Humboldt Bound: Part III- Meeting a Hmong woman

Va: a lovely Hmong woman with her handmade traditional clothes for Hmong New Year

Upon entering the house I was surprised at the amount of family visiting. I was apprehensive that they would not approve of a stranger entering their home in order to listen to the details of the mother’s life. I feared I would receive disapproving looks before I had the opportunity to convince them I come in peace.

I was wrong.

The children of the family were very warm and welcoming- readily conversing with me as I entered the house. We presented Va and her husband with the duck we brought from San Francisco and they were delighted to receive a favorite.

I was invited to sit on the couch next to one of the daughters in the family. Va and her husband sat on the opposite couch from me as Ila and I inquired which of the children can best translate. The two teenagers sitting in the room were uneasy- fearing their Hmong was not accurate enough. As we debated calling the oldest brother in the family, the front door flung open and in walked another brother dressed in camouflage and carrying a rifle.

Unsightly and fearfully awkward as one could imagine this sight to be, it was actually amusing. He entered the living room and apologized for bursting in with such clothes and a weapon. He just returned from a long day of hunting, he explained, and he was “very sorry if I was startled”.

“How is your Hmong” we asked, “Can you translate”.

“Sure” he said, “just let me go and change”. Everyone laughed.

Ila and I explained the purpose of “50 Women”, telling Va how much her story inspired Ila, pausing every few seconds to allow for the translation. Va smiled. She is a lovely, matronly and very bright woman with a soul of golden sun. Her aura and disposition were immediately apparent, which made it very easy to converse with her about her life experiences.

The Hmong are a minority ethnic group predominately found in Vietnam, Laos, Thailand and Burma. Their cultural norms are vastly different than those of the west from traditions to religious beliefs. They are a culture of survivors, having no actual country to call their own; rather they are identified anthropologically as nomadic harvesters.

In the above countries, they live in villages which are formed by a strictly traditional clan dichotomy. These clans are the root of all sense of community to the Hmong. There are roughly 18 Hmong clans. Clans serve as family groups and the clan name is the family name.

Upon talking to Va, I happened to notice by her name, Xiong, which clan she is identified with. These clans are the basis of social or political organization in Hmong society. The clans provide their members with financial support and other mutual assistance.

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Va’s story is how she initially became a refugee. She lived in Laos at a critical time in world history during the Vietnam War.

As she explained her experiences, she outlined the victimization of her people following the US Army’s occupation in Laos.

In 1951, a secret relationship was formed between Hmong leader Vang Pao, and US CIA operatives in Laos. The CIA coordinated efforts against the communists in Laos in partnership with Vang Pao. To be precise, the Hmong then aided the US in blocking the North Vietnamese from their efforts to extend the Ho Chi Minh Trail into Laos. 30, 00-40,000 documented Hmong deaths occurred during the Vietnam War.

Ethnic Hmong during the Vietnam War

In late 1975- the Pathet Lao claimed that they wanted to “wipe out” all Hmong. Thousands began attempting to escape Laos by crossing the Mekong River into Thailand. Va explained this experience to me after her village went under siege. She made the journey with her new husband, a baby on her back and 8 months pregnant. She talked about crossing the river and leaving behind the only piece of this world she knew in attempt to flee to Thailand. She was calm and steadily explained the details of her experience to me as I sat stunned and feeling insignificant so close to such a resilient survivor.

Around this time Several Hmong refugee camps were established in Thailand, perhaps the most famous was Ban Vinai.

Hmong refugees at Ban Vinai refugee camp in Thailand

Va, as thousands of other Hmong refugees left the Thailand camp for the United States.

I asked Va to speak about Hmong culture; to introduce the world to the customs and rituals very different from the west. I found these details to be like a strange candy. The Hmong are Animistic, and practice shaman rituals. The Hmong believe that the spiritual world continues to co-exist with the physical world. Their religious, health and medicinal ideals concern the belief that 8-12 souls make up an individual. Shamans are the means of communications between these two worlds. The shaman performs rituals with the goal of pacifying these spirits.

In Hmong medicine, illness is generally regarded as a loss or possession of one or more of the souls. The loss of souls is believed to occur in a variety of ways. Some of the main include:

• Sudden fright
• Fear or too much grief
• Capture by evil spirits
• A soul transferring to another being b/c they are unhappy

The Hmong believe depression is caused by having lost souls. When the children are sick, she explained, Hmong will take the children to a shaman.

For the Hmong refugees resettled in California, this created conflicts between the austere and principled western medicinal system and the Animistic traditional beliefs. Western procedures such as surgery, autopsies and drawing blood bear heavily symbolic spiritual issues for the traditional Hmong. Va is not quite so austere as she has lived in the United States for some time. This apparent clash of belief systems is presented in “The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down”.

