acuerdo con todo lo que decía. I was dumb befote him and tacitly showing my consent to all that he had to say. And of course, he closed of the conversation with a grab to my shoulder, a gentle pat so that he could say “I like you” as I walked away.

I had just experience charismatic leadership first hand, I am sure my father experienced years ago with SWAPO, the movement that defined his youth (and perhaps even now).

What I do now? I just keep myself low key. I will be what the anthropologists call ‘a participant observer,’ and wait to see what will happen. Upon their request, I will make my position clear though, about my research objectives.

I am at peace though, knowing this is all part of my experience. If I am to ever to anthropology, I need to be prepared to work with people and enter into their worlds and negotiate when their agendas don’t correspond with my own. Is this what it means to observe and know human beings? Go in deep enough for you to have a good look, but still not so deep that you can’t come out to tell everyone you have been there

Somwhere over the Rainbow - you'll find a job

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, there’s a…..lulaby”

When I woke up today, after my usual wondering around, I turned on the radio-phone and I heard the voice of Judy Garland singing this song from the Wizard of Oz.

I loved it and with it I moved stretching out my arms into the heavens, peering through the glass of my window at the tree outside, collecting together the my blankets of the floor (where I sleep).

Thank you Lord for this beautiful day! Thank you for Judy and the songs she sang

“…somewhere over the raindbow...”

“When I wish upon a falling star…..” she sings quickly, with a bouncy melody to slow down and stretch out the words “…that’s where you’ll find me!”

Judy, I am glad I am writing about it! The last time I heard this song was in my head a few months ago when I was walking back home from the city center and there was a rainbow, c’era un arcobaleno magnifico che sorgeva da una parte, alzava verso l’alto dei cielli per lo spazio sovrastante e poi scendeva per incontrare la terra dall’altra parte. Che bellezza!

I now heard it again

This post is about thanksgiving.

Thank you dear Lord for that song.

Thank you for my birthday dear Lord that I could live another year! Thank you that you put the people in the right place and I was there at the right time.

I went to a meeting I dressed for it, because I felt it would look bad for the HIV Clinicians’ Society if I just showed up in shorts and a T-shirt, and I took the minutes. We met with Pharmaccess and by the end of the meeting, the lady from this NGO asked me to call her about chatting. As I walked out of the door I turned once more to say goodbye. And then she said “Yes, please call me, not only because of the health facility census [my last job] but because we are short of staff”

“Can I send you my CV”

“Yeah do that.”

This was about a week ago Wednesday.

Yesterday was my birthday and my new colleagues at Pharmaccess treated me to a cake! They also gave me a birthday card. And that lady I met last week, she is my boss.

I am a research assistant/intern and the best part is I am doing what I was doing at home – studying statistics and aiming to analyze data collected in Namibia – but I will be paid for it. What a blessing!

So what’s the moral of the story? Always dress well for a meeting.

Lemon Fell yesterday

The drop of the lemon – Thud! It came just as I put down the phone after my father spoke to me. “That’s a good answer” he said (I translate from the Bulgarian, our secret language so he could ask without much fear of being heard za6to si gay?) The lemon green with one side yellowing came down just as in me the desire for tears was swelling. The fall came so abruptly like Newton’s apple. I looked outside my window and decided to go and collect that lemon just next to another one I had seen earlier. So I went round the house, and I walked towards the tree, round the back, I could feel how picking up those right lemons would be like therapy. Inside me, the ebb and flow of my emotions meant I was dealing with this. What was it? Relief? Satisfaction? We had finally spoken about it.

My mother had called him earlier “Your mother is annoying with these messages, saying I am the reason for your orientation, but you must tell her, tell her this is the way I am, but leave daddy alone. She thinks I hate gays. I do not have a problem you are my son. I cannot ask you, ‘ why are you gay?’ why are you not a man? I cannot punish you like that. Why are you gay?”

“Are you asking for real?”

“Yes”

“I don’t know”

“That’s a good answer”.

So there were the too lemons, nearly ripe yellow and I could tell that more were coming. This was just the very beginning, the start of it all. I know my relationship with my father will continue to ripen and mature, after all he considers me to be all grown up now.

“You’re a big person now, we can’t be seeing each other all the time.”

“But when was the last time we saw each other? Last month?” I pleaded.

“OK, we’ll see” he said, as always

Avenue of Desire! (based on what happened last weekend!)

The Avenue of Desire

I took a walk on a Sunday day, down a street in down-town,

and there across the shop that dresses men,

I met, I accosted, I said

“ I like your style, would you teach me?”

“Red Shirt, brown pants and sandals to match your hair” I said

And that led to more talk about shopping and your bag:

“I got it from the guy by telecom”

“How much?”

“A hundred dollars”

“That’s decent (for a black bag with a reggae flag)”

All I wanted to to do was wave my PFLAG, and utter

“You’re gorgeous, yes you are!”

Maybe that’s why I saw you approaching from afar,

But there was nothing in your tred

There was no flutter

It was like that of a man,

But that’s not say you don’t have a rainbow fan

(at home, in the closet or wherever it may be)

See!

