After much deliberation, I chose one of the photos of which I am most proud. Taken on YFC Staff Retreat in Whitepark Bay in November of 2005. I had just begun to fall in love with that wee nation, but had no idea how much that love would wind its way through my soul. As I put the finishing touches on my PhD proposal, I find myself often day dreaming of life back in Belfast and what it would look like to move in those rhythms again. This picture is a window into that world for me – one I hope to inhabit again.

After much consideration, I thought about single experiences which carry both emotions. After much consideration, I chose my time in Rwanda. The Land of a Thousand Hills is not a place I speak about often on this blog, but it has shaped so much of me. On my second journey there, our team made a trek out to a small town on the border with Tanzania. That particular village, Nyarabuye, was the site of one of the more intense episodes of their genocide. We took a tour of their make-shift museum and found ourselves at losses for words. How do we express sorrow? Do we even have the right to grieve when we did not directly lose people in the event?

For me, however, the photo which sums up the whole experience is this:

This bag is full of bones. They had been uncovered a few weeks before our visit on the grounds of the church. Through choked back tears, the guide explained this bag contained the bones of a family who lived not far from the church. Father, mother, daughter and son. They had fled to the church for refuge, only to find their end.

I don’t think “sad” begins to cover how I feel about that bag and the situation surrounding that bag.

However, in this picture, I find hope.

These women belong to a group called Rwanda Women Network, a group of women who have committed themselves to emotionally course-correcting their country. They’ve provided homes and hope for widows and orphans, created job opportunities when there were none. Providing legal support, community development and skills towards economic empowerment, RWN is a hope.

I need to say that Rwanda is full of RWNs. Full of organizations – NGOs and otherwise – which are run by indigenous persons who are committing that 1994 will never repeat itself. Please do not assume that the entire reality of the country is contained in that bag. But to ignore that a large piece of its story is anything other than tragic would also be folly.

As I seek to work in places with legacies of violence tied up with hope, I continue to remember my experiences in Rwanda. The despair juxtaposed with hope, the pain interlaced with joy, the death wrapped up with life.

I often make jokes about airline travel, along the lines of “I remember when you didn’t have to take your shoes off” or “I remember when you could wait for people at the gate.” I suppose I make those jokes because it often appears as though that is the only section of society that has really changed since that fateful Tuesday. I know that’s not true, however.

Do you remember a time when Arab-Americans were not pulled out of lines? When “racial profiling” was only a conversation among cops in New Jersey? When the nature of travel was not determined by color coded warnings? When we had never heard of Abu Ghraib and when we didn’t have thousands of men and women who have the screams of Afghani children haunt their dreams? When we weren’t constantly afraid of something?

I’m not sure I do anymore. I only have hazy recollections of that previous America. Perhaps that is due to my age. I was, after all, only seventeen at the time of the attacks. I was fourteen during Colombine and younger during Oklahoma City. So my view is skewed. I came of age among conversations about gun control and capitol punishment. Terrorism was something that happened far, far away and my debate topics in forensic clubs concerned school uniforms, animal testing and NATO. I can only imagine what the topics are now. PTSD funding? Human trafficking as a result of war? What does “safety” mean and what are civil liberties anyway?

Even if I am recollecting through the hazy positivity of childhood, I think we can all agree that the national consciousness changed on September 11. We’re almost a decade into that new consciousness – what have we learned? Are we happy with ourselves? Are we proud of our culture? I don’t mean to ask if we’re proud of Snooki or the like, I mean, are we proud of the America projected to the world?

I don’t want to have these conversations in a tone of fanaticism or hyperbole. I wish, as a nation, we could take a collective breath and sort ourselves out. I suppose that desire is simply tilting at windmills, but it’s all I can think about this afternoon. There has been so much hysteria – in the past few days, the past few weeks, the past few years – and I have often been a willing participant in it. What would it look like to not be? I am not sure.

This is a post with no conclusions – so I suppose it’s a post in progress. This topic – the reaction of cultures to violence – is one I want to spend a large majority of my life exploring, thus this post may never be done. So I leave you with these questions: how do we live in the shadows of history, spinning out of our control? How do we move with grace in the midst of horror? And lastly, as Roger Sterling asked on Mad Men a few weeks ago, “is forgiveness more valuable than loyalty?”

Africa United was written in the lead-up to the World Cup. Though Bloomfield is an avid football fan, his aim was to address the other conversation about the 2010 FIFA World Cup: Africa. South Africa – after a shady history with its own football program – had been awarded the right to host the continent’s first tournament. Naysayers and assorted bigots claimed that Africans would never be able to host a tournament of its size and caliber. “You know those Africans,” someone told me in a coffee house shortly before the Cup began, “they’re all lazy and greedy and bad with money. This thing will blow up in their faces.”

