This just in…

Because of the recent Iranian political maneuver with Turkey and Brazil,  President Ahmadinejad has changed his name to  President Ahdidagoodjob.

Okay, so what do you think about Iran’s deal with Turkey, Brazil?  I’m impressed.  However, Hilary “smells a rat.”  Go Hil!!!!  Maybe Washington has a point, but as I am sorta forced to hear all the anti-incumbent doo-doo I become less and less tolerant of America’s indifference, now more than ever,  transformed to rigid anger and doom.. What America Wants?  Well, America is classic because America just wants.

Happy Birthday Daddy

Most recently it has been faith at the forefront of my intention. All of us have a hard time with that one. Sadly, it’s usually upon reflection that we remember and succeed in acquiring its summons. That sure makes sense, for adhering to God’s promises and plans remains as difficult as it is easy; as thwarting to maintain as it is to achieve. Yet, we realize it is the only sustainable path to peace of mind and our need will never end.

Daddy, as with you, this little book about faith has also inspired me. Every time I can’t muster up what it takes to obey what God so relentlessly demands…faith, I remember Skylor. Let me share a bit of his story:

The sweet little boy puppy you see before you is an exact resemblance of my doggie Skylor.  Sky only lived to be 13 years old. While nearing his 12^th birthday my vet showed me how his frightening symptoms were the fatal effects of the cancer throughout his heart. His vena cava was almost completely occluded. Doc Riley gave him less than two weeks to live, announcing that “surgery is not an option.” Concurrently my precious son was in severe jeopardy and needed strength that only could be borne from God. I could only think of faith and how I would find a way to it.

Once we were back in the car from the vet visit, I could only communicate with my eyes; no words were to be found. By the time I arrived home I had committed myself to saving Sky. There is nothing I can prove here except to report that somehow I realized no doubt and I was confident that he would survive. I asked God and then I asked Sky for just one more year.

Well, as it turned out, about a year later, the following spring, we were preparing for another doggie jaunt. Just as I opened the car doors Skylor came loping from behind, teeth clenched deeply into his best ball…red and white heavily stained cloth…and suddenly, without any notice, hurled himself up onto the seat and into my arms. We collapsed backward on the front seat. Skylor frantically struggled toward my face as his front legs grasped for my neck. At the same time, my body struggled to embrace his. So common it had become during these 13 years that our eyes would connect and our souls would speak, noticeably conveying our thoughts; this was no exception.  Never knowing how or from where it came, I produced the biggest smile ever as my anchor–best friend and most treasured blessing beyond my son–fell to sleep.

It was many days before I cried, for the immediate business at hand was giving everything up to God, including continuous thanks. Amazingly, when I am failing, falling or just plain ole’ frightened I somehow remember to turn to God and, among all the rest, I still thank him for Skylor. That love has sustained me through these years. And by saying that love, I mean both God and the love he gave to me through Sky.

The Irony of Human Rights and the Golden Rule

Standing in the shadow of the Berlin Wall, just beneath the western side of the S-Bahn rail station in West Berlin’s city center I responded to a dare that ultimately forced me from my age-appropriate, post-teen, self-absorption and delivered me to the stark recognition that not all people were born with the same human rights as I. Reason and fear had been put on hold as I swore to my mates that when the train stopped in an East Berlin port of entry I would saunter from the train, find the first guard or soldier available and exclaim with the audacity of a Daffy Duck inspired confession, “My papers are not in order!” Almost 20 hours later I was released into the negotiating hands of the American Embassy who “saved” me only to reveal the disreputable consequences I was to face. My gain was nothing more than peer respect; my loss was excruciating embarrassment and the threat of losing my passport. Thankfully, at that time American powers of discernment were lenient and somehow I walked away transformed forever, while pretending to have emerged unscathed.

Disrespectful as that caper was, the outcome, as well as the message eternally altered my every thought regarding individual freedom. Seemingly that single event saved me from what could have been a lifelong sentence of mediocre, placid and self-centered American life without much regard or concern for those born with only a dream of the dignity human rights afford. Conversely, thereafter I began a zealous campaign vowing passionately to always support equal rights while unabashedly proclaiming that we all must observe the Golden Rule. That simple task, that is to always   treat others just as we ourselves want to be treated, is passed from generation to generation to just about every child, from every culture and every corner of the world long before they have time for extreme selfishness or hate. For sure that vow has never been ignored, especially when I was blessed with the responsibility of motherhood. From the beginning I faithfully imparted my irrepressible standards to my son, never allowing his voice, let alone his darling presence, disrupt others who were “renting” their place in public as were we.