I followed you after we parted

My heart, because of your guileless nature, was darted

And I, as it bled, said

“I’d like to see you again”

Some hackneyed phrase I’d read or heard

But was it just from a song?

Was it absurd?

A man for another man to long?

You are beareded and black haired,

When God made you, nothing did He forfeit

In drawing your portrait,

“Nothing’s gonna work (but it did!)”

You said, somewhat overwhelmed,

“All of these strange people talking to me, but I just want to be one my own

After I read you and called you “Ruan!” (not you another-one)

Maybe it’s because you are gorgeous

I should have said

And pled that we meet again

Instead,

I laughed as I walked away, ahead of you,

What does it matter if you not are gay?

It’s just that it was so fun!

To walk and admire

And kindle that fire

Does it burn for you as much as for me

in my open furnace,

burning with bliss?

(Is dit rooi? Ja dit is!)

Ruan, do you yearn to meet me again?

Strolling down-town on the avenue of desire?

Sandals Extreme

The straps of the sandals slit open and the beads fell off

To hit the ground,

Click click, tick tick

Do you hear the sound?

On the ground I sit, crouched and my fingers roll bead after bead

As I pray “Ave Marie…”

Now its all over

…madre di Dio…

I had my turn to cry

I still remember

And I sigh

The sandals you slit (brother)

Why did you have to kill them?

Yet no-one died in my house that day,

Lord was this a becoming end for a man?

Mr Kato died,

A death as sudden as the drop of beads on the floor

He was hammered

Those sandals were not build for me,

“These are women’s plakkies”

I knew that when I bought them, silly,

But I took them not so they could die

And it would be my turn to cry

Thank Lord for mother Mary,

With life (and Lord) I am still enamoured,

The Rosary

The prayers

Set us free!

But some of the pain still lingers

And there is (or is they not?) a way for it to recede,

Can blood return to the wound from whence it came?

Can we just go on, all the same?

I’ll never wear a pair of those again,

Till become like those singers

Who sing where thou shall not step

Tick tick, click click

Do you hear the sound?

Un blog incompiuto – se desideri leggerne di più, lascia un commento qui giù. (In complete blog, if you would like to read more, leave a comment

The difficulty in putting something to posterity. I find myself at odds with the desire to write, because I too strive to do other things. Studying mathematics, learning to programme with R…, reading novels (I am reading En l'absence des hommes, La ciudad de la Bestia) and an enthnography Agor Medicine. But still I need to write.

 

I want to first of all say these will be very terse entries from now.

It is morning now, Monday morning, at home. My mother will soon be off to work and today there will be no need to make her a sandwich, as she will go off to a workshop on child labor where she will be fed.

 

Last Friday:

I collected applications for the United World College scholarships here in Namibia.

Cooked a bean and split pea soup for dinner – Shabbat dinner. I now fondly look forward to dinner every Friday because though I usually cook something that is far from Kosher (I am Catholic, after all) it still reminds me of the tranquility of the Shabat I spent at the CJL at Princeton with my friends.

 

Monday: Today I dreamt of a copy of the Flamingo before me, lying on the ground, and the magazine had a section about HIV in it. The Flamingo, in case you did not know, is the magazine of Air Namibia and I do freelance writing for them (for which they pay me well). My dream I think speaks to my desire to synthesize my writings about Namibian people with that of my interest in HIV. I did do that, in the last article I wrote about the Red Cross, but I long to do it again. My dream though also featured another man, with delicate skin. He was my lover and we kissed with the magazine in the background.

 

Samedi: Nous sommes allés, moi et ma mère, au parc national du parlement de la république de la Namibie. Comme on faisait toujours, on y jouait du badmington, un loisir qu'on pratiquait depuis mon enfance ici en Namibie. Alors qu'on jouait, il y avait un touriste, un homme, lequel s'approchait de nous, en descendant les escaliers qui menaient au parc ou menait au parlement en les montant. Il s'est attardé un peu au bout des escaliers à nous regarder. J'ai ressenti son regard sur moi et je lui ai donné aussi quelque coup d'œil, il était jeune, assez haut et blanc, vraisemblement…

 

Monday : I just got this message : Good morning Pancho. I was given your number by Mukariko [ I helped her prepare for GRE last year this time] I will be writing a GRE exam early march and she thinks you can help me pass the exam exceptionally. I am gunning for a scholarship so I really need to do very well. Can u help me? It would mean intense work and preparation.

 

Sure I can help her, provided she pays me a pretty penny for my efforts – after all if go to Spain this July (to do an intense course of castellano) I'll need the cash..

 

Si, certo che ti posso aiutare carinissima, anche se non ti conosco – se me paghi bene, ti posso aiutare con i tuoi problemi matemattici. Ne profiteremo tutti i due...

Una oración por Egipto

Dios ayuda el pueblo egipcio a lograr una solución a esta crisis. Protege a los miles de manifestantes que se congregan en las calles y huyen a los policías (y protege ellos también).

Amen