NYE in Khartoum

From a balcony I see

2020's last full moon

Rise over the treetops

Same moon my husband sees

From a rooftop in Aden

Shared over Skype

No champagne to toast

Just emojis of it over the net

I'm here, he's there, happy new year

The clock struck twelve

Central African Time

Fireworks burst over Shambat bridge

Ten hours behind is Portland

I find Pink Martini on YouTube

Sing Auld Lang Syne

2020, reminisce not quite the word

Just strange, like those balloon people

On timessquarenyc.org/

2021, a resolute hope?

Keep flowing, moving onwards

Like the Nile beside me.

A Place by the Nile

One of the things that motivated me to take on this assignment in Khartoum is this city's location on the great river Nile. A place got to be interesting if it sits at the confluence of the Blue and White Niles.

So with the holidays difficult to spend with family back home, I decided to Airbnb-hop from a place in Khartoum central to this place by the Nile in Khartoum North. The place had been vacant for a while evidenced by pigeon poo all around the house. But there is the garden with a gazebo by the Nile and the balcony with a view of the Shambat bridge connecting Khartoum North and Omdurman. 

A triad of cities around a confluence and me just a little bit north of that point of merging, on the right bank of the united Nile flowing on, as it did for eons, towards Cairo. That much I know for now, at least situating myself geographically.

At this point where I'll stay put while the river flows on, I found among the dusty shelves of a little library at the entrance to the apartment, a paperback titled "Explorers of the Nile: The Triumph and Tragedy of a Great Victorian Adventure" by Tim Jeal. How fitting, I thought, for my desire to connect to the river.

Because the Nile stuck to my head in my reading of Tayeb Salih's classic "Season of Migration to the North" as the story of Mustafa Sa'eed weaves into the ebb and flow of the river. I always try, as a way of understanding a new country I'm going to, to read literature produced by its people. Salih's novels may or may not say much to the current Sudan humanitarian situation that I am supposed to support but his stories connect me to a past that the Nile was a witness to. 

I'll sit under the gazebo by the river and listen to what it tells me while I read Explorers of the Nile....

Back in the U.S.A.

I'm back in the U.S. to see my first grandchild. From where I'm sitting, in a suburban middle class neighborhood, I face a green backyard with a stand of trees that seamlessly merges into a network of trails, parks and other community recreational spaces, a public good that I have always marveled at and attributed to a successful democracy. This scenery doesn't look and feel at all like the broken America that we have seen and read about in the news. 

But as Michelle Alexander writes in the New York Times (America, This is Your Chance), "we know these truths about black experiences, but we often pretend we don't." She quotes from Stanley Cohen's "States of Denial": "Denial may be neither a matter of telling the truth nor intentionally telling a lie. There seem to be states of mind, or even whole cultures, in which we know and don't know at the same time."

I reflect on what I know and don't know about the black experience in America and I have to say I don't know what I know and don't know. I realize this more when I re-read an article on race that I wrote 22 years ago during a short stint as a columnist for the student newspaper at the University of Arizona. In "Dealing with Race", I see that despite studying then about systems of racial and social control, I still clung to the narrative that the brokenness is in our innate human nature and only manifested in broader systems. 

And maybe I still cling to that narrative. I too am outraged at the blatant violence and injustice done to George Floyd and Ahmad Arbery, just to name the most recent cases, but I have a long way to go on the key steps that Ms Alexander recommends are necessary "if we are to learn from our history and not merely repeat it": 1) We must face our racial history and our racial present; 2) We must reimagine justice; and, 3) We must fight for economic justice. 

For me, it is also a time of reflecting on what my American citizenship really means to me. I applied for citizenship in 2002, about 18 years into my marriage to an American citizen to whom I am married for 35 years now. I can't remember now why I decided to apply at that time or what it meant to me to become a U.S. citizen. But if patriotism has any meaning, it would be for me to start caring enough to understand what my adopted country is going through, it's racial history and its racial present, and to fight for the democratic ideals that it is great about.