Hmong clothes for the traditional Hmong New Year celebration. These items were handmade by Va.

She decided to show me some of the clothes she handmade for the Hmong New Year celebration. She dragged large bags from a living room closet and began handing me different garments including the traditional hat. The clothes were stunning, stitched to perfection with decadent fabrics adorning them. She was very proud her creations.

A traditional Hmong hat with Lao currency attached. These hats are worn for the New Year celebration.

Perhaps the most fascinating moment occurred when I ask if there were any family members remaining in Laos. One family member became slightly emotional at this point, explaining a sister of the family still lives there and that “her house keeps falling down”. They have never met, but he would just like to know that she is safe. He would like for her to just have a stable house to live in.

Ila asked what the cost in American dollars would be to build such a structure. We concluded it would be roughly 40,000 USD. Voila. Unto us- a Hmong cause is born! This cause will be for Va and her family.

We were invited to dinner, which was delicious- especially considering I had only eaten various snacks from the Trader Joe’s bag in the car all day. They laughed as I carefully took the meat with my spoon, as Va explained it was “ok” to eat with “the hands” in her house. Ahhhh- much more laid back.

In parting, we promised the family to revisit them. I thanked Va for telling me her story and her son for translating and for their glowing kindness to a stranger such as myself.

That night- I slept soundly. Tired from the drive and the rainbow rush of the emotions I experienced. My head nested warmly on a feather pillow, dreaming of a long winding river and a new stable house in another corner of the world- far, far away from here…

Humboldt Bound: Part II- Getting There

Screaming at me from its subordinate position on the dresser, the tiny alarm clock marked the start of the wayfaring. I rolled over to meet Maxine, Ila’s pit bull, who came to double-check that I was awake. At 5am- the fog creeps slowly over the mountains of the San Francisco peninsula rendering it impossible for one to predict what the day’s weather will bring.

Today we are GUARANTEED clouds and pouring rain.

We head to Trader Joe’s, filling a red basket full of health food snacks. Then to the Asian market to purchase a favorite of the dear family- duck. I thought it impolite to venture to the house of a stranger without some kind of dowry.

At the market- the duck carcasses hung by metal hooks tacked to the wall. A woman with an apron cleaved to pieces the meat from the two ducks that we just purchased. I watched as the oily meat slices sans struggle. My mind is flashing the passages from “The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down” that I remember. I am excited and through my morning spell of weariness am building the stamina for the drive. Will she be able to open up to me? Will she be willing to share the stories from her life with a stranger? What about the rest of the family? Will they trust me, and understand when I explain my somewhat prior knowledge of their culture? I am honestly humbled and honored to include a Hmong woman in “50 Women”.

We drive in unforgiving rain- the city landscapes eventually shrinking to a vast forest of redwood tress. Occasionally we would spot a town so small that it appeared the interstate off-ramp was its only path. Meandering past signs exclaiming “COME SEE BIGFOOT” and “10 MILES TO CONFUSION HILL”. We talk the entire time- Ila tells me many details of her early life- details that she is carefully presenting in her autobiography.

30 minutes after passing the last small town for miles, I realize the unthinkable: I need to use the bathroom. On this winding stretch of highway zinging though the redwood forests, there are few “civilized” places to go. I decided to wait to arrive in the next town, which according to a dilapidated sign was 27 miles away. Until Ila spots the side of a brick building peering out from behind the trees and we maneuver left to pull into the parking lot.

Suddenly, I met eyes with a man dressed in all black with multiple piercings on his face. To make an awkward (WTF) moment worse- I looked up only to be confronted by a very large onyx black Buddha statue choked by yellow Christmas lights bound to its neck and subsequently attached to another building. There was also a tent with an Egyptian eye painted on the front flap. Looking inside- I see another man, dressed in all black standing at an alter where a Menorah was positioned among bales of hay. There were others dressed in all black, but we didn’t stick around long enough to get in depth physical descriptions!

Speeding 20 MPH faster up 101, I stood up in the passenger seat and in a paranoid way kept glancing back to make sure they were not following us. We screamed like I did when I was 14 and my best friend’s brother jumped out from behind a tree to scare me. We were giggling at the thrill of being scared and finally decided to stop in tiny town that is about the size of two city blocks. There was an antique store and general store and both places told us “I’m sorry, but we have no bathrooms”.

It started to rain and Ila smirked at me” I guess I’ll just have to stand here to make sure nothing happens to you when you go behind the building”. There I went- fearlessly answering nature’s call and nervous when I realized there was a house with two open windows right next to where I stood.