Irony played its hand in that commitment and the gripping reality in which my son and I would soon be immersed, for when Peyton was only 12 years old we temporarily moved to East Africa. A year earlier a local Anchorage church hosted a Ugandan national whose church and mission they were sponsoring. I was introduced to the man and his wife who eventually hired me to teach grades two and three on site just outside Kampala, Uganda’s capital city. At that particular time several banks were under investigation for embezzlement and any business other than exchanging dollars for Ugandan shillings was considered a bit risky. Instead I opted to trust the minister and keep the money at the mission, as he advised.  Less than two weeks after our arrival I fell ill with malaria, was hospitalized, and while away the minister stole the entire $6000 we had hidden beneath the floorboards of our room. Most would have hopped on the first plane out of there and returned to the safety of their own backyard. Nonetheless, that’s a long way to go only to return with our tails between our legs, especially while knowing in my heart that there was a higher reason for our move to Africa. Instead, I returned to my former profession and secured employment at a Kampala F.M. radio station as a presenter on their morning show. While making a fresh attempt to stabilize our lives we worked with both the American Embassy and local police to insure that justice would be done. There was an arrest and months later a trial ensued. As we sat in front of the judge that day, ingesting his corruption-coated verdict, we were devastated and enraged when the whole affair ended in bitter disappointment. The minister bribed his way free and his house keeper accepted blame and was put behind bars with an abbreviated sentence of three months.

My journalistic curiosity and access to government affairs through the media revealed Uganda’s callous and constant, shocking and brutal disregard for the most basic of human rights, which captivated both Peyton and me. Indeed, during those initial two and a half years we remained in Africa, many of our dearest friends and “family” members suffered in ways unimaginable practically before our very eyes. War, famine, disease and sheer corruption supplanted any rights those people would ever experience. While standing by helplessly I knew of only one way to counter atrocities we could never slight. As with most international journalists, I could only take up the pen and bring those storybook-like accounts to life with the American people as my recipients.

Once home the work that began in Africa intensified as awareness of the ever-worsening breech in global human rights weaved its sorrow of reckless neglect into my very soul. Too, common citizens in developed nation states–particularly within these United States–somehow manage to maintain a quiet distance that supports a convenient escape via ordinary ignorance. Speaking as an American, I consider the notion that we have become severely desensitized to such doings. Visual accounts of the Second World War and Viet Nam, accessible through advancements in filmmaking, along with grim images of brutal combat and spilled blood were transmitted into theatres and eventually into our living rooms through television. At the time, those initial portraits were received as nothing less than grueling horror—later revulsion. Now I wonder what it would take to shock even a first grader.

Continuing, a couple of years ago while in northern Uganda, I ventured into the depths of Uganda’s mixed refugee and Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) Camps to interview the people who lived there. I was literally stormed by women who assumed I was there to help in some measureable way. Sadly, I confessed that I was only one more of the many American visitors who had come to record and then relay their stories. They ardently believed I had come to make an immediate difference. Days later, while staring into the unresponsive eyes of a 13-year-old girl, who begged to tell her story, I ingested fiction-like accounts of rape and family murders that rolled off her tongue as though she were recounting scenes from a movie. But this was no movie, nor did a single tear fall from my eyes. I did as I was advised and showed no pain as she told her story.

Despite the omnipresent sorrow it has always been quite painful to leave our beloved African home, and after 11 years of somber departures we have had a lot of practice. To soothe our ailing hearts it became tradition to explore other nation-states as we methodically migrated back to the solace of our safe and prosperous little lives. What might have been little more than pleasure-seeking sojourns evolved into further inquiries and exploration into the history of human rights abuse and any perceptible differences the loss thereof could have made along the way. One of the world’s most graphic and powerful models of human degradation invaded our lives as we undertook an abbreviated tour of Eastern Europe, highlighting Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary and Slovakia. No doubt we reached a pinnacle as we respectfully toured various Jewish shrines, including several concentration camps, which amazingly stand in perfect condition having been meticulously preserved.

