Home By Now

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Soundtrack for the blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzuCOCZuS_A

“No, I won’t give up. No, I won’t break down. Sooner than it seems life turns around. And I will be strong, even if it all goes wrong. When I’m standing in the dark, I’ll still believe. Someone’s watching over me.”

As I was meandering around our house, doing my usual nightly routine of killing all ‘dem “mook” (i.e. mosquitoes that are fierce, fast, and plentiful around here), I caught myself humming this catchy series of lines from the one, the only, the early Hilary Duff of the 2000s. And I paused to think, in my semi-dazed, very exhausted-from-school state: that has very much been the crux of the Peace Corps experience.

I’ve stayed relatively silent in the blogosphere realm of things about Peace Corps. Perhaps because it is a far cry from how it is often marketed. It is tough, the burdens of being a woman in a very conservative culture can be stifling, and it amazes me that so many of us are still here. We came, around 60 strong, and have lost approximately nine volunteers (administrative separations or ET’ing…early termination). And yet, for those of us who have decided to stay, I think we are learning more about ourselves and our country of service than we ever imagined possible in four months that seemingly stretched past eternity on those slow, sluggish days of doing nothing around our house, but now seems like both a lifetime and a quick moment, lost in the blink of an eye.

A close friend, professor, RPCV, and arbiter of wisdom, Thomas Kelley, once sat me down at Caribou Coffee (y’all still stateside, with access to this place, in the winter season, please order something peppermint or pumpkin related, in my honor), and very seriously told me: “Liz, write every day.” His advice is exactly what I needed. I have been loathe to write. I suppose I’ve been waiting for that moment. That Peace Corps light bulb. That elusive “this is why I’m here!” moment. Or, for the extremely hard days to pass, when I wonder “wait, … why am I here?” We’ve all had both, erring heavily on the latter side of things. But perhaps what I’ve been learning, slowly, steadily, and bumpily (say hey to the emotional roller coaster that is service) is simply being okay with the awkward, the uncertain, the uncomfortable, the weird, the …fishy (welcome to khmer food, say hey), and that wicked fast turnaround that can be your day.

Yesterday, I returned home from school, absolutely shattered (say hey, UK, I will keep some of your phrases). I turned a neglectful eye away from my hamper, awaiting some good-olde end of the day hand washing, and instead wistfully told my host mom “I’m going for a walk”…but in khmer. You know how it goes, with the dahl ling routine (the phrase to visit / to take a walk, actually means “walk play” – it’s a very exciting life, along this dusty road, I tell you). Once I began my noble trek, naturally, not twenty feet away were ten of the local kids, who erupted into gleeful cheers of “hello!!” and frantic hand waving, as if afraid I would disappear in a flash (which, in their experience, is probably warranted, given how frequently I’m frantically pedaling to school or town, given my inability to be on time). But this time, I lingered. Then, naturally, I mirrored their enthusiasm. Which turned into jumping around a pile of hay, deciding that flinging it at several children, when surrounded by now twenty, was a good idea, … later getting semi-buried in all the hay these children were capable of throwing at me, and ending our good time with a tickle fest (under a rainbow, no less). I returned home grinning, and my mother contentedly welcomed me with “sabai ahhht?” (“are you happy?”). Of course, the natural response was yes.

Those moments of glee, interspersed between the frustration, exhaustion, linguistic struggs (that define my everyday, say heyyy to bad pronunciation), and structural barriers to education, are what we all need to cling to during service. It is to my community, those gleeful children, those daily reminders of what happiness can look like – if only you are willing to chase it, and what greeting life with an open heart can do.

I’m not going to lie, there are days when I need to simply go to my room and crash for a two hour long nap, to watch some trashy tv, to make a frantic phone call home to my mother to complain about how exhausting it can be to experience (for once, white privilege in America, huh) the role of the “exotic other” in the eyes of Khmer men. But so, too, are there evenings when I just chill with my family after cooking dinner, enjoying their laughter – when I go back to my room and see several missed calls from my lovely host mother in Sa’ang (our first training site). And I remember: we are not here for outputs, for baseline productivity, for overcoming the broken Khmer English education system to get kids to dot the I’s and cross the t’, for making our counterpart teachers care about education (and yet I keep trying. The exhaustion). We are here for the relationships. The understanding. Bridging cultures. Sharing knowledge. But in so many ways, to give thanks for difference. For learning. For understanding – and for appreciating each other.