Oh well, all in the spirit of hilarious and awkward memories…

I began to see signs for our destination until the highway’s vastness shrank into an “in- town” road. Ila wanted to show me the place where she used to live. We passed a playground, then down an unpaved road until arriving at a crossroads with two houses adjacent to one another. A tiny shack of a house rested between them. “This is where I used to live” she told me. I was amazed at the tiny size. It’s a little square-shaped white house- resembling almost an overgrown doll house. In the middle of the woods.

Suddenly I heard the most awful gut wrenching animal noise. We couldn’t see where it came from, but soon realized that it was an infuriated and starving cow several yards behind us. The utter anguish of the animal was disturbing. I didn’t feel comfortable suddenly and I didn’t know why. The air surrounding us was not right and we mutually decided it was time to leave. Eerie.

It was time to meet Va, the Hmong woman we came all this way to see. As we approached the house, a young woman holding a baby was getting out of the car. Another woman stood on the curb. “That’s her” Ila told me.

“Wow” I thought, “She has so much light inside”.

Humboldt Bound: Part 1

“Benjamin. HI. It’s Ila”.

(Pause)

“Good. Good. Yes, my health is good…hey…I need you to translate something for me ok”?

(Pause)

“Thank you…you ready”?

(Pause)

“Great. I know a woman who is writing a book about the lives of other women…”.

(Pause)

“Tell mama that I want her to tell her story. She is such an incredible person…”

(Pause)

Ila’s sapphire eyes met mine in a perpendicular gaze from underneath her sweatshirt hood.

“She’ll do it” she told me almost militantly.

(Pause)

“Ok…THANK YOU. I will call you and let you know when we are coming”.

She drops the phone on the table and the resulting vibrations sent ripples through the plum wine I had in front of me. No wasting time now- there is a trip to plan.

In fact, leading up to our get together that night, Ila and I had a number of serious discussions over the telephone- about her autobiography, her goals and her mission to aid other transplant patients. At one point in the conversation, I mentioned my hope to include a Hmong woman in “50 Women”, and this is where I found the direct connection.

In a medical anthropology class at my University, I once read a book “The Spirit catches you and you fall down”. The story unravels to be a young Hmong girl with epilepsy and the battle between austere western medicinal practices and the shamanic practices of the Hmong. The belief systems clash and the child is victimized due to various miscommunications between the western hospital and the parents. I never, in memory, misplaced this story. In fact, I have wanted desperately to include the story of a Hmong woman in “50 Women” since the beginning. Especially after receiving a glimpse into this distant culture.

A Hmong woman is hard to find indeed. Many do not speak English fluently enough to tell their story and finding a translator poses even more of a challenge. Many come to the United States to protect their basic traditions and freedoms and to continue with their normal ways of life without interruption. They remain in their close knit communities with little assimilation to the mainstream American culture. These aspects are what make this culture intriguing to me. It’s as though I’m entering an untouched and undisturbed world so different from my own. As though “culture” is a tangible aspect that they just bubble wrapped, boxed and shipped with them to the United States when they came- bringing the original aspects so preciously bound and undisturbed. You will see by my coming posts why the Hmong are talented at this…

Now I will meet a Hmong woman. The only condition: we must travel to a county in the northernmost part of California to see her- 5 hours away from San Francisco.

How exciting!

We wrapped up the sushi that evening after hours of conversation and head back to her house. She shows me more elaborate pictures from her hospital experiences and we continue to plan the trip- picking dates and laying out in budgeted precision- the trip details.

Finally, the second week of December became the final commitment. In the following weeks leading to our departure date I kept thinking how across the great country side, through the redwood forest and over the Russian river is another inspirational woman.

A Bayview Perspective

A map of the Bayview Hunter's Point community in South San Francisco

I never heard of Bayview.

Even after living in the bay area for 2 years, this tumultuous South San Francisco neighborhood was never even an afterthought.  Until the day I was invited by colleague and publisher Kathy Perry to a business forum hosted at the Bayview Opera House…

Kathy Perry and I met when I was interviewed about “50 Women” for her magazine “Telling Her Story”. Kathy also publishes “Bayview Community Voices”, a local magazine within the Bayview/Hunter’s Point community. She and Citibank were the hosts of the community business forum designed to provide advice and share resources to local businesses.

Kathy Perry: Bayview Community Voices

I woke up at 7am that morning- grabbed a cup of coffee and rode BART to the city. Standing at the Muni station for half an hour, I waited for the T train to slither me along 3^rd Street. Finally the train came and I started the 30 minute journey; observing the landscape shrink from the powerful buildings of the Embarcadero district to abandoned ship yards and liquor stores. 3^rd Street has a history, as I would later learn, and the muni light rail was part of a 2007 development project in effort to bring accessible public transportation to this forgotten corner of South San Francisco. A historically significant route and here I was, riding along and completely oblivious to its greater meaning…

Colorful murals at a park entrance in Bayview designed by children of the community

I exit Muni, crossing the street toward the Bayview Opera House. I notice the sidewalk is spotted in pigeon droppings and a large number of them are nesting on the gate and in front of another building. I stop to view captivating, colorful murals along the sidewalks which screamed for community reform. A man stood at the opposite corner smoking a black and mild cigar. He nodded in my direction.

