In the Shadow of Injustice

A group of men sit on a hill. Their home is amongst thorns, their roof a tarpaulin sheet. They have wandered from Somalia, Kenya, into Tanzania, where the land laws allow nomadic grazing and their camels can eat freely. But they are not welcome, the local community, so close to the border, anxious about a large group of strangers; nervous of 1000 camels and what they may take from the community, already relying on so little for so much. There is a discussion: can the now-Kenyan citizens contribute to the development of the community in exchange for their camel grazing? The herders agree, donating the equivalent of $5000 to the village to build a school. A large sum of money and one that is not given lightly – the hands of the herders will feel its loss. They may live sparsely but they know how to save, their safety in moveable treasures.

The money is given to the local village government. The school it is intended for is a wooden shack with three walls, tree trunks for benches and a handmade, branch-woven tray as a teacher’s desk. It is 15 kilometres from the road and surrounded by small homes with young children who would otherwise not make the journey to school. The fence is a circle of thorns; the school gate a branch of barbs. The money, however, does not reach the school. Three years on, the voluntary teacher, seeking to give to her community, is still teaching on branches behind barriers of thorns: the village government holding the money.

Now the village is angry. They have walked round herds of camels on their land for three years. They know that the price of a fully grown camel in Kenya is $1200. They know the Kenyans are cultivating a small fortune at their expense. They wonder why, when their children sit on bent branches in the hot hut of a shaded tree, they aren’t benefiting from their village land?

The Kenyans too are angry. What hardships have they endured to reach Tanzania from their Somali homes? They have given a huge amount of money to find a home at last: it would seem they have not reached that home, after all. Unwelcome and unsettled, the law does not help them now.

The villages pick their way resentfully around the camel dung; the pungent smell of betrayal is stronger on their side of the fence. The Kenyans live quietly, the sun on their tents beating down its unforgiving rays of displacement. The stench gets stronger as the village government get quieter. There is little justice so near a border of laws: the shadow of Mount Namanga drowns it out.

Republicans for Dinner

On Saturday evening, I found myself at what can only be described as a Republican dinner party. Being a Democrat, a Labour voter, and a passionate Obama supporter, I kept my mouth shut and hoped the subject of conversation would change.

It didn’t, and as the topic grew in heat as five slighted McCain supporters discussed the inauguration of their rival, I wondered how it could be that such good-hearted, like-minded Christians could have such polar opposite political views to me.

I know I have blogged before about Tony Campolo and the Red Letter Christians. I still feel the fresh excitement of having found a group of people who can so eloquently express what it is that I believe in myself. And they are not just a one-off group of small-time token spiritual activists, but an entire political movement that spans churches and people groups across the United States. Their faith in Jesus is paralleled by their passion for social justice. They consider Jesus – as do many other religions, spiritualists and other people who claim no one faith – as one of the pioneers of integrity, justice, the goodness of humanity and the advancement of righteousness. In adopting their label, Red Letter Christians, this movement of evangelical rebels declares their mission of following exactly what Jesus taught in the New Testament, where dated copies of the Bible print Jesus’ words in red letters.

Saturday night was a test of my priorities. Where killing babies is so clearly wrong, I cannot believe that ostracising women who have made that heart-rending choice is what Jesus would do. Similarly, acts of terrorism are despicable deeds of hatred, but that hatred has a root and a reason and revenge is a cross-cultural event that cannot be categorised as ‘different’ by terms of culture or religion. I shudder at the memory of fear from September 11th or July 7th. But I understand the powerlessness and frustration of poverty and oppression; the helplessness of being a pawn in the global politics of manipulation and control, where rich nations hold the reigns, and pull them to keep poor nations dependent.

Driving home, I pondered the evening: should I have declared my thoughts, presented my argument, laid my cards on the table? I am (disdainfully) proud to be political; I know I look down from my politics on those I consider as 'still on the way'. Ignorance quickens my heartbeat in frustration, but hypocricy makes my skin crawl. Being right, being understood, or being recognised for my thoughts should never be my priority where people are my world. I may rant against what I consider to be wrong, but I will love my friends, despite their views.

The Dark Individualist

My inspiration yesterday is the chain around my neck today.
I exhaustingly compare and criticise myself until I am silent.
If I cannot be as good, I will not be at all.
I despair, I mourn, I imagine the what ifs, I bemoan the reality, I compare, I criticise, I mistrust, I hurt, I fear, I worry, I write.
I am lost and I tell people where.
I am hurt and I write down why.
I feel alone and I type for others to join me.
When I am happy, I do not spread the joy.
The negatives govern me.
They are familiar and it is easy to sit in the dark.
There is sunlight inside but it cannot get out and I spread darkness wherever I am.
The shadows overcome others and I watch in despair as my presence destroys.
I am powerless against it; this drowning feeling of hopelessness again.
I am The Artist; The Individualist; The Inspirer.
I feel featureless; ordinary; and bland.
I am expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed and temperamental.
I drown in the dramatic expressions of my temperamental self.
This clinical analysis of self defeats me.
Clarifying my fears, it is true what I crave.
It is true what I fear, and the proximity of my anxieties is heavy on the air around me.
But there is hope in the analysis.