SEEING FOR MYSELF: A
POLITICAL TRAVELER’S MEMOIR
Below, you will
find excerpts from my book, with more coming in future blogs.
A
WORLD OF WOMEN IN NAIROBI
At the 1985 U.N. conference on
women I was exhilarated by the amazing mix of women from all over the world. I
was also dismayed by how many U.S.
policies women from many countries found oppressive. I felt the same outrage at
President Reagan’s support of South
Africa, but the number of other
dictatorships my government had supported was astonishing. I learned not only
about women worldwide, but also the suffering of all people in East Timor, Sri
Lanka, Guatemala and other
areas where dictators were supported by U.S. policies. Yet women from
numerous countries greeted us Americans with warmth. Workshops were crowded but
a South African presenter assured us, “there is always room for one more.”
As I tried to keep
track of the bold actions women were taking all over the globe, voices in my
head vied for attention. Brief exchanges with women I would never meet again
segued to comments made in workshops, or to isolated sentences from pamphlets
or articles in the Forum ’85 daily newspaper. I tried to absorb it all, but a
mental kaleidoscope kept flipping my focus from one issue to another:
Flip: “Women must have their own banks,”
says a representative of a
U.N. development organization.
Flip. “The West is to blame for most of
our problems.” From various sources.
Flip: “The National Coalition of Black
Gays is not presenting workshops because of fear of oppression. In the U.S.
we are members of an undeveloped nation.”
Flip: “In Spain
homosexuality was made legal in 1979.”
I was able to
focus for a while on one remarkable story. In India as early as 1974, the NGO,
SEWA (Self-Employed Women’s Association), had started a women’s bank, which
made small loans (now known throughout the world as micro-loans) to women in
the “informal economy.” The SEWA workers discovered that women could be relied
on to pay back their loans and would use the money well. Men, by comparison,
were not so reliable and tended to spend money on themselves. The story of
SEWA’s beginning was an inspiration. When organizers had tried to get loans,
the exchange with bankers went something like this:
Banker: “Give money
to poor women? Who aren’t even literate? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Organizer: “Well,
let’s see. How about if we give each borrower a picture i.d. card?”
Banker: “She would still have to sign her name on each loan, and some of
these women can’t even do that!”
To learn more or to buy the book, click here: http://www.amazon.com/Seeing-For-Myself-Political-Travelers/dp/1609440676/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1377550659&sr=8-1&keywords=Seeing+for+Mysel
On the last day of
Forum ‘85 my heartbeat was still accelerated by questions and ideas bombarding
my consciousness. I stood with women on the lawnthe same lawn where seemingly
long ago I had first seen that audacious sign, “International Lesbian
Information Service.” Twenty women dressed in the modes of various countries
leaned into a tight circle, discussing how to end men’s violence against women.
I wondered whether I would be able to sustain my own awareness of the global feminist
momentum without the continual stimulus of ideas pouring into my head. I need
not have worried.
Undaunted by the
enormity of the work ahead of us in turning the gendered world upside down, we
were energized by all that we had learned and felt. How could we keep our
connections going? And how would we explain it all to those who weren’t there?
We quickly came up with the idea of a newsletter. I was excited about that, and
suggested that each of us send news to the others. Then someone could collate
and forward it all to the rest of us.
That “someone” was
the catch. When no one volunteered, I offered to collect and distribute
whatever was sent each quarter for one year, if others would take turns after
that. We agreed to call our product the International
Newsletter Against Violence Against Women.
“IT AIN’T WHAT YOU
SAY; IT’S THE WAY THAT YOU SAY IT”
After driving for six days from
Seattle to Guanajuato,
Mexico, I was
glad to relax and enjoy the bustling streets. I learned that the old tune about
“the way you say it” is absolutely right.
Strolling along the narrow sidewalk lined with shops, I
was astonished at how many people crowded elbow to elbow on the sidewalks. It
seemed that everyone in the city was carrying out the weekly ritual of Saturday
night shopping for clothing, food, and all manner of trinkets. They didn’t even
jostle each other. Or so I was thinking, just as someone bumped into me. I
wondered what sort of person would not even say perdon. I caught a glimpse of skinny man quickly looking over his
shoulder at me as he darted past, but I gave only a moment’s thought to him.
Across the street a mime was surrounded by a mesmerized
audience, and I moved toward the circle of spectators. I watched a tall, slim
man in white face, red gloves, and a black suit as he told stories with
graceful, expressive hands. The children’s expressions of awe, puzzlement, and
sheer delight testified to the mime's talent. I was enchanted with the
performance and paid scant attention to a man next to me. I was only vaguely
aware that he muttered something incomprehensible in Spanish, I didn’t know if
he was talking to me or to himself. When he raised his voice, I didn’t need to
understand his words. I knew from his tone that he spelled trouble. Then he
shouted at me in an angry tone, so I moved to the opposite side of the circle.
The man followed. He stood too close to me for comfort.
I glared at him, and was met with a glassy stare from a pair of eyes that
pierced.
