Women's March on Washington

Social media is beautiful today, the day after the March. It is filled with pictures and videos (including my own) capturing the energy, excitement and action that is happening to rebuke the terrible and terrifying new political agenda. Social media hasn't been this way in a while. I've thought about quitting, but instead peek through my hands several times a day, unable to turn away from the train wreck that is this new political day in the US. But at least for now, the energy has shifted and instead of depressing defense, this feels like opportunity and offense!

How did we feel walking in the crowds of more people than I have ever seen? Amazing. It was pure, pure happiness!  I marched with my beautiful boy Austin, Hayden, my Gulu friends and my best friend, Alexis from Vassar. We looked at each other and marveled at the crowd of love and solidarity.

The day before in a effort to get kids who were climbing the walls out of the house, we went over to Eastern Market to a lovely new bookstore. The only sign that the inauguration was a few blocks away was a lone Humvee parked at Lincoln Park, appearing oddly disjointed among the cherry trees and playgrounds. We were still in Eastern Market when the inauguration ended, and we grumpily crossed paths on the sidewalk with a trickle of supporters.

As we approached Lincoln Park on our way to the March, it was carnival-like. Throngs of people and posters were skipping down the streets buzzing with energy and pink. Our first sign that this was something that would exceed our wildest expectations came as we ascended the metro escalator at Capitol South. I was slightly distracted by Austin who, despite the hundreds merging onto the platform and escalator, said, "I want to ride the escalator all by myself" and wiggled down to hop on, completely oblivious to the crowd. Once I was sure he was stable, I looked back to make sure Hayden, Alexis and Freda were with us. That's when I saw the massive sea of pink and signs. On instinct I raised my fist and to my amazement, the entire platform began to cheer. Awesome! And I hadn't left the metro yet.

When we did get upstairs, we were right at the Capitol. We were greeted by people handing out free (child-friendly sized) posters. Austin enthusiastically grabbed a "LGBTQIA" sign and I grabbed an "Intersectional Feminism sign." And at once, we were in it!

We planned to meet up with about 20 friends from different places. The meeting point, Rayburn House building, is a site I know well. It is where I have all of my Capitol Hill panel discussions. It was also a block from the start of the march, right next to the Capitol, and was a great vantage point to people watch as we waited for others to arrive. We got lots of photos and videos there, including my first (& presumably last) Facebook live post. We stayed there for a while and watched thousands go by. Thousands!

Once our Gulu friends arrived, we took off marching toward the starting point. I was still debating when to send Austin home with Hayden. It was just so exciting and it was great to have them there.  But the crowds were thickening fast. I popped him into the Ergo on my back and we weighed into the crowd. The stage, mere feet away, was lost in the masses. We made our way over to some stairs where we could sit with the kids. Austin fell asleep in my lap and that's when I knew it was time to say goodbye.

Hayden carried him off into the crowd with the other Gulu dads and Gulu kids. I fretted for a while until the confirmation text came back saying they made it back to the car.

I turned to my ladies and we settled in. As we tried to figure out how to get on the March, we watched a world of love, respect and tolerance go by. We met Lezbros and Black lives Matter. We saw slogans that ranged from the profound ("Dissent it patriotic) to the profoundly funny ("Cervix says: not my president.")

All causes were on the March, but most of all this was about women. It was our day and everyone there felt it. It was a sea of pink and proud and promise and pain and, most of all, power! The power rose from every point. The power of dissent on the backdrop of the National Mall is indescribable. The special flags brought out for inauguration still hung from the Capitol and we reclaimed them. Those stars and strips. Those halls of power and politics are ours!

I fretted again, this time that there were no helicopters. I feared there wouldn't be aerial coverage to show the scale and might of what I hardly could comprehend with my own eyes and ears. (It seems media was able to do this.)

We stood on 3rd Street, right on the Mall. People at the start of the March were turning back toward us. They said the March was stopped. So we began walking in the opposite direction and surged forward right toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Like that, we were on the inaugural parade route. I guess the park police thought it best to open all roads. It turns out the original march route was no longer possible simply because every step was packed with people.

We marched down Pennsylvania and the inaugural stands were filled with: "love trumps hate," "my body, my choice," "we are the 51%" and lots and lots of vagina drawings. The irony was physical and fabulous.

We chanted, "this is what democracy looks like," and sooo many other important things. Every side street was crammed with humanity. Downtown was shut down. As we approached his ostentatious slab of gawd and debauchery that is a hotel, just two blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania, there were roars from the crowds and fevered chants of "we pay our taxes, why don't you?!"