Becoming a grandmother

Our first grandchild, a boy, arrived just after midnight, EST, today, two weeks earlier than expected. I wanted to be there in person to welcome him into the world and to be there for my daughter-in-law and son. But such as it is, we get to meet this new member of the family, on our screens, so close yet so far away.

I look at the photo of my hours-old grandson nestled safely on the bosom of his tired but smiling mother and I see life and the future amidst all the deaths and uncertainty in this time of pandemic.

I am now a grandmother. I think I know what it means but this new role is just starting to sink in. I imagine myself huddling together with my grandchildren reading Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, A Very Hungry Caterpillar, and other favorite books that we've read over and over to our three boys when they were small. I have saved some of these books, waiting for the day when we can go silly again with words and pictures on pages.

 

Or maybe write and illustrate a children's book myself. I've always loved doodling and drawing and even dreamt of becoming an artist. These dreams die early on then reconsidered at a later stage in life when doing art feels less conflicting with having food on the table and a roof over one's head. 

I want to tell my grandson of false either-ors. Life is art. Live your dream in the ups and downs of time. Weave your dream into the nitty-gritty of everyday life. 

At 56 and becoming a new grandma, I want to tell that myself.

Marking the passing of time

Today, we come out of three days of full curfew in Jordan. The temperature has dropped by almost half, from the high 30s almost all of last week to low 20s, starting yesterday, along with a good amount of rain that washed the dust off the leaves of a rosebush, a citrus tree, and a grapevine just outside our bedroom window.

Today is also May 25, the 74th anniversary of Jordan's independence. No celebrations as usual (as in this video of an official ceremony in 2019) but citizens are encouraged to put out the Jordanian flag. We foreigners can only be thankful for being welcomed to wait out the pandemic here. 

When and how will the pandemic ends still hangs in the air but that we try to have a sense of control with other end and start dates that make us ask what's open and what's closed. Like the last day of Ramadan and the first day of Eid al Fitr, which were a day later than expected since the moon was not sighted as expected on Friday. So, today is the 2nd day of Eid. Are stores open? Can we now buy beer or wine somewhere?

In the U.S., May 25, the last Monday of May of this year, is Memorial Day, a day supposed to honor the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military. Perhaps, there will be a memorial day to remember the people, like health workers, who have worked and died on the frontlines of the fight against the spread of covid-19.

I am not on any frontline of any fight but rather watching, learning, waiting, mostly in front of (or behind) my computer screen, in a foreign country. Over the weekend, I've read the NYT Magazine and chuckled at stories of how some people are dealing with the blurring of days staying at home. Without the familiar, regular routines that structured our days previously, we are all trying not to fall in on ourselves, like countries turning inward and struggling to answer what opening up again to the outside world would mean.

Impotence and action

I was a bit crabby today at my husband. I told him I don't want to see another link to an article (like this one) telling me how the health system in Yemen couldn't cope with the rising numbers of Covid-19 cases. We've heard that for months now, even before the first confirmed case was reported back on April 10, weeks after almost all countries have already gone into closures, lockdowns, quarantines, curfews and so on. And we're now in mid-May...

I guess it is this feeling of impotence in the face of this kind of humanitarian crisis in a country like that. We're lucky to be here in The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan where the leadership seemed to have taken the bull by its horns early on and is diligently monitoring and responding to the situation as it evolves.

What can an individual do beyond wearing masks and gloves and social distancing? I retreat back in front of my computer where I have been losing myself in online courses, earning badges and certificates, and cranking up loads of job applications. I need to be where there is some action or at least read some stories of action.

And so I was drawn to this on-demand, online PMXPO 2020 sessions, particularly the keynote address by a woman, Cara Brookins, who, along with her four minor children, built her own house based on knowledge gained from watching YouTube videos. At first, I thought, c'mon. But this is via the reputable PMI and, I must admit, these kinds of individual stories of grit appeal to me, especially in these times when the role of the state looms large in solving issues.

So, I register and access Cara's keynote address. She started off with her past experience with domestic abuse and violence and I go, Oh man, please no sob story, I've had enough of Yemen's sob story! But it's Friday, full curfew in Jordan, temp has gone up into the mid-30s and my plants want a break from me. So, I continue listening. I got glued to Cara's story. It wasn't so much about the house. It was about building a family, a team, building character, using what is already inside of us, to act big, to bring something into fruition out of scratch. 