The Bayview Opera House

There was no sign of my invited friend Jola, so I entered the forum as people came streaming in. I collected my name tag at the front desk, and received a book on entrepreneurship.

Bayview is an interesting place- shaped by past oppressions and plagued with violence, substance abuse and homelessness. Its history a testament of inconsiderate societal circumstances:

Bayview/Hunters Point is a manufacturing district in South San Francisco, CA. Since 1941 the neighborhood economy has been driven by a naval ship yard. During this time, droves of African American people migrated west in attempt to escape the discriminatory south and for the war job opportunities in the area. Between 1940 -1950 the population leaped from 16,500- 147,000.

An aerial view of Bayview and the shipyard

Currently, the neighborhood has a population of predominately African American members- roughly 60 percent of the population. This statistic is due in large part to discriminatory housing practices in the past regarding the rest of San Francisco. The neighborhood became isolated due to urban renewal of the Fillmore district, housing discrimination of African Americans, construction of 2 major freeways and a severe lack of viable public transportation. The closures of the naval shipyard, a primary employment source, lead to mass unemployment within the district and a quickly climbing crime rates, gang activity and substance abuse. Even in present day- this community consistently has the highest levels of unemployment and a disturbing correlation: the highest concentration of children.

When the US NAVY left the area in the late 1970s, they left behind hoards of environmental waste including a power plant and polluted shipyard. These are currently part of a “green jobs” economic resurgence project and campaigns to remove the environmental waste, said to be sources of fragile community health.

protest in Bayview for clean up of the old Naval shipyard

In present day there are countless restoration projects underway. Shipyard redevelopment is also underway and a plethora of projects aimed at small business.

The T train (muni) was a recent community addition giving residents better access to the rest of San Francisco

The guest panel at the forum included local small business owners and members of non profits such as CAMEO, Opportunity Fund and Mission SF in order to discuss common economic challenges local businesses face.

10:00 AM- Jola is running late. SO SORRY. C U SOON. CAN’T WAIT! she texted to me. No problem.

I watch the discussions unfold as the audience of locals shoots questions at the panelists. Maybe none of these directly affect me; however, I can’t help but notice how passionate the members of the community are regarding the economic sustainability and restoration projects. All of them are hopeful that Bayview can be fully restored, that the shipyard can be cleaned up for good and that small business will be able to sustain, even in the current situation.

Moved by their concerns and interests, I listened as panelists debated topics and offered advice and resources to the community business owners. There were many very useful resources available and all of them part of non profits, with the exception of Citibank, who sponsored the event.

Jola finally arrived; I briefed her on the activity during a 10 minute recess.  Inspired, shoving pamphlets and brochures in her purse, I explained where each of the panelists was from, their represented cause and the previous questions asked.

After recess, a woman was brought to the front of the room in a wheel chair and was introduced as the event’s guest speaker. Her name was Antoinette Butler and she was a long time resident of the Bayview community. She talked about her life long mission to make a Bayview a business friendly and sustainable community- starting a business community service called Uprising Community Plus. She illustrated her belief that economic prosperity can be a part of the Bayview community, telling the residents that she believed in them and knows that they “have what it takes”. She also opened a place called the Bayview Business Resource Center which took years of lobbying despite health obstacles. She did all of this after being diagnosed with Astrocytoma- a tumor located on her spine causing paralysis and mobility restrictions. Nonetheless, she didn’t let it stop her and never gave up the struggle for a better Bayview.

I listed intently- almost with tears in my eyes. I was moved and inspired by many things about her: her fighting spirit and her dedication. If all communities had a member like this woman, they would be much better off. Most people are too wrapped up in themselves to worry about their communities. It’s truly inspiring to see a person so dedicated to restoring and improving her own. I think I met my next woman- a person of this caliber certainly is a great and inspiring addition to 50 Women. Especially on the micro level. Most micro community activists do not get the recognition they deserve.

It’s interesting to read about a place: a certain neighborhood, city or town possessing a seemingly outrageous cloud of rumors and stories. Then, to go and witness the same place’s passion for reform and change, to see the members working together, mixing their energies and passions, witnessing their hands shoot up when the floor is opened for questions, watching them applaud the community leaders contributing to a better tomorrow. It’s really…beautiful and humbling. A phenomenon I felt honored to witness.