As we silently passed under the famed sign bearing the inscription, “Work Brings Freedom,” Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp guides led reverent processions of curious and wincing visitors from room to room. While mournfully surveying the largest concentration camp in all of Nazi Germany, we were lead to dozens of glassed showcases exhibiting an almost incomprehensible amount of human hair, spectacles, official papers, artifacts and photographs as we often felt our knees giving way, threatening our ability to stand erect. Gripping as those remains were, nothing could have matched the anguish that shocked both Peyton and I when we came face to face with the very ovens that once incinerated tens of thousands of prisoners.  The narrow, metal cradles were effectively divided to facilitate two bodies at one time. Our English-speaking Polish leader, a granddaughter of one such prey, bitterly illustrated the gruesome method that was used to expedite the disposal of the endless parade of corpses. “It was simple,” she said. “They used a wooden mallet to crush the hip bones of every person as they were wedged into place and then burned.”

Wrapping our minds around such accounts challenged our imaginations and our ability to conceive of anything we were witnessing. As though one more exhibit could finally deliver us to such an unfathomable state of consciousness, we extended our investigation to the Birkenau sector of the same camp a few meters down the road. That tour highlighted life in the barracks where prisoners slept or spent quiet time as they hopelessly awaited their inescapable demise. Recorded stats divulged that every night as many as three dozen people were crammed into one cubicle measuring no more that 4 by 6feet, with a ceiling about 4 feet high. We were told prisoners took turns sitting while others stood bent from the waist, awaiting their turn to sleep. Tales of sickness recalled how the never-ending diarrhea, a symptom of extreme malnutrition, often dripped from upper holding pens onto the more unfortunate people below. A row of pit toilets typically split the room in half. The holes were to be used once a day and if you ended up somewhere near the last two-thirds of the queue, you either abstained in effort to wait for another evacuation call, or lost control while attempting sleep in a “holding” pen. As we strolled about the grounds we stood beneath guard towers that were built upon fragments of human bone that years of torture had left behind. Conversation was non-existent for the duration and even into the quiet of that night. We dared not reveal our thoughts of the vile devastation we had just witnessed.

More recently, while relaxing on Egypt’s side of the Red Sea, I overheard someone saying Jerusalem was only four hours away. No time was lost musing about extending our journey, and before we knew it we were bouncing up and down on tattered bus seats, blazing down the Sinai coast toward the Israeli border. Our intended two-day stay evolved into two-week excursion.  Although Old Jerusalem complemented our personal Spiritual convictions and deepened our devotion to the man, Jesus, my commitment to journal the effects of lost human rights were seemingly etched into my very being when Peyton and I accidentally wandered into non-occupied Palestine. It only seemed fitting to end our investigation of that part of the Holy Land by visiting the nearby city of Bethlehem. When I inquired about which bus to take I was directed to the local #52. As it turned out, Israelis get quite the kick out of sending Americans into precarious sites that usually end up making them look like foolish tourists. This was no exception. The bus came to a halt once we had woven our way between and around cement blockades, overseen by dozens of Israeli guards. To our surprise, we had boarded the same bus that Orthodox Jews took to access one of the holiest of sites in all of the country.

After exiting the bus and following a guard to an underground temple, our part of the tour came to an abrupt end when I asked the guards within the shrine to unlock the doors and let us move along into the city of Bethlehem. Confused by their laughter and unable to speak Hebrew, we simply smiled and followed them to the impenetrable iron doors that, once opened, gave access to the streets of a typical Palestinian neighborhood. At the time we had forgotten that parts of Palestine were hostile and had long since held all Americans in disdain. Not until we eased past an enormous stone wall where the words, “Israel’s Apartheid, America’s money,” had been hand carved with chalk, did we sense danger. Fortunately within seconds we realized and braced for the consequences of what we had done. That was our only warning and suddenly a small group of adolescents had gathered and were preparing to stone us. As rocks began to fly just past our heads, one teen ran up directly behind me, grabbed my head covering and kicked me in the rear. We stood our ground, shouting threats of retaliation and anger, just as I have been taught in Alaska when a bear attack is inescapable. That display of self-protection apparently came as a surprise, which gave us enough time to create a ruckus that successfully solicited attention from Israeli guards. Just above the rolled barbed wire and blockades, patrols shouted at the perpetrators, pointing their guns at the gang while motioning for us to make haste and run to the nearby pathway that would secure our safety.

