THE AWAKENING OF A
… heart clenched,
the volunteer
video-ed
for fundraising purposes, thus immortalizing the rice-and-beans-one-meal-a-day-lifestyle-of-two-teen-mothers-one-without-a-supportive-male-partner-living-under-tarp-sheets-getting-water-from-an-improbably-still-working-faucet-at-a-nearby-abandoned-house-their-consent-to-the-documentary-attained-with-the-gift-of-one-chicken-a-gift-so-special-it-would-be-cooked-by-the-man…That, I know
my daughter
reveals
as she watches
(intently) the
images
from a country
she has
never
visited but knows
intimately because
poverty
is a landscape
ever burning
memory—
witnessing, I feel
again how
much
of her life
of Her
identity
I do not
know—this
child
who left an
orphanage a
teenager—
old enough to
know what
others
choose to ignore.
Except. For.
One.
Who believes One
can be.
All:
*
As I try
to find
answers
I am forever
(Our driver told the hitchhiker, “Sorry, we can’t carry people with weapons.”)
changed. I
believe
if we all
were aware
we
all would act.
(When rebels leave on foot, sometimes they take hostages to help them carry stolen goods
back home.)
…a glimpse
into
a world I
am beginning
to
understand, but for
which William
James
preaching to Unitarians
foretold in
1881:
This cannot be
captured by
words—
this “utter chaos”
is “ natural
order.”
Words—this poem—
impose a
clarity
that is non-existent.
Am I
writing
now to myself
(In one photo a mother still had the drill in her head and her baby in her lap.)
or everyone
whoever
you are…? As
I learned
more
every day I
realized how
much
I didn’t know.
(“…remember that if you are ever scared, sad or angry—look up at the night sky, find the
second star on the right, and follow it straight on till morning.” —Peter Pan)
I saw
more
military than civilians.
We can’t
forget
our founding fathers
were refugees.
Now
Native Americans are
refugees.…my
ankles
itched, bitten by
bugs so
small
I couldn’t see
them. “How
can
they avoid begging?”
(In the markets there is so much gold and ivory for sale—even diamonds. Everything is piled
on tables in small stacks.)
The only
aircraft
is Army helicopters!
Blades cutting
air…
Not much happens
(Many women get pregnant when raped. The babies don’t have toys or soft, colored things.)
until after
prayers.
George has three
children. “One
I
have not met,”
he said.
Someone
asked the tribal
chief, “How
does
it feel in
a camp?”
“We
are embarrassed.”
(The man with no hands put his arm out and smiled at me. I shook his wrist.)
There are
22,000,000
refugees. Two months
ago I
had
no idea. I
wanted to
write
but even the
pen was
stunned.
Nurses have little
(Entering Area 91 a sign reads:
PLEASE DO NOT CUT HANDS
LET’S JOIN HAND)
medical supplies—
more
accurately: none. The
romance of
whoever’s
bravery falls shadow
to the
boy
trying to support
gallons of
water
cradled in stained
plastic pressing
down
on his head.
He is
barefoot.
It is hot.
He has
far
to go. But
he is
lucky.
No one has
cut off
his
hands or feet.
(“Ah! I have been a photographer for ten years. American press don’t buy these kinds of
pictures. Other countries do.”)
It may
seem
silly, but I
think I
will
pack up my
backpack before
falling
asleep—just in
case I
wake
up and have
to flee
(unexpectedly).
I don’t want
to write
anymore.
I feel nauseous.
(Here in Zurich, everything smells like oranges and vanilla. There is snow on the ground. I
saw a young boy in the lobby and thought of the dusty little African boy carrying water
on his head, sweating and trying so hard to focus. What decides where we are born and into
what kind of life and why?)
…they have
no
soap left for
the refugees.
We
discussed women having
no sanitary
pads—
what must that
be like!
My
first job at
Mtabila Camp
was
measuring medicine. I
was so
careful
not to measure
one spoonful
too
short. A nurse
(The little girl was too weak to cry.)
had to
(quietly)
walk away. She
began to
cry—
a man had
to walk
her
outside. Another’s grandmother
was too
old
to run when
others began
attacking.
Children wear rags.
Some wore
only
pieces of red
cloth. Without
funds
for sanitary napkins
the red
cloth
was distributed so
the women
could
at least wrap
themselves up
during
their menstrual cycle.