We passed the RRB and approached the White House. Our small troupe, who included pregnant Bina and Alexis who carried 4 year old Freda on her back for hours decided this is where it ended for us. We were exhausted and exuberant. We were hungry for food and for more. More action. More peace. More love and more progress. More power. And on this day, we felt for the first time in months that we can achieve these things. Our journey forward toward equality and peace, despite the mountains looming upon us, is possible again.

Tis the season in Sri Lanka

For the first time in a while I hesitate to blog about a place, because I really haven't seen much of Colombo and nothing of the rest of the country. I'll save my more intense attempt at understanding this culture for my trip report. But I guess it's important to capture the experience nonetheless.

I was immediately disoriented upon arrival at baggage claim, not by being at a loss in a new foreign land, but instead by the jarring sense from hearing "Deck the halls" and subsequent Christmas carols being piped throughout the Colombo Arrivals hall. Something so familiar in a completely unknown place brought a little smirk to my face...an unexpected chink in my "just landed by myself in a foreign airport" armor.

It turns out Colombo is obsessed with Christmas. On my pillow in my very nice room in the very nice colonial hotel, Galle Face Hotel, was an invitation to tonight's annual Christmas tree lighting celebration. Decorations are everywhere throughout the city. Christmas is truly post-Christian. (A blog for another time)

I wonder if the crows will come to the lighting. I thought I was about to be shot this morning when I looked up from my passion fruit yogurt cup to spot the crow-wallah aiming his slingshot in what could not be mistaken for dead center aim of my forehead. It turned out that there was a crow perched behind me waiting for his moment to swoop in and steal my toast. The crow-wallah's sole job is to chase crows at breakfast, running the considerable length of the veranda and pushing them out toward the sea. It is hilarious and completely undignified. He does do it with a smile on his face, reassuring guests with his countenance that he knows that his job, while clearly vital, is completely ridiculous.

Today I circled the city several times to attend various meetings, passing temples and getting stuck in traffic jams frequently. My favorite one of these trips was of course when I hailed my own private tuk tuk. I didn't even care that he overcharged me($1.50 instead of $1) I felt like Anna from the King and I, except with dirty bus exhaust blowing in my face from manic buses narrowly missing me.

Of course I love all of this. Of being in "the field," which isn't really the field, but it's travel and work and familiar, even in a new place.

My colleague Sarah is probably one of the nicest people I have met at IFES and was based in HQ so I know her well enough. She is fantastic and great on gender, but has been overwhelmed by work and by the fact that her husband had to return to the US. Even though he is a nurse, he could not get work here. I try my hardest not to compare Sri Lanka to Uganda too much, but this fact did floor me. I can't imagine him being turned away even for 2 seconds if he was anywhere in Africa. Big difference.

Anyway to help Sarah navigate some of the challenges and pitfalls of life in the field was also great. It is a reminder of the skills I gained while away and the important contribution they have made to who I am and the strength that I carry as a person.

Early Saturday morning I make the ridiculously long journey home, starting out on a 3:25am flight. It's best to get this blog in now before jet lag and travel consume me. I have missed my baby boy so much (although I got to skype babysit him a few times). I know he and Hayden have managed well and we had another great back-up visit from his grandparents 😉😘

But it's time to spend QT with my family. Our next trip will be an adventure together to Mexico, as it should be.

Brussels, yes please

I arrived in Brussels at 8am and then had a little snooze at my hotel before heading over to the meeting. This was an Exchange forum between European and American women. I was distracted and exhausted when I arrived, but by the time I left these women at 11pm, I felt energized and excited about being a feminist.

I chaired a panel on electoral systems and gender equality. I am very good at moderating panels and today was no exception. With little preparation I nailed it. Why do I brag? Because women often don’t claim their expertise. I’m very good at moderating. At one stage, people were so into it that I had to stand and literally direct traffic. People were excited at the end of my panel. I was so happy.

We then headed out for the evening, first to an awards ceremony that was not so big on pomp and circumstance, but I met an Irish woman and got to nerd out and catch up on all that’s happening in Eire.