The most recent, Israeli “flattening” of Gaza served as the backcloth that a patchwork quilt is usually built upon. At first I questioned what some might perceive as my exaggerated grief response, tears included. Was I really abreast of all facts (that had, of course, been confirmed by at least three legitimate sources)?  And if so, had I taken sufficient time to accurately assess the lot? Days upon days of film footage and written accounts helped me see my way clear. Yep, my reaction was appropriate.

As with most children, the golden rule, “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you,” was taught to me long before I was even in grade school. I’m sure that saying was reiterated countless times in so many ways throughout my life. However, without my intrepid and sometimes precocious ventures I wonder if today’s shameful violence in Zimbabwe, Congo, Somalia, Athens, China, or Gaza-just to name only few- would have impacted me in such a poignant manner. What I do know is that every time I peer deep into the eyes of anyone who has been victimized, their return gaze into mine often appears to be born from reciprocal understandings. In fact, with each trip back to my second home, Africa, I always hear someone say that there is no possible way I could empathize so deeply had I not felt the hurt of persecution in my own life. I confess… this is true. Without doubt my own personal pain (apart from anything mentioned here) is now a part of my soul, but because of it, I have a deep, fundamental connection to all those who are suffering. I intend to make use of that vital link while continuing to fully extend myself, pen in hand, offering all I have to give to all who have suffered the tragic loss of their precious, inherent human rights.

Household Knowledge

Make no mistake; America is internationally renowned for its isolationism and maintenance of devout, yet archaic, ignorance regarding the rest of the world, particularly the Middle East. Unfortunately, not many Americans have much interest in how or even if their lives are directly affected by “those Muslims” other than prime time newscasts depicting terrorism with on- the-scene footage of battles we’re fighting at the time. Just now, when threatened by the job loss epidemic, our incomprehensible military budget and our economic predicament–including the 1.5 trillion dollar debt to China and Japan (who by the way, are reported to be doing quite well)– might be just cause to reconsider our universal stance. As resources dwindle and populations expand, we may be forced to recognize a perpetual dependence on one another world wide. Most critical is the need to comprehend that these facts, unnerving on their own, are greatly intensified by the interwoven complexities that can’t help but blend our economic woes with our fight to rid the world of terrorist activity. Awareness and education go far when we conceptualize and utilize the necessary steps that could enhance our national security. In contrast (and paradoxically), citizens of most undeveloped countries are often particularly well-informed about the rest of the world. Indeed, it is commonplace for the ordinary person to settle into intensive dialogue concerning Americanization, the West in general and the powerful effects of our decisions. We should take their lead, realizing that recognition of and respect for other peoples, their religions and their cultures, remains central to diplomacy. And diplomacy, entrenched in unbiased education, is our most effective and most readily available resource when countering terrorism and healing our economy.

For a start, what if myths and hearsay were supplanted by impartial facts that outlined the often disciplined and rigid doctrines defining unfamiliar religions that supposedly spawn extremists? Unfounded beliefs laced with sensationalistic journalism are perfect fodder for unnecessary angst. For example, just the name “Islam” usually solicits a “deer in the headlights” stare, amplified by a palpable increase in heart rate.  Mention Palestine or Arabs and we Americans suffer overwhelming intimidation, despite the fact that even a modicum of energy and a true desire to understand these people and their faith could alleviate fears borne from ineptitude and stoic prejudice. Lest we forget, the world’s three largest monotheistic religions, Christianity, Judaism and Islam are founded in the common patriarch and ancestor, The Old Testament’s Father Abraham. Continuing, all three of these monotheistic faiths worship the same deity, God (Allah). And, at least in principle, each of these theologies promotes tolerance, compassion and respect for one another, much similar to the rudimentary lesson that we teach our children, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” In fact, Islam is a system of belief that instructs its followers to be responsible for one another and even suggests that 2.5 percent of one’s earnings be given to charity. And most often it is.

It’s important to remember that Islam as a religion is neither synonymous with the Middle East in general, nor a single race in particular. In fact, it’s usually taken for granted that all residents of the Middle East are Arab, yet one-third of the population, about 10 million, are foreign workers and are neither Arab nor Islamic. Those that do follow Islamic doctrine, Muslims, make up the majority of the three religions, although millions of Christians and Jews peacefully share the same land. Biblically, these faiths heed several commonalities in core beliefs. For example, each recognize and equally honor all prophets from Abraham, born 20 generations after Adam to Mohammed who lived 600 years after Jesus. The word, Islam, actually means submission to God while Islamic teachings are based on two Arabic words: Emaan, which means faith and Amaal, meaning acts. Emaan can be compared to a tree and its roots whereas Amaal means the stems and leaves, whose actions represent one’s faith. Muslims observe and base their theology in the teachings of The Torah, written by Moses; Psalms, writings of David; the Gospel, inspired or written by Jesus; plus Mohammed’s text, the Quran. Muslims also believe in resurrection and the Day of Judgment when the innocent remain in or go to Heaven and the corrupt remain in or are banished to Hell.