But women
chose
to go without.
They would
rather
the children stay
(I don’t know how the women went without.)
warm, or
warmer.
I was about
to throw
ice
out of my
glass. He
stopped
me. “Ice is
very expensive
here.”
Gently: “Please give
it back
to
the kitchen.” Children
wore flip-flops.
Some
pairs were only
three inches
long.
Another woman showed
a bill
for
four guns—taxes
for supporting
war.
She sold all
she possessed
for
the Taliban. But
it was
still
not enough to
buy four
guns.
BK means below
the knee.
AK
means above the
(It is easier to make a BK prosthesis.)
knee. There
also
are baby walkers
for small
amputees.
One wall defines
“Cambodia”—map
crafted
from skulls. Then
…babies thrown
up
then caught by
stabbing bayonets.
Then
…men holding babies
upside down
by
their legs before
squashing their
heads
against a tree.
One soldier
peed.
Here is where
women come
who
will be resettled.
Someone calls
them
“the lucky ones.”
(The rehabilitation center is secured by Brinks Security.)
Sexually abused,
they
were chosen because
they have
no
husbands. Elsewhere, 80%
of imprisoned
women
are jailed for
poverty-related offenses.
Elsewhere…
I ask her
how long.
“Nine
months living under
tarp.” Elsewhere…
for
one hour at
the “Drop-in
Center”
street children receive
lessons. Doctors
believe
the children want
“desperately” to
learn
because many collect
garbage to
earn
money for fees
... tiny boy
with
big eyes and
many cuts
all
over his hands.
He receives
two
rupees for one
kilo of
rubbish.
Two rupees is
two U.S.
cents.
We keep seeing
more little
children
in the street
collecting garbage.
There
are no words.
There cannot
be
letters forming sense.
I have
no
words. I watch
(One little girl asks if we have a doll. “My father can’t buy a doll.”)
news carry
violence
but never victims.
Not the
families.
I had no
words. I still
tried
because I have
become a
parent:
“Let’s not forget
to go
candy-shopping
at Walmart.” My
(“Mom, I cannot bring candy. I can never bring enough to give everyone who will hear
about the candy. They only eat one meal a day, usually rice and beans. The babies
get sugared water, not milk.”)
wiser teen
scoffed—
Why teach them
something false?
Like
Life is sweet
even though
babies…—
two teenage moms
boil water
before
adding sugar to
feed their
babies—
how will they
know what
suffices…
who determines what
is sufficient?
Who
determines what can
be experienced
by
the most heart-broken
heart? The
most
mangled refugee? (Or
you from
an-other
continent reading into
the night?)
Who
insists a rupture
is not
rupture
but a widening
of capacity?
Who
transforms the heightening
of tragedy
into
a commendation about
pain’s infinite
expanse?
Who determines what
leaves us
speechless?
Who—there is
a Who!—
determines
what’s allowed? Who
allows someone’s
Power?
… of the dusty little African boy carrying water on his head, sweating and trying so hard to
focus. To not spill the most infinitesimal drop. Who decides what kind of life and why?
“What kind of
life, and
Why?”
Bibliography:
Notes from My Travels: Visits with Refugees in Africa, Cambodia, Pakistan and Ecuador by Angelina Jolie (Pocket Books, New York, 2003)
Clinica Verde video on the lifestyle of two teenage moms in Boaca, Nicaragua.
The Limits of Language, Edited by Walker Gibson (American Century Series / HILL and WANG, New York, 1962)
Eileen R. Tabios' recent releases include the relational elations of ORPHANED ALGEBRA with j/j hastain (Marsh Hawk Press, 2012), SILK EGG: Collected Novels (Shearsman Books, 2011) and THE THORN ROSARY: Selected Prose Poems (1998-2010) (Marsh Hawk Press, 2011). Her poems have been translated into Spanish, Italian, Tagalog, Japanese, Portuguese, Polish, Greek, computer-generated hybrid languages, Paintings, Video, Drawings, Visual Poetry, Mixed Media Collages, Kali Martial Arts, Music, Modern Dance and Sculpture. She’s also edited, co-edited or conceptualized nine anthologies of poetry, fiction and essays. She blogs as the “Chatelaine” at http://angelicpoker.blogspot.com; and edits Galatea Resurrects, a popular poetry review journal at http://galatearesurrects.blogspot.com.
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