We had to leave in a hurry to catch the T train back to Embarcadero. I was bummed because I was hoping to introduce myself to Antoinette in person.

As we exited, Jola offered me a Capri cigarette and I accepted. When I was a smoker, the strongest urges came by stimulating conversations and creative ideas. Now, I have limited my access to this “pastime” to strictly social situations (still GODAWFUL, I KNOW!)

Three late twenty something African American males walked past us. Two of them stopped and said to us.

“Ladies, what kind of cigarette is THAT”!

“I don’t know”, I told him, “It’s the skinniest one I have ever seen”.

“What does that mean”, he chuckled, “less lung disease”.

I laughed. Jola laughed. He laughed and we all exchanged smiles.

“See ya around” he told me and walked away.

Panelists at this community forum were from these organizations:

Click on each to be redirected to the websites

CAMEO

Mission SF

Bayview Merchants Association

Opportunity Fund

The “lead” that took me further…

Mormon Temple

I found 275 matches when I plugged my last name into the LDS.org database. Never once harboring the belief this search would yield any worthy results. Most of them were indeed out of Bavaria, some Austrians. Nonetheless was very indemnifying to finally find.

For the past few years, I have tried searching for members of my German family. There are no stories, no memories and no indication of what cultural traditions were predominant. My grandfather passed away when I was very young and I never had the opportunity to ask him all the things I wanted to ask him. In my teens, my grandmother fell ill with Alzheimer’s and her memories quickly regressed. She lived thousands of miles away and the only time I was able to visit her during those years she no longer remembered me.

I never was able to find any information regardless of where I looked. One would imagine in this “information age” genealogical research would be less frustrating.…

The story of my initial arrival at this point is perhaps the most interesting allotment. It marked the beginning of another journey to discover a life and a culture I was previously and stereotypically oblivious to.

Kimmy and I sat in her basement one night at a children’s table eating pie after dinner. My legs scrunched and wedged underneath the table built for a 3 year old child- engulfing the tiny chair I sat on. (Sure as hell that the legs were about to break!)

“My church has the largest genealogical database in the world.” she explained, “It would honestly surprise me if you didn’t find any information on your last name”.

CHURCH. Now THIS is something I went running from at about 16. Raised traditionally Roman Catholic and having underwent the classic “first communion” and “confirmation” ceremonies, I decided at that age I didn’t want to go to church anymore.

It was too solemn. I didn’t like the rituals because they never actually felt satisfying or indemnifying to me. Just like something I was lead into. I didn’t agree with many of the staunch principles and definitely did not agree when I was told that other religions are wrong.

Having studied world religions- I now find any exercise in faith which contributes to the greater good of humanity and peace to be beautiful. I even cried once while actively watching a documentary about the Islamic journey to Mecca.  I became emotional because of the spirituality aspect- not the ritualistic components.

Kimmy is actually a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints. The church many refer to as “the Mormon church”. In the United States, when people think about Mormons, we stereotypically see young men on their bicycles, large families, or even men with multiple wives. In fact- this is the primary “wisecrack” regarding this branch of Christianity.

“Watch out for the Mormons, a friend once told me, “all they do is try to convert you”. Her view of this religion was that they sacrificed animals and carried out elaborate cult ceremonies…

There are, however, differences between a member of LDS and a “Mormon”. Kimmy explained that “Mormon”  is more of a cultural description of the religion and not an actual doctrine.

There are, as well, fundamentalist movements which practice plural marriages. They broke from the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints because they believed the church had forgone many principles and teachings of their respected leader Joseph Smith. These fundamentalist groups have formed various small sects, thus even the view points of these groups vary.

The journey of “50 Women” for me is about objectively learning new things, investigating them and objectively conceptualizing them in attempt to present these differences to the rest of the world. (My hope is that the rest of the world can eventually become more accepting of differences.)

Kimmy explained in addition to having the world’s largest genealogical database, they also have the most extensive Christian missionary program with hub offices all over the world. She showed me the various humanitarian services offered and provided, regardless of spiritual beliefs, to those in need. The missionary language training program is so extensive- it is sought after by the Unites States military.

A few weeks later, Kimmy invited me to attend a modern dance performance at the local temple. I was nervous about entering a church setting as this is generally not my cup of tea. Keeping the mission of “50 Women” in my mind I reminded myself that this is an integral part of Kimmy’s life she is willing to introduce me to and that I needed to be open to learning about this- especially since there are so many stereotypes concerning this denomination.  Stereotypes interest me and I am always attempting to debunk the tales surrounding them.

Leaving my apartment one night about two weeks later  to attend a Mormon women’s group, my neighbor asked where I was going. I told her “the big white building on the corner of Grand Street”.