I don't want to sound fluffy but I have to say the story is beyond inspiring. It makes me think of possibilities beyond the formal frameworks, matrices, phases and stages, cycles, and so on that we use to think about project or program management. 

The speaker passes on the hammer to us and ask us what we can do with it in our particular projects. Think big. Do the hard thing. What's the worst that could happen? Do over. Show up. Climb your mountain.

Where have all the flowers gone?

No, this is not about Pete Seeger's song. I'm just reacting to this NYT article "Where Have 140 Million Dutch Tulips Gone? Crushed by the Coronavirus."

I tell myself, oh well, it's only flowers. Non-essential. But it is more than about flowers. It's about millions of people missing out on the bounty and beauty of spring, at least in the northern hemisphere.

Or maybe it's about spring itself - budding, sprouting, blooming - doing what it does every year and I realize, perhaps with a sense of desolation (as in God has forsaken us), that nature is oblivious to the ongoing suffering of humans around the world. That spring will pass hardly noticing that we humans are in big trouble.

But then again we do have all the time now to notice spring. In Amman for example, we have curfew from 6 pm to 10 am the next day, which means that from 10 am to 6 pm each day, one can always take a break from working from home and walk the streets of one's neighborhood to notice wisteria vines in full purple bloom, wildflowers covering empty lots, new leaves on grapevines and olive trees..
It is during these walks that I feel so privileged to have this time, this time to pause, look, touch, think, breathe. And yet, and yet, feelings of wonder and hope mix with feelings of indescribable anxieties. There is certainty that spring will pass into summer, into autumn, into winter then the seasons will start all over again. But there are so many uncertainties as to what 'normal' cycle we humans will go back into as things we cannot see, like this coronavirus, may stay with us for quite a while.

It is now even hard to imagine history repeating itself as Pete Seeger's song suggests - girls pick flowers, men pick girls, wars pick men, men go to graveyards, flowers cover graveyards.

Those millions of Dutch tulips went straight into their own graveyard... 

Post-Easter ruminations

Person1: "The body of Christ given for you." [Holds out a plate of crackers.]
Person2: "Amen" [Takes a piece of cracker.]

Person1: "The blood of Christ shed for you." [Holds out a glass of wine.]
Person2: "Amen" [Dips cracker into glass of wine and puts cracker in mouth.]

[Reverse roles]

My husband and I never thought we'd be administering communion to each other this way. We always thought this was only done by either ordained priests/ministers or designated laypersons. But we agreed that it was a way to fully participate in an Easter service put up on YouTube by our local church back in Portland, Oregon. [We also had the option of attending another service by Zoom and we did attend the virtual coffee hour via that app in between services.]

One more thing to add to the list of 'unprecedenteds' in our lives in this time of Covid-19...

In any case, it was good to connect to a faith community - something that we took for granted as we went about our so-called humanitarian work around the world, becoming "Easter Christians" in the process. As if being strong in one's faith goes against the humanitarian principles of humanity, impartiality, neutrality and independence...When maybe, in fact, having a strong base of faith (be it Christian, Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, Hindu, etc.) frees oneself to truly advocate for these principles to meet the needs of populations we are supposed to serve.

But it's easy to go on with humanitarian work because of the privileges it provides - travel, R&R, danger or hardship pay, per diems, etc. or because one could not earn this much or enjoy travel and other benefits with a regular job back in the U.S. It's easy to get lost in these perks and stay in the sector because it is comfy. It's easy to get cocooned comfortably in secured compounds, houses or apartments and not worry about not being able to pay the rent at the end of the month.

There are good reasons to professionalize humanitarian work and make it competitive, benefits-wise, with job markets of other sectors. There are good reasons to keep humanitarian actors as safe as possible. But sometimes, one seeks to strip the work of all its wrappings and be able to ask one's self, will I seek to serve the needy if I only get paid this much or if I may have to sacrifice personal comforts or even my life?