Hatred is just so exhausting.

But back to the book – there is a lot of truth to the sad reality that Africa is a continent rife with despots and despair. (There’s also a lot of truth to the fact that nations off of the continent did quite a lot to drove some of these countries to their current state, but that’s for another post.) Several countries stand without functioning economies and some without governments entirely. The only thing more complicated to understand than African politics is – as Bloomfield discovers – African football.

Africa United is a delightful travel book, told with a fan’s passion of the game and a journalist’s eye for history. Bloomfield patiently explains the context of each game he reports on – some in Chad and some in Congo – explaining the inter workings of the football association in each country as he attempts to paint an accurate picture of the state of the game. It is clearly only one man’s opinion and thus contains editorial commentary. However, in his chapters on both Rwanda and Kenya, I agree with his commentary and know scores of others who do as well.

South Africa proudly denounced the naysayers with its execution of the World Cup. That’s not to say the state of their national football club is any less complicated – human nature takes time to change – but it is an excellent step in the right direction. Football – when taught properly – can provide confidence, leadership skills, health and education in a way few other endeavors can provide. It also provides joy. And in places like Somolia and Zimbabwe, just like in Waco and Detroit, joy is not something to be trifled with.

I used to think I was a person who processed quickly. That I would come back from some ridiculous experience and be able to summarize and compartmentalize it and move on. I know now this is not true. I have levels of processing and I have only begun to enter the first stage of processing for my experiences in Medellin. I can give you a brief photo summary (which I’m about to do) and tell you some quick stories, but I’m not super confident that I’m conveying anything elegantly.

Also, know that some of the most significant experiences were not photographable ones. Look forward to word pictures about prison, baptism and hugging guerillas.

At one point, the question was posed to me if Colombia was the first violent country in the world. The first country to create culture around violence and the myth that more violence is the solution to violence. With grief in my heart, I had to assure the person ‘no.’ That the story of humanity is littered with misconceptions and casualties that stem from the deep brokenness we find ourselves in. I suppose that is why I was both over and under whelmed by Colombia. I felt like I had heard the stories in many different languages and in many different contexts, but in the same way, the stories were distinctly Colombian. I look forward to talking about those further.

Precious button at the La Cruz feeding center

La Cruz Feeding Center

Lunch : potatoes, carrots, yuca and beef. For most of the kids at the center, the two meals they provide are the only meals the children get the entire week. Any conversation about poverty really should also include nutrition.

Another precious : I spent most of the time at the feeding center hanging out and taking pictures and attempting not to cry at the holiness of it all

View of the houses of Medellin from the gondola ride we took from Acevedo

New friends : myself and dana with michael and natalia

It’s tamales wrapped in banana leaves, but it looks like the snack Samwise takes for the journey to Mordor.

One of the more awesome experiences I had was the privilege of chatting with some girls about worth, dignity and respect. It was like standing in Belfast, but with more Spanish. Holy. Moment.

A raw coffee bean

Travel Buddies : Dana, Myself, Sarah

When I talk more about Medellin in further blogs, I want you to remember this dot. It marks a boundary called “The Invisible Line,” and they’re scattered throughout the city. One of my friends actually told me that things are more violent in Medellin now than they’ve ever been. And that, my dear readers, is a statement. If someone who does not live past this dot crosses the line, they will die. Plain and simple. And something that I haven’t stopped crying about since being told.

Colombia was the first trip I’ve taken in a while where I was not academically prepared ahead of time. A lot of that was due to continual India recovery, but most was due to being completely overwhelmed by my lack of knowledge about South America and not knowing where to start my search. While I felt often frustrated by my lack of comprehension and my need to ask the same question repeatedly, it was also refreshing to simply be a learner. Colombia, from what I can ascertain, is at a crossroads of sorts. A new president is about to take office while gang warfare is ramping up in Medellin. Almost everyone I spoke to was eager to share their stories and opinions – a researcher’s dream. I plan on blogging properly about Colombia itself in the next little bit, so look forward to that. But first – the traditional photo tour of my few days in Bogota!

Randomly, on Wednesday morning, Leckie and I stumbled upon a protest parade. We’re still unclear as to the point of the protest, but we do know that “kick the gringos out” was invoked and the above people thought we were in 1988.

Police patiently guard a peaceable protest taking place outside government buildings in Candellaria

Stumbled upon this gentleman in Old Bogota

Leckie, Marcella and Cyndy : new friends out for dinner and coffee

Meet Christian, the newest supermodel to come out of Bogota. No, really, that wouldn’t surprise me at all. Christian lives at a resident for at-risk boys in Bogota where we spent our Friday afternoon. After becoming a music video director and an English tutor, I quickly became a fashion photographer with all the boys doing their best poses. Christian was the chief star.