“You’re going to the MORMON church” she exclaimed… “Good luck getting out”!

When I entered the building- all of the young men were wearing their suits and two of them opened the door for me.
“Are you lost Madame” they asked, concerned
“ I’m looking for a friend”.
“Can we get you something to drink…water…”

Kimmy introduced me to the other women in the group and they were very kind. No one tried to convert me, no one asked about my religious background, no one sacrificed any animals and no one tried to marry me into polygamy.

Instead- the women listened attentively to my description of “50 Women”, told me about various humanitarian projects the church organization is involved in and even suggested women they knew with intriguing and inspiring stories . They all knew I was not part of the same religion, but never judged me for it once or tried to persuade me to join their organization. They sure did invite me to other women’s group meetings.

I enjoyed my time with them. Just as I do with my Muslim friends, and Buddhist friends and new age friends and even atheist friends. Faith is a powerful thing. It is my reason for beginning “50 Women“. Faith is never the same one person as it is to another.

So what have I learned besides the fact that the myths about  LDS church are not true?
That faith is a transitive experience, and the most important thing one can do is try to understand these differences.

One week later I plugged my last name into the genealogical center database at LDS. What the hell…

Et voila- 275 hits.

Thank you Kimmy for not only giving me a lead, but also opening my eyes to something I knew little to nothing about…

For more information on LDS and its programs and services, visit LDS.org

Dancing with the Doula

I was only supposed to get milk and eggs. That was all. I went to Trader Joes’s at 8:45- 15 minutes before close. Walking past the “free samples” line, I  honed in on a conversation lead by a woman with long brown hair about childhood nutrition and medication.

Ironically enough- the day before I watched a documentary about children being over prescribed psychiatric meds. I was disgusted and aghast at the side effects these children experienced and the uncertainty of their physicians. Why this is legal I will never understand …

I interrupted her to express these sentiments and we erupted into a heated discussion with another employee and about 5 other total strangers. (I love the bay area) We ended the night talking in the parking lot until 9:30pm about various global topics. I handed her my card, excitedly telling her about my project. I hoped she would contact me soon.

I waited….

2 weeks later, Kimmy called. She asked if I wanted to go and “jump” on a giant trampoline in San Jose. How could I say no?!

It was raining that night when we left. I was wearing leggings and knee high boots. “You look cute and stylish and I look like a bag lady” she remarked. We giggled. It didn’t matter. It really didn’t.

We drove one hour to the trampoline place and on the way Kimmy provided me a preview of what she does. In addition to caring for small children and her sewing business, I learned that she is also a birth and postpartum Doula. The word “doula” comes from the ancient Greek meaning “a woman who serves” and is now used to refer to a trained and experienced professional who provides continuous physical, emotional and informational support to a laboring mother before, during and just after birth; or who provides emotional and practical support during the postpartum period. Doulas are on the holistic or osteopathic side of pregnancies and births. She explained several techniques used in natural childbirth as an alternative to more rough and uncertain methods currently implicated in hospitals.

I tell her the story of my ex-business manager who decided on an induced labor- not because of health related issues- because she had “a meeting in Dallas” that she “couldn’t miss”. (If having a child will inconvenience you that much- just DON’T DO IT.)

Kimmy tells me her daughter is in China. She explains how one night she received a revelation and was told by God that her daughter is in China waiting for her.  She said she will show me the nursery and all of the baby items she has stockpiled in excitement waiting for her daughter. Kimmy has waited since 2006.

We arrive at the trampolines.

I was not expecting such a fitness reverie, and upon seeing the colossal size of the trampoline mentally transfigured into a child of no more than 8 years old. Indulgence. Pure bliss…

We jumped for hours until midnight, feeling hungry and as if my organs rearranged themselves- trying flips which easily could have broken my neck. I took the risk… in the spirit of  stealth!

I felt free, in an unabashed and unapologetic way. Like one does as a child. We talked in the car on the way back to the bay area.

A few weeks later, we decided to meet for dinner- using her “curry in a hurry” recipe we improvised a meal with whole grain rice, chicken curry and salad with cranberries. After this- we sat in her basement as I showed her my blog. I explained to her the purpose of “50 Women” and watched as her face glowed in intrigue. I told her how much I have enjoyed her stories about the births, how I respect the fact and am in awe that she is adopting her daughter from China and has waited with her teeth set (so to speak) for the arrival of her first child. She took me up to show me the nursery she put together for the pending arrival of her daughter. She has all necessary equipment and a closet full of clothes. One would think that a young child already lived there with the neatness of the arrangement. There is an unmistakable presence in this space- a ghost-like indication of some sort lingering in the air. Not frightening, however comforting and reassuring that one day her wait will end.