Then a few of us went to dinner and I was hoping for the perfect Belgium meal. Bingo! Steak frites and a transformative beer later (anno 1125) I was very satisfied. The dinner conversation was great. I first chatted with a woman who consults for IFES and caught up on those issues and was very happy to have some time with her to go over things only briefly described over emails. Then we chatted about personal things, which was nice bonding. Then I overheard the women sitting across from me chat about being moms of one child, boys and I had to butt in. We chatted about raising one kid, about raising a boy, about being working moms and it was so great. I was with my people in a charming place whose memories and respect of culture are forever in my heart.

Despite all of my fretting about leaving Austin and plane rides, being in Brussels is just so great.

From the archive: Iran

Today, I found an old notebook with the following written in it:

2/21/07 (incidentally Austin's birthday plus 7 years)

We stopped at the rest stop outside of Qom coming and going to the city. On the way in, I switched to wearing the scary nun habity thing, which I actually found more secure and was happy to let my hair hang free (underneath of course).

On the way back, I was on my way to buy special delicious saffron-based Qom cookies when I spotted Geri at a newstand. We decided to to buy some delicious cheery juice to go with our delicious cookies. When we entered the shop girl started grabbing at my habity thing, chatting to me in Farsi and pulling me toward the back of the store. I started to panic, because I thought this was an affirmation of my constant fear of something going horribly wrong with my veil and all of my long crazy curly hair comes tumbling out and causing an international incident. (Think having one's pants fall down in front of the UN Security Council...)

The girl pulls it off my head, starts rearranging it (a process that starts with it OFF your head) and  sticks my head back through and placed it back on. Suddenly the clouds parted...well, ok, it was still a habity thing, but it was on PERFECTLY. It wasn't slipping like before. I was so appreciative. I immediately demanded that Geri take our picture, which I will always have to remind me.

I realize most of my anecdotes are about dress faux pas, but I spend the days on serious issues. Dealing with Islamic dress codes dominates the only room left in my brain.

After the cherry juice/veil incident, I got back on the bus and noticed (in the dark) an infant, about a year old wandering toward the bus as it started to move. I pointed the baby out to our minder and said, "uh, where did that baby come from?" expecting to see a parent a few steps away. No parent. The minder got off the bus, picks up the baby and starts walking around looking for the parents, who suddenly emerge after what seemed like a long while and a great distance.

I keep winding up in the men's room! At the Institute for Islamic Culture it happened. It's hard to tell beween the Farsi and the eastern straddle toilet! In the Foreign Ministry I didn't notice until I came out of my stall, was washing my hands and the person who came out of the other stall was a man! It's an honest mistake, but just seems just about the most offensive one could be in a country so strict about gender relations. It was the perfect storm of a faux pas: inappropriate interaction with the opposite gender in the most intimate of locations...needless to say I'm now totally paranoid!

This morning when I woke up, I put on black pants, black boots, a black top, a black manteau, the black habity thing. I decided to put on bright, hot pink socks and as I did, I thought: this is my quiet rebellion that no one will see except me. So I forgot that when entering many locations, most especially Mosques, you take your shoes off. I was trying to discreetly hide my hot pink socks from everyone. "Hot pink" and "hide" don't exactly go together! Mary Ellen spotted my "rebellion" and pointed it out to everyone. Much to my horror, people in our group began taking photos - even the PBS film producer filmed it!

The secret to crossing the street in Tehran?
Don't look left or right!

Where the Prague am I?

In January of 1995 I moved to Vienna, Austria to "study" abroad. Two weeks into it, I began my primary objective: to travel through Europe and I took the train to Prague. I remember it snowed a bit and I drank a lot with some newly acquired friends, fellow Americans including my perfect travel partner for the duration, Heather.

We got off the train, drunk, in the middle of the night, with no cellphone or local currency or Atm. I remember finding a taxi driver and somehow he took us to a hostel and somehow we paid him something, as you did in those days.

We fell in love with Prague, meandering the charming streets, meandering so much that we got lost a lot and perhaps in a tipsy haze, we started exclaiming: "where the Prague are we?!" This phrase has lasted twenty years, as I use it anytime I am lost to this day. "Where the Prague am I?" I will ask driving somewhere new for the first time.

My other memory of Prague is traveling there with my mom. I have two distinct memories: one of her getting her wallet stolen in the Prague subway. Luckily she heeded my well-honed travel acumen and had removed all valuables - save her checkbook, which I don't think was much use in the Czech Republic. The other memory is of us going to see a Marionette performance of Don Giovanni, which was fantastic. The actors sang amazing opera while working puppets!

Twenty years later, Prague is still charming as hell. Even teeming with tourists, I would just look up to find another stunning building and have its charm wash over me.

