SEEING FOR MYSELF: IS ALL TRAVEL POLITICAL?

My Travels were not all about politics, though sometimes I only saw the political implications after the fact. I was born a feminist, though it took several decades to know its name. In Seeing for Myself, I relate my longing to see the continent of Africa,my resentment over not being allowed to help the priest serve mass, as my brother did. But my desire to travel was probably fifty parts adventure and fifty percent the romace asociated with babtizing African babies to save them from an eternity in Limbo. When the opportunity arose to travel to Nairobi and to meet feminist activists from all over the world, it seemed my childhood dream had come alive in spades. Before the conference even began our tour guide, Dorothy announced that we could visit a Maasai village, and I was excited.

SEEING FOR MYSELF BOOK EXCERPTS

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 lawnthe 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

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 

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.

IRAQIS I SAW FOR MYSELF

Fatah was a graduate student at the University and her professor invited me to interview her so it was a rare opportunity to spend an hour alone with a very articulate Iraqi woman. She worked hard to be polite to me, but her fury kept rising to the surface."Iraqis," she said, "are very proud of their country. ..We have a right to have our country. To be safe. To live in peace.... We had to rebuild everything and now they want to destroy it all again...."   

This girl's photo was posted along with many other memorials to adults and children who had rushed to a Baghdad shelter, where U.S. missiles killed 400 noncombatants. It is now a kind of museum of horror.

Here I am with children outside their school

On our one trip to the market, I often fell behind the others so I could take pictures, and this charming girl took it upon herself to see that I caught up with the rest of the group. She is probably about nineteen years old, and I often think of her, wondering whether she's still alive.

The hotel lobby manager, Abida, and I struck up a friendly relationship. One day the elevators didn't work and she locked the door to the stairs because the children played in the stairwell inappropriately. I worried about a U.S. bomb hitting the hotel and no one being able to get out. We laughed when we saw the irony of that.  

We saw an number of children in the hospital, who nearly all looked as bewildered or frightened as this girl. We were told that they were likely casualties of depleted uranium and the problems were exacerbated by the twelve years of sanctions that often applied to crucial medicines.

This is one of the lucky mothers whose baby was born normal, not deformed as were many of the others

We are told not to worry. There will be “no boots on the ground.” We are told there is no contradiction between that promise and the assertion that “all options are on the table.” Yet the drums of war beat louder and louder and I hold my breath. 
Wondering who will be next, I think about the Iraqis I met in 2002, six months before American boots landed on their ground. “What are the chances,” I wonder, “that the locals who treated me with generosity and warmth are still alive. Were they wiped out by an i.e.d., while buying mangos at a market? Maybe a suspicious “pattern” of gathering with friends got them targeted and assassinated by a U.S. missile or drone? With the war on Iraqis and Afghanistan not over yet, haven’t we seen enough carnage?

As I write this, the news tells me my government is supplying weapons to Syrian rebels. (Apparently, that means more weapons, because the administration has already been sending some weapons there.) I long to see the people of Syria for myself. I worry especially about the men “of military age.” I imagine they look a lot like the guys I talked and laughed with at the Afghan guest house and on the streets of Baghdad.

            Here are photos of some of the men, and women and children I met on those trips and wrote about in Seeing for Myself.

IRAQ 

"Military age" men playing board game on the street

The rest of my group had gone to an Internet Cafe, and I took the rare opportunity to go out on the streets alone. "A couple of boys noticed my video camera...and started mugging for it. They giggled excitedly. Older boys joined us, then a few grown men. Soon we were all laughing at our inability to speak each other's language.
SfM page 204 

School boys chanting "Down With Bush!"

Our group was surprised when we visited a school and found the entire student body greeting us with signs and chants of "Down With Bush; Down With Bush! These children must now be of a "military age" - if they are still alive.

SEEING IRAQIS

We are told not to worry. There will be “no boots on the ground in Syria.” We are told there is no contradiction between that promise and the assertion that “all options are on the table.” Yet the drums of war beat louder and louder and I hold my breath. What are the chances, I wonder, that the locals who treated me with generosity and warmth are still alive. Were they wiped out by an i.e.d., while buying mangos at a market? Maybe a suspicious “pattern” of gathering with friends got them targeted and assassinated by a U.S. missile or drone? With the war on Iraqis and Afghanistan not over yet, haven’t we seen enough carnage?

As I write this, the news tells me my government is supplying weapons to Syrian rebels. (Apparently, that means more weapons, because the administration has already been sending some weapons there.) I long to see the people of Syria for myself. I worry especially about the men “of military age.” I imagine they look a lot like the guys I talked and laughed with at the Afghan guest house and on the streets of Baghdad.

            Here are photos of some of the men, and women and children I met on those trips and wrote about in Seeing for Myself.

IRAQ (Afghanistan photos are psted on a separate blog.)

Men of "military age" on the street with board game

It was a rare occasion when I escaped the group to wander the streets alone. "A couple of boys noticed my video camera and...started mugging for me...Several older boys joined us...then a few grown men. Soon we were all laughing ...since none of us spoke more than a few words of the others' language." SFM page 204 

Boys shouting "Down With Bush

Our group was invited to visit a boys' school and imagine our surprise when we were greeted by the entire school gathered in the courtyard to shout, "Down, with Bush, down with Bush" over and over, while the teachers looked on with apparent pleasure.