Kimmy has a steadfast adherence to her beliefs regarding caring for young children. She advocates strongly regarding natural childbirth. I cringe and digress as we trade horror stories of hospital births and sometimes unnecessary C-sections. I tell her the story of a dear friend who fought her insurance company and a local hospital for the ability to have a midwife present during the birth of both of her children instead of a male doctor.

Unbelievable many women do not even research these options being that the United States is a country of so many. In Afghanistan, there a very few midwifes in ratio to the population and percentage of women within this who are pregnant currently operating in the whole country and infant and maternal mortality rates soar. A woman dies of childbirth every 27 minutes in Afghanistan.
Many other “failed state” nations run this risk as well, including some parts of China.

As Kimmy turned off the nursery light she looked at me and said:
“Its almost as though most women (in the USA) would rather take their exclusive right- the one thing that we women have for ourselves and just decide to hand it over.”

Kimmy was told her daughter is in China.
I was told that Kimmy is my next contributor.

A death in Tehran

Follow the frontline link to watch the “just released” documentary about Neda Agha-Soltan- a young woman killed during the June 20th, 2009 protests in Tehran. She is now an international symbol of the struggle for Iranian freedom.

To watch the Frontline documentary: CLICK HERE

Neda Agha- Soltan moments before her death

Real Equality

People often ask me why I even bother to care. As if “I”, indeed, can really do anything largely impactful. (It appears most of them are quicker to cast doubt on you than support you. I don’t allow myself to be thwarted by their negativity.) After being asked this question several times lately- I’ve reflected back to where my awareness of impending humanitarian crises first began. The point when I recognized the presence of a world beyond my own small existence and its simultaneously occurring events. (Does that sound cheesy enough yet?)

I just finished the 4th grade and was in Phoenix, visiting my Aunt and Uncle. After playing outside for hours, the parching heat chased me indoors. I needed water! I slid open her screen door and slammed it behind myself just to hear the echo. I was the only “non- adult” in the house. My footsteps on the tile floor were the only sounds, besides the television and voices of my family members on the patio. Alone to sneak a cookie or two- what opportunity!

I glanced curiously at the television. The news was on and I watched a group of men carrying a boy from a burning building. One of his legs was completely crushed and the other bleeding. He was grabbing the arms of the NATO paramedics begging them to let him live and not to amputate his leg. I remember barely being able to read the subtitles at the bottom of the screen. The continued footage showed groups of orphaned and injured children, whom I quickly realized, were the same age as me…

I never stopped to think about this before. I always thought all other children were just like me. They had the same things as I had. They had parents as good as mine, food, a place to go to school and a bed to sleep in. (I also thought health care was free and food was too- damn, was I wrong!)

Someone called my name from the patio. I went back outside- telling my relatives that “I never wanted to watch the news again”. I was distraught and damaged. I never forgot about that boy. The footage was a Serbian attack on Bosnia. At the time- I didn’t realize how much the event I witnessed bared relation to a distant stranger. Here is why:

My family was living in West Virginia when I was about 2 years old. A young woman of about 19 years old moved into the apartment next to us. She spoke no English and was sent to the US by an arranged family marriage from Bosnia. She was doe eyed, bewildered and within months gave birth to a son- who became my best friend and first “boyfriend”. We often played together as my mother aided his young mother in learning English.

Myself and Din: My first "boyfriend" in West Virginia.

Sadly, her husband was abusive and my family eventually moved to South Carolina. She called us one day- telling my mother she was taken to a “bad house”. My mother urged her to return to her family in Bosnia. This was right before the wars and the siege of Sarajevo.

I always wondered what happened to him. He would be my age now and I have never been able to find him since. If he returned to the Balkans as his mother said they would- the crisis would have directly affected him. Maybe he was somewhere behind those cameras on that news footage or maybe he is safe and more affluent then me. At least this is what I hope…

It’s difficult to gage the exact point in your life when you realize this truth: We are not created equal. Our teachers, parents and politicians tell us that we are. This is not in any way accurate.  We indeed are victims of the cultural framework we are born into from the beginning. Our deviations from this depend on our education and exposures.

Today, I reflect on just a few months ago as I watched the amount of displaced persons in Pakistan climb from a few hundred thousand to millions in just two weeks. Jeffery Sach’s book “The End of Poverty” presents statistics revealing that 1/3 of humanity has not even reached the “bottom rung” on the ladder of economic development. Out of the 6 billion people in this world this fraction would represent roughly 2 billion, including the 45 million uprooted and displaced by war. That’s 1/3 of the world’s people without food, clean water or basic amenities, which is 1/3 TOO MANY…

Blindsight: The Documentary

Set against the breathtaking backdrop of the Himalayas, “Blindsight” follows the gripping true-life adventure of six blind Tibetan teenagers on a climbing expedition up formidable Mount Everest.