My return was slightly triumphant. I was here to present my new violence against women in elections framework on a panel. The panel went well and by far the best part for me was sharing it with one of my all time heroes: Monica McWilliams. Monica was a key figure in the Northern Ireland peace process. She was one of two women to be elected to the first NI parliament. The list of her accolades is long. The last time I saw her was testifying on Capitol Hill.

After the panel, she and the others on the panel grabbed lunch. It was so great to chat with her and remind her that we met in Belfast in 1997. We remembered people together. It was wonderful.

With but a few days in the ground, I mostly wandered around old town. My hotel was located just on the other side of the Charles bridge. I traipsed that amazing site frequently, each and every time awe struck. In fact, I was always having to sprint on the other side, late for a conference event, because I couldn't stop taking pictures.

My hotel, the Aria hotel was quite a bump up from my hostel and pension days. Themed on music, my room was on the Jazz floor and looked out onto the Vrtba gardens, a secret garden in the middle of the city that is a UNESCO world heritage site. After a long day, I went up to the rooftop restaurant and ordered homemade strawberry dumplings, watched some fireworks go off over the city and felt grateful for my life.

Haiti is a tough place

I am currently back in Haiti to do an assessment on violence against women in elections (VAWIE). Conducting an assessment means millions upon millions of meetings. I have been meeting from sun up to well past sun down and have a ton of information that I have to sort through. Except I can’t because in a short while, I have to go for more meetings. Today’s meetings start at 8am and end at 5pm. With the heat and humidity, I am reduced to nothing by the end of the day.

However, I would be so sad not to blog once. I would love to take a moment and try to describe Haiti. This would take a lot more time. Instead, I’ll sum it (Princess Bride!)

Whenever I am not in Haiti, I always say, “Haiti is one of the most difficult places I have ever been to. I think Haiti is right up there or not too far from South Sudan.” South Sudan! I think I am being dramatic, and then when I return, my pithy summary does not do justice to this complex and catastrophic place.

Because I have been meeting so many people, I now have absolute clarity about how true that statement is. I don’t have time to unpack it though, so I will tell one story.

We arrived at a Ministry which I won’t name. We had two meetings scheduled. One with the Secretary General of the Minister and one with the Minister herself. We were escorted to a waiting room and then the Secretary General came and got us and moved us to her office, which was outside this main building, in the back of the compound. We crammed in (4 of us, including our interpreter Edwich.)

After introductions and protocols, she began to answer my questions. She started with “Violence is everywhere in Haiti,” which is how everyone begins talking when I ask my first question. She told us that every Monday between 30- 45 survivors of sexual violence come to the Minstry for service. The Ministry!

We continued talking and then were interrupted when the Minister herself came in. Ana, my colleague, and I were like, “wait, that’s the Minister? Why is she coming to get us? She walked all the way here? Huh.”

Once we get to the Minister’s office, we make introductions and then she starts telling us about her work. It was all fluff. She kept saying she had a vision and that we all needed to follow it, but didn’t say what that vision was. A few minutes into it she starts complaining about the other woman to us and how she should not have met with us before the Minister met with us. It got awkward. I asked Edwich to stop translating at one point. We talked a little longer and then the other woman walked us out. The Minister smiled and shook our hands.

A few hours later, we met my other colleague at another Ministry and she told us that the Minister we met with in the morning was extremely angry that we met the other woman first. Huh? She was on a rampage and as a result of her wrath and our disobedience of protocol (huh?) she was pulling all of the participants for our two day meeting that was starting the next day. Wait, huh?

Our team in Haiti explained to us that they absolutely followed protocol and asked for a meeting with the Minister and that it was her office that scheduled the meetings the way they did.

I won’t go into all the details, but in sum, apparently she’s known for her “personality” and apparently she and this SG have been battling during her short and fiery tenure. For me, this is emblematic of the failure of governance in Haiti. This woman lost it over a misstep in protocol (made by her office) and not only couldn’t let it go, but then, with furious vengeance, made her best effort to torpedo the rest of our visit.

It doesn’t torpedo it. What it does do is tell us that we’ve lost a vital partner and that Haiti has lost yet another opportunity for good leadership and on such a critical issue.

So it’s a minor incident in Haiti, a minor one for us, but it is unfortunately indicative of the one step forward, two steps back approach to democracy that plagues the country, along with extreme poverty and violence.

This is a tough place.