To find out happened next, go to the book at
http://www.amazon.com/Seeing-For-Myself-Political-Travelers/dp/1609440676/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1377550659&sr=8-1&keywords=Seeing+for+Myself
THERE’S
ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE
My
Todos Santos, Guatemala “home” with a family of eight consisted of a one-room house with an indoor
fire pit that provided heat and fuel for cooking. The floor was of hard packed
dirt and there was no electricity or plumbing, yet the family welcomed me so
warmly I didn’t miss any of those amenities.
Despite
her labors of weaving, and cooking, and caring for the children, Juanita found
time to be with me. We were each limited by our inability to speak much Spanish,
which together with her shyness and my time-consuming classes, meant we did not
talk much. But sometimes we were alone together for a couple of hours, and I
learned how to simply be with her; how to let feelings of closeness develop
without the need for conversation. That was new for me. Years earlier a man I
was involved with had tried to persuade me that talk wasn’t the only way to
communicate. I had scoffed at that idea. But I had laid the notion aside, and
now I was finally ready to give up some of my reliance on words.
When
the time came for me to leave Todos Santos, Juanita and I both felt sad….My bus
out of town was over an hour late, and the two of us stood in silence waiting
for it. Every now and then I would look at Juanita and her eyes would fill and
she would say, "Ahhhh, Ginny..." in a tone of longing. I would smile
weakly and touch her arm.
That
limbo of waiting and longing was too melancholy for me, and the language of
silence this time was too difficult to sustain. So, when a truck pulled up and
the driver invited all of us waiting for the bus to ride with him to Huehue, I
was relieved to climb into the truck bed. In a few moments I was waving
goodbye. Juanita looked very small standing by the road waving back.
SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE,
MEXICO
I spent seven
winters in San Miguel, which was a stark contrast to Todos Santos. My San
Miguel quarters weren’t luxurious. But plumbing and electricity were taken for
granted, at least for gringos and middle class Mexicans. And I had plenty of
space all to myself.
I soon found a one-room house, complete with the luxury of my
own phone. My nearly private garden…included my own jacaranda tree, and the
rent was only one hundred and thirty dollars a month. Within weeks in San
Miguel, I had acquired a community of friendly relationships. My days fell into
a pattern that seemed perfect. I rose at nine or ten, wrote until
mid-afternoon, and then attended a Spanish or writing class, or a critique
group. In late afternoon I might meander….
To find out more about life in San Miguel ask your library to order it or buy it here
A TASTE OF IRAQI POLITICS AND ACADEMIA
By the summer of 2002 President
Bush had me worried about the imminent war against Iraqis. I kept asking, “Who are those people,” and I wanted to see
them for myself. Friends kept telling me that would be far too dangerous to
visit Iraq
but in early fall of that year I signed up for a two week trip with a
politically oriented group. In Iraq
we met doctors who worried about children dying from lack of medicine because
of U.S.
sanctions. I saw for myself the results of the U.S. war, sanctions and
interventions. I met school children shouting “Down with Bush” and university
students who said U.S women had “too much freedom.” I had met Rahim at a party
in Baghdad and
was overjoyed when he invited me to visit his university class. I began the
session by asking the students about their current reading:
Rahim’s class
was studying Waiting for Godot. The women were shy and the first students to
raise their hands were the two men in the class. But with encouragement, a few
brave women spoke up. All the women students were dressed more or less like
western office workers, except for their omnipresent scarves, either white or
patterned in numerous colors. When I asked whether they saw a connection
between Godot and their situation, the class burst out in unanimous laughter.
“We are
waiting, waiting, waiting,” someone said.
I assumed that
meant waiting for the American axe to fall. I was wary of inviting comments on
that threat too soon, but the students soon warmed up and, all fluent in
English, they were eager to praise Hussein and criticize the United States:
“I want to
express my love of my country and my president. He is an example for the world.
We are a great country because of our president.”
“We have lost a
lot and have nothing more to lose. But the U.S. has no right to make us feel
so afraid just because someone wants to drive a big car.”
“The sound of
bombs makes me feel afraid. It’s now every day, and they make our fear worse.”
“They should
leave us alone. We want to live in peace.”
I was surprised by the vehement
tones and sharp criticism because our group had met graciousness from everyone
we encountered. But they were all able to separate the American government from
us American people. The next topic I invited was the only time I heard
critiques of American culture:
I asked, “What do
you think about the freedom of women in the U.S.?” Students took turns answering my questions.
Student: “You have too much
freedom.”
Ginny: “What kind of freedom are you
thinking of?”
Student: “Freedom should have some
limitation.”
Ginny: “What kinds of limits are
useful?”
Student: “You need protection.”
Ginny: “From?”
To learn what happened next, ask for the book at our library or order it here: http://www.amazon.com/Seeing-For-Myself-Political-Travelers/dp/1609440676/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1377550659&sr=8-1&keywords=Seeing+for+Mysel
Stay tuned for more excerpts in future blogs.
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