Watch the full length film at hulu.com. Click on the image.

 

The stranded girl…

Recent Peshawar carbomb

Spending more time with my dear Afghan friends lately has brought yet a new immigration puzzlement to the table. This time it’s as critical as before…

The spiced tea we shared lately, often past 10 PM, is an engrained flavor in my senses now. So entrenched that when I see any picture from Afghanistan, I recall the smell of these aromas. As conditions worsen in Afghanistan- Pakistan is too being crushed under the heavy exuding force of the resistance groups and the parent force, the Taliban.

Every morning around 7AM, I read the news updates about acid attacks, bombs, and RPGs…These terms, once the vernacular of military personnel, are now the “catch phrases” of the war. Daily, in either country, there is at least one attack without any remittance.

Perhaps the most difficult news report I ever witnessed concerned a class of 8 year old girls who were sprayed with corrosive acid for attending school. I watched the video footage, wondering how any journalist in “right mind” could stand there filming these tiny creatures in this state. They were shrieking, stumbling around the room, unable to stand still because of the pain- waiting on medical personnel. The skin on their pristine faces chemically burned completely away- the remaining pieces stained black and festering. With their tiny hands they gripped the walls and I noticed even the skin on their delicate arms was burned.

I don’t need to describe how wretched and grotesque this is. The available images and videos speak…

Last week, a car bomb tore through Peshawar killing and wounding masses. That evening at Nadija’s house, her mother came with a phone card in hand; explaining how relieved she is the family in Peshawar was at home and asleep during the attacks. Shocking to think that my dear friends have family directly in the midst of such instability. Thus, leading directly to our newest immigration crux….

At 22, Nadija’s young relative is stranded. A widowed mother on the run; with no future or hope- living in a place where car bombs explode consistently and the men carry guns. We will call her Jasmine.

I never heard Jasmine’s whole story until the other day as we prepared her story for the very immigration officials Nadija’s story was previously told. Have their hearts hardened since? I pray not.

Nadija’s husband sifted though documents in order to construct the chronology of her short and tumultuous life. Gradually, it came together; as though a ghost whispered to me…

Jasmine was married several years ago and had a baby. She is 22 years old now. Her husband was murdered for working for westerners- the gruesome details are unbearable to hear and imagine. His body was found dumped like trash in a cemetery. The marks on his neck indicated strangulation. There was no skin on his body, as though he was carelessly dragged about post mortem. But he was a dedicated man in his cause, murdered for trying to save a victimized people.

The endearing part of her husband’s story is his purpose for working for the westerners. He was committed, she says, to working these relief projects because he wants Afghanistan to have a better future. He wanted his country rebuilt, wanted the mess cleaned up so his child would not be forced to face such perils. So the baby wouldn’t grow up in a place full of corruption and death.

Since his death, Jasmine is displaced. Her in laws want to remarry her- according to custom. She refuses. She has no money, no way to provide for her child and lives now in one of the most dangerous places in the present world. Jasmine’s husband braved threats, bombs and corruption but refused to give up his work in the relief projects. These are Afghanistan’s only hope now. He gave his life for the future of this shattered war torn nation.

We as Americans can understand this.

W e have done the same in the past and do it now. Without people like Jasmine’s husband on the opposition, progress is sifted and society eventually falls- crumbling into rebel hands…

Displaced girl in Waziristan (AP)

Nadija found 2 pictures of Jasmine amidst the pile of documents. There is one from 2 years ago- and Jasmine is beautiful; head uncovered and smiling with her husband and new baby. Then there is the recent one. The one where her skin is pale, her under eyes are bluish and cheeks sunken. Her eyes are apprehensive and a black cloth covers her hair…

Maybe this girl is thousands of miles away from me, but I hear her crying out. We are close in age and I cannot help but draw many parallels between me and her. As though looking at her picture is like looking in the mirror…

“Tell her I said hello” I told Nadija, “tell her when she comes; I want to be her friend”.

Her case will be sent off soon.

Please.

I don’t know what your faith is, but pray this young woman can be granted a refugee visa. Pray that she can seek refuge here with her loving family. They are desperate to help her and she has nowhere to go. Maybe I have never met her, but I already consider her my sister and care about her and she is screaming for a way out of the encroaching ugliness and tragedy.

Pray. Even if you just do it once. Even if it’s not your prerogative. Even if you believe it’s futile. That’s all I’m asking. This is worth 2 human lives. Removing them from such a deadly place is just one more step away from the impending darkness. It’s possible.

So….PRAY.