Boy working at what looked like a tool shop

Boys who looked about 11 or 12 worked in various Baghdad shops along a major avenue on the way to the market. They all greeted us tourists warmly and looked as if they loved their jobs. Because of the danger we were only allowed one trip to a market, a very brief one.

Another happy worker. If he is alive he  is of "military age" now

Girls shouting "Down with Bush"

Geiger counter on "Highway of Death"

One of mmy tanks left on the Highway of Death. Years after the Gulf War had supposedly ended, Depleted Uranium was still poisoning the air and threateneng the lives of fetuses and new born babies.

 Our group visited the Highway of Death near Basra. When Iraqi troops gave up their fight in the Gulf War they left their tanks behind. As they were escaping, U.S. forces continued bombing with Depleted Uranium-tipped weaponry. It is widely believed that the DU caused numerous births of seriously deformed fetuses and infants. The Geiger counter showed that the carcinogenic substance was still present in the tanks

Uum Khaidars' family.

Mustafa, Umm Khaidar's six-year-old son and his
brother, Khaidar "had been playing with other
children outside the house. ...an explosion of a
U.S. satellite-guided missile... Khaidar rushed
outside, where she found Khaidar covered with
blood. She could see that he was dead and she
could only carry one boy so she picked up
Mustafa....Nineteen children playing that day
were killed."  SFM page 196-7

Most children in the hospital were suffering from cancer, 

apparently caused by Depleted Uranium possibly inhaled by 

there fathers in the war. They looked frightened, but this girl's

smile lit up the room.

Everywhere we went we were greeted by warmth and welcomes. This is my room mate , Sharon, with  the children of one of the families we visited in Baghdad. 

SEEING FOR MYSELF NEWS

SEEING FOR MYSELF: A POLITICAL TRAVELER'S MEMOIR is available on KINDLE now, as well as in paperback.

I'll be reading from Seeing for Myself at Elliott Bay Books, 1521 Tenth Avenue on January 12 at 2 pm. Check out what the book company has to say about me and the book: www.elliottbaybook.com.

KINDLE & READING FROM SEEING FOR MYSELF:A Political Traveler's Memoir

Seeing for Myself: A Political Traveler's Memoir is available as a paper back and on KINDLE. Those are great triumphs, as you can see if you read my optimistic posts below, which hint at the travail sometimes trailing along with a self-publisher. 

 I'll be READING FROM SEEING FOR MYSELF, January 12 at 2 p.m at Elliot Bay Book Company. Check out Elliot Bay's calendar, to see what they say about me and my book: www.elliotbaybook.com.

 

On June 23, 2012 I wrote "Yay! Seeing for Myself: A Political Traveler’s Memoir is at the printer’s, and I hope to hold review copies in my hands within a week."

That turned out to be way too optimistic, which I comment on at the end of this description of Seeing for Myself. The rest of this article is still true.

I’ll be writing more about Seeing for myself on this blog, but to get started, here’s what the book is about:

As a child my curiosity about how other people lived was matched by my craving for a world that was fair. As an adult those feelings evolved into social justice activism. When I figured out how to combine travel and politics, I started by participating in the Nairobi U.N. women’s conference, and then exploring the South African struggle against apartheid. I wanted to see other cultures for myself, and then to tell people what I had learned. Thus, this book began.

A few years after the Africa adventure, at age sixty-three, I eagerly told friends about my plan to go to Mexico. But they offered dire warnings: “You’re going to drive from Seattle to the middle of Mexico? Alone? At your age?”  The U.S. State Department was also full of admonitions about danger. But, early on, I had taken seriously the sixties bumper sticker, QUESTION AUTHORITY. So, off I went. Several Mexican winters in an expat community contrasted with a later home-stay in Guatemalan where my hosts offered such a warm welcome, I scarcely noticed the dirt floor or lack of running water and electricity.

The more time I spent in poor countries, the more I viewed travel as a political act. In finding my way around foreign lands alone, it was up to me to figure out the protocols of each culture. Inevitably I made errors, and I write about how I learned to laugh at my gaffes. By the early years of this millennium I was eager to delve deeper into the politics of countries where the U.S. impact on other people was most dramatic, so I joined politically oriented tours to Colombia, and then Iraq and Afghanistan. There was potential danger in those countries, but the tour guides knew the languages and territory, and kept us safe.

In Seeing for Myself I introduce readers to all sorts of people, including men, who are doctors, military and business leaders, as well as refugees and union organizers. My interviews in Afghanistan and at the Kenyan U.N. conference focus especially on women, as do other encounters with Colombian Internally Displaced Persons, South African activists, Iraqi students and others. Since much of my work for the past forty years has centered on women abused by intimate partners, I ask specifically about domestic violence, and hear remarkably similar descriptions of abuse in each country.

On this blog and in Seeing for Myself I invite readers to enjoy virtual trips with me, as I describe travels by bus, car, and occasional hitchhiking. From Soweto to Baghdad, Todos Santos to Kabul, I find lots of laughs, often at my own expense, even as I wrestle with political and ethical dilemmas. It all adds up to a potpourri that I hope readers will delight in sampling for themselves.

Please stay tuned for news of the book, as well as other travel stories I’ll be posting.