That would be the next unprecedented...or perhaps a return to some precedent before we erected all these structures in how we respond to the world's humanitarian crises?

Pink moon, Pearl Harbor and Hydroxychloroquine

Yeah. After a while things get
All mixed up in your head.
But you look up to the sky
Looking for the Pink Moon
Nick Drake on your ears
U.S. officials talking about
Pearl Harbor moments
Hy-droxy-chloro-quine
Got that?
What have you got to lose?

Pandemics and burial procedures

It has become part of my routine each morning - looking at the numbers in Johns Hopkins Covid-19 map - confirmed cases, deaths, recovered, particularly for Jordan where I am, the U.S. states where my children are, and the Philippines where my brothers and sisters live. As if the rise and fall of these numbers can somehow give some logic to a creeping anxiety about death and dying.

Of course they don't. The deaths are not mere numbers or even bodies. They are grandparents, parents, brothers, sisters, spouses, children...

But we need to count the dead if only to properly deal with the practicalities not only of the health system but of the death system that societies have built as their duty to the dead. What is the capacity of morgues and funeral parlors? How do we deal with cultural or religious burial practices and still be vigilant about the risks of further infection when dead bodies are handled improperly?

The WHO has put out an interim guidance on Infection Prevention and Control for the safe management of a dead body in the context of COVID-19. The Social Science in Humanitarian Action published a tool for Assessing key considerations for burial practices, death and mourning in epidemics.

In Jordan, after the first Covid-19 death was reported about a week ago, the Head of Jordan's National Center for Forensic announced a set of burial procedures for people who die of the coronavirus, including not washing the dead body, cremating it, and burying it in a concrete grave. These procedures are a stark departure from how Muslims normally treat their dead but the pace and scale of this pandemic probably justify giving the state the power to go against cultural norms if it means avoiding more deaths.

As individuals and communities, we are also adapting to ways that would have normally gone against tradition. Like other communal activities around milestones of life (births, marriages, graduations), memorial services are moving online during this time of crisis.

Yes, we are now accepting how this pandemic is changing every aspect of our lives, including how we bury our dead and mourn together. There will be more deaths in the days and months to come. We probably will have to live with all kinds of anxieties and will suffer scars long after this pandemic. We just hope we evolve better and stronger, together.

Covid-infodemic fatigue

I’ve been wanting to read and write something not related to covid-19 but here we are – in lockdowns, curfews, voluntary quarantines, etc. to keep this virus of the size between 0.08 and 0.12 microns from entering our bodies but force us to enter the digital realm where it’s hard not to let in terabytes of covid information flood our consciousness.

No wonder “Turkmenistan fights COVID-19 by banning the word 'coronavirus”.

I believe I have walked every street in Shmeisani and have mapped where every open grocery store is, not to mention which house I could rob of sprigs of creepers and other plants that I can easily transplant into this Airbnb’s garden spaces.

But I’m running out of garden dirt to dig and sow and I’ve run out of inspiration to write and draw. I’ve been checking my anger and latent depression over a withdrawal of a job that already had secure funding and for which I’ve put in so much energy learning and preparing for even without a contract while waiting for the visa to Yemen.

Mostly because I am a spouse of somebody and those who made the decision to withdraw their selection of me had a bitter experience with a wife who held the same role three years ago.

Who knows what happened then. But talk about disillusionment with decision-making processes in the humanitarian sector. I am the kind of person who will gladly accept personal loss for a common good but not this or in this manner.

But much of life, I think, is about getting over disappointments and losses and moving on, keeping an eye for things to improve and to celebrate.

Like that patch of dirt just outside of the gate of this Airbnb…

Seriously, I do still manage to summon the energy to keep myself abreast of conversations in the humanitarian sector like this ALNAP-led webinar I attended two days ago - Making aid work for people in crises. Questions of relevance that the humanitarian community has been talking about for years. Nothing new but it’s precisely that which make these topics important to open up again and again for discussion to explore and gain new insights as we cycle through similar crises but in different contexts and times.

So, yes, first, I need to be thankful for the abundance of information to work with and gather up the passion and the energy to contribute to solutions…