Me, Leckie, Ximenia, Cyndy : new friends hanging out with the boys

Last evening in Bogota: dinner with Leckie, Fabian and Cyndy

Really, all there is in Agra is the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort. Because when those two things are in a city, why would you focus on anything else? This post will be largely pictures. Also, the Taj is just as impressive as you think it is. There are things in life that are underwhelming because the hype overtakes the reality. However, the Taj is not one of them. It was incredible to stand there and gawk at the incredible structure. The detail is fantastic and the symmetry is striking.

We’re almost at the end of our recaps of India – only one city left, friends! Stay tuned for the last round of temples and forts: or, our time in delhi

This is the entrance gate to the Taj. Yeah, just the entrance.

THE TAJ MA-FREAKING-HALL! I happened to be walking in next to Stroope and I looked at him and shrieked. He just laughed.

Side view

Detail work on the Taj

These are the pieces that make up the detail work on the Taj. And each of those pieces are made up of several pieces. DETAIL.

What the Taj looks like backlit

Obligatory picture

Clearly, my turn

Me and Stroope

Architecture at Red Fort

Another shot taken by Michael on his early morning adventure

Me and Michael in front of the Taj

Varanasi, located on the banks of the Ganges River, is the holiest city in India. It’s regarded as deeply holy by Hindus, Buddhists and Jains and is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. Varanasi is in the state of Uttar Pradesh and contains hundreds of temples to various gods in various faith systems. Those are some simple words to sum up one of the most chaotic and fascinating and frustrating and beautiful cities I’ve ever been to. There are hundreds of legends that surround Varanasi, and I’d encourage you to seek them out for yourself. (For instance, the creation of the Ganges as rivets of water flowing from Shiva’s hair is one of my favorite.)

I’ve struggled how to explain this city. I decided that instead of offering my traditional summary, I’d rely largely on the photo summary. Know that we were there for about three days and arrived and left by train. We took a boat ride down the river at sunrise and attended an evening worship service unlike I’ve ever seen. In our team language, Varanasi was the bottom of the Indian well. It was the place that the messes that come with Indian culture came up and demanded our attention in a way that hadn’t happened before. Plus, friends, it was HOT. We were hot everywhere, but Varanasi was like baking inside a humid oven.

My experiences in Varanasi will probably feature in my posts again, especially as I begin to understand how to describe it. In light of that, stay tuned for the final two summaries concerning Agra and Delhi.

How we arrived in Varanasi: night train from Calcutta to Varanasi. This is the compartment I shared with CJ, Katie and Kari.

CJ hangs over to her bed to watch Chef Kari make our snack

I love that the cow is sleeping right underneath the sign for the Internet cafe

Man sitting by the ghats

Me and my travel buddy Casey in the back our of cycle rickshaw

Clearly, I have no idea what this says. But this is what Hindi looks like.

Boy playing in the Ganges

The Ganges Arti is performed each night at the same ghat at sunset. It’s an amazing example of devotion and ritual that I was honored to experience. It’s also typically dichotomous. People sitting next to cows, mixed with child beggars and girls selling hand stamps, next to men selling Dora the Explorer blow-up toys and tourists with expensive cameras. All while the service is happening and the sun sets.

A large part of Hindu worship experiences is about getting the attention of the diety. Gongs are clanged, bells rung, insense burned, candles lit – it’s a completely visceral experience. So here’s a shot of the end of the arti, where the priest ritualistically throws flower petals in the air.

The Bodi Tree where Buddha received his enlightenment – located just outside Varanasi

Tibetan prayer flags hanging around the Bodi Tree

There’s a Jain temple located down the road from the Bodi Tree. Ask me about peacock feathers sometime.

Please remember that I love India when I say this : the three hours we spent on the Varanasi Train Station platform will rank as three of my least favorite hours of life. Hot, stuffy, rats, exhaustion…

Out of order, I know, but I wanted this to be your parting shot of Varanasi.

This is absolutely, 100% a blow-by-blow. There are clearly THOUSANDS of years of history that I am casually dismissing with a pithy comment – especially since things happening before 1600 ACE are generally not my favorite to discuss. For anyone who wants to explore these topics further, I recommend A Traveller’s History of India and In Spite of the Gods: The Rise of Modern India.