Knowledge of these facts alone provides only a elementary step toward realizing and making sense of a traditionally misunderstood faith and the people who follow it. Understanding historically complicated issues pertaining to these intensely religious and emotional nations includes a grasp of the ancient turbulence in which they have been eternally invested. Even more relevant is the manipulation of land and the arbitrary boundaries drawn by Western states that should have never been imposed in the first place. An honest attempt to appreciate ethnic divisions and their complexities demands diligence and a refined conscientiousness that will ultimately connect the dots and answer questions many don’t even know how ask. This is the steadfast focus of some of the greatest thinkers of our time. Most rewarding would be a true comprehension of the brutal acrimony between Palestine and Israel, separate from terrorism supported by the Taliban and al Qaeda. We should never forget that many of these issues are aggravated by our dominance and push toward democracy which is often the impetus for encouraged hatred for the West. Indeed, measured and analyzed data that can connect these same dots should be researched and accurately interpreted in effort to appropriate grave concerns as though our lives depend upon it.  And, as a matter of fact, our lives do depend upon it.

Exaggerated and distorted theories remain a risky substitute for common sense as well as support for the prideful ignorance and tacit alliance they foster. Softening belligerent energies can’t help but open doors that allow for enlightenment and acceptance of the whole kernel of truth. And for most of us, that truth is revealed through knowledge. Only education can effectively dispel empty rumors that nurture our fears and ultimately provoke retaliation against us. Initiation of purposeful understanding of this fact could be introduced into our families and casually presented as common household knowledge. Why not turn off the television and opt for a robust conversation, perhaps during the evening dining hour, that engages and educates family members. We must all realize that any pompous self- indulgence that attempts to impose our Western philosophies onto the values of other nations and religions must be monitored and even avoided if we expect any sustainable peace. Case in point: When countries such as France propose to ban the burka, the traditional, yet rarely enforced, female cloak and veiling of some Islamic sects, they are waving a red flag of confrontation. The intuitive lesson is to let it lie unless there is a question of security or identification. Why would anyone slap at a wasp resting on his hive full of millions more?

But no intellection of the Middle East is complete without taking stock of America’s massive military spending that always evolves into low-profile profit, despite the unrest it promotes. It would be irresponsible not to include the numbers, for therein lies the practical kernel of truth; the core that links our economy with our security and even the future of our health care. But this is not an expense report.  Besides, isn’t it household knowledge that America’s military spending is just now approaching one trillion dollars since 2001? This doesn’t warrant discussion here, nor is it necessary to reiterate that our commitment to Iraq alone has a tally of more than seven billion dollars and is still climbing. As Washington D.C. wangles parts of the Middle East and erects structures and such that very much appear to be nothing less than an extension of a U.S. military base, with an arms race to boot, there is going to be resentment. And that’s not all. There will be retaliation. Think diplomacy here; it works best.

Enough of the money and guns, it’s the people that matter. It may be hard to imagine but other than the culture in which we were raised there isn’t much difference between us and them. Keep in mind that the engulfing fears we live with here are nothing compared to the day-to-day reality there. Nonetheless, aside from Iraq and Gaza, one can travel just about anywhere in this mysterious and gravely misunderstood land safely and freely. And, I have. Over the past few years I have been drawn to this part of the world and cherish my time spent there. While visiting, one might be caught off guard with a question or so concerning the validity of our wisdom regarding the Bush Regime, Sarah Palin and her legitimacy or who taught us to hate Islam. Otherwise, there could be no place on earth more intriguing, diverse, luxurious and welcoming. Most Americans would be surprised to find that tourism is booming in the Middle East. Two words sum up the reviews from most returning visitors: misunderstood and mesmerizing. If we were to take the time, open our minds, research and question the litany of unsubstantiated threats, perhaps we could truly expand our household knowledge. After all, diplomacy begins at home. Think about it and discuss it over dinner.