India has been around pretty much forever. The argument can be made that it is, if not the oldest, then one of the oldest continual cultures in the world. By the time of the 6th century BCE, Indian culture was beginning to form to the point it is now. Hinduism was fairly settled and created an appropriate cultural climate for both Buddhism and Jainism to flourish. The continent was rocking steady, minding its own business (aka: it was full of kingdoms constantly warring for control of land, resources and people) when Alexander the Great burst onto the scene in 330 BCE. From this point onwards, Indian history is largely shaped by its interactions with outside cultures, countries and rulers.

Asoka: In order to understand Indian history, you have to know Asoka. Until the time of the British Raj, Asoka ruled over the largest portion of India of any other ruler – including Afghanistan, Pakistan and Bangladesh. He is credited with two major things: 1) propagating Buddhism and is largely credited with it’s spread and dominance throughout Asia and 2) cementing the rule of Dharma into the Indian culture. The empire he ruled, the Mauryan, eventually collapsed in 184 B.C.E and plunged India into fragmented confusion which lasted almost 500 years.

The Guptas: The Rule of the Guptas lasted for about 150 years and is regarded as the “Golden Age of Indian Civilization.” It dominated the whole of Northern India and saw an outpouring of art, music, literature and other aspects of culture. While they may not be viewed by most Indians as key or important, they serve as the last dominating force in India prior to the arrival of Islam. Their influence upon Indian cultural unity laid foundations for its later interaction with Islam.

Rise of Islam: Between 647 CE and 1565, Indian history is dominated by the story of the arrival and growing power of Islam. For anyone unfamiliar with the ways which Islam rolled out across the world and its influence on the cultures it interacted with, I recommend grabbing any of the relevant works by Karen Armstrong. There are many details we can say here – including the power of the Delhi Sultanate, which is certainly worth mentioning – but those details can be found elsewhere. My editorial commentary is that Islam presented the first entity which India could not absorb into the mainstream of its culture. To chose to be Muslim meant rejecting aspects of indigenous culture. This battle continues to shape India and its relationships with other countries.

Moghal Empire: The Mughal (or Moghal or Mogul) Empire spans several hundred years and encompasses a “glorious time of Indian culture.” Instead of the divisive pattern that had been the rule of law prior to their assent, we see a growing political, administrative and cultural unity spreading throughout the subcontinent. It can be argued that their unifying tactics laid the foundation for the coming tide of foreign dominance, but that should never detract from the achievements made.

East India Company: There were many East India Companies – Portuguese, Dutch, French, British. By the early 1600s, the power of the Mogals was receeding and the power void allowed for Europe to begin it’s takeover. While all of the companies left their own distinct mark – mostly on the southwestern coast state of Kerala – I concentrate the most on the British, as they eventually became the colonial power. From 1600 – 1858, the British East India company systematically took over the country, incorporating colonialism and forever changing how the West would interact with the Rest. They mostly traded opium, spices and tea and I credit them largely for the British obsession with tea.

British Raj: After the First War of Independence (also called the Sapoy Rebellion or the Indian Mutiny) in 1858, the British government dissolved the East India Company but continued to control India through the indirect rule of the British Raj. From 1858-1947, India was controlled by a hybrid of indigenous leadership who were little more than puppets to direct imported rulers. Much like other countries who are former colonized nations, this period of history is one not easily escaped from. There is an interesting conversation to be had here about race relations and the interactions between Brits and Indians, but that’s for another time.

Partition: Due to increased tension between Hindu and Muslim leadership, the British felt strongly that a united India could not move forward into independence. Thus, they partitioned India into separate Hindu and Muslim areas, uprooting hundreds of thousands of people from their homes so they could move to “appropriate” areas. The Muslim section is modern day Pakistan. Clearly, tensions still run hot between these two nations.

Ghandi: So, I don’t know if you’ve heard of this guy, but he’s kind of a big deal. Not a figure without controversy, however, he was the figurehead of a massive independence movement. Achieved in incremental pieces, India was declared a sovereign state in 1947. The first leader was Jawaharal Nehru, who set the tone for Indian politics for years to come. Other leaders of note; Indira Ghandi, Nehru’s granddaughter and Manmohan Singh, the current Prime Minister.

Slumdog: The India of 2010 is diverse and massive. Everything about India is life to an exponent – the wealth of some is as staggering as the poverty of others. Slumdog Millionaire is certainly a movie with its faults, but it raises a valid discussion about the growth of India. India is remarkable in how it has risen from the ashes of colonialism and built itself into a global force. It will, however, be hindered by its greater demons of child poverty, slavery and economic discrepancy if those things are not addressed.

If any of these topics interested you at all, I would really encourage you to investigate further. Shashi Tharoor is a brilliant author who writes equisitely about the glory and stress of his country. I recommend his Midnight to Millenium highly.