Here’s to wishing you and yours a lovely thanksgiving.

Ps: It’s official. Making my one stop to the good ‘ol US-to-the-struggling-A (#Ferguson) this April! :)

All my best,

Liz

From 0-100: The Catch Up. [Except not Drake style, ‘cuz ain’t nobody got access to pop culture here]

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Today was that day. The turn-around. The one that Peace Corps tells you about. The day you wait for.

Yesterday was not so much. My poor, poor PCV friends who had to deal with my snarky texts, bemoaning the apathy / the nothingness / the seeming lack of reason to be here.

Peace Corps really is the definition of a roller coaster, with two days juxtaposed serving as night and day.

But it’s also one of the deepest lessons in learning to know your limits, what you need, and how to stretch beyond those preconceived notions. It’s a day by day struggle, but here we all are.

Today was the day when learning how to write Khmer started to make sense. Peace Corps rightfully decided (write-fully? Okay, I’ll stop) that we only had time in our first two months to try and cover basic speaking and listening. But as we slowly started to piece together both old words and new, linking the sounds, translation, and writing, it clicked. That elusive light bulb. The big “OH!” of overdue mental validation. My tutor at site, and lovely patient teacher, Laiheang, is a darling. With her sweet family, puppies always at the ready, and strict expectations, she’s a great teacher. Plus, she’s getting married in January. Buying what should be a ridiculous dress tomorrow for it, and for an upcoming wedding in just over two weeks, is going to be a hoot and a half. And probably the definition of a struggle bus in the great adventure to find something anywhere near my size in this country. (P.S.: culturally speaking, asking people their weight here is standard, as is dubbing anybody and everybody “tohm” // “thoat” (big // fat) is fairly standard. Also, by Khmer standards I’m hella tall. I’m probably like a walking giant in both dimensions. Trolol at the awkwardness.)

Today was also the day when we celebrated as a family, in honor of a holiday raising funds for the monks and local pagodas. The whole community came together, and there were only lacy white shirts, black pants/sampots (skirts), and golden hues of the pagoda / offerings in sight. We rounded the pagoda three times, amidst the rain, much to the bemusement of most involved and the nearby photographer who captured many a photo of the awkward varong (foreigner) huddled under a golden offering, dodging the rain. With my smart / sweet / younger sister as my guide, we chatted with the local ladies and sat, with our hands at the prayer-ready, during the hour long chanting. It really is incredible to see our community come together in such a show of togetherness, shared duty, and respect. People were offering $100 here, $50 there, in a country where making $100/month as a teacher is standard and stretching every last riel to make it work is the norm. Living in a communal culture has been a phenomenal learning experience, with both its ups and downs. But seeing it today was inspiring.

Today was also the day when all those silly small things that make you feel validated on a Sunday back home, started to add up here :). I plowed through inordinate amounts of hand washing clothes in our basin in the heat / subjected my family to my cooking “American” food (trolol you can tell we are from Wisconsin – I found out we had potatoes and instantly went to make my mother’s morning favorite, fried potatoes + onions…nothing fancy, but my goodness a taste of home was welcome) / ended up cooking our dinner with my ‘lil sis. They bought green beans for me again. It was like bliss.

After 1.5 months of keeping it low key at permanent site, working to integrate, focusing on meeting people, and mostly keeping a low profile until school, the small things count. Like validation, friendships, feeling a part of the community, cooking silly food, taking lots of potatoes, learning how to write a new language. And being happy.

It really is about how you react to your surroundings here – and what you demand of yourself and others. Here’s to hoping for many more happy days and pushing through the inevitable struggles as they come.

Lots of love & hoping you’re watching something less gruesome than us (say hello to the graphic Khmer version of Grey’s anatomy, say heyyyy).

xx,

Liz (i.e. “Nalee” in Cambodia) :)

Looking Up

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Moments like tonight remind me why we are here.

For an hour, my younger sister and I sat outside staring at the clouds, ebbing and flowing, masking the moon, and at other times unearthing its brilliance. A pack of twenty riotous local kids banged pots and pans, making up their own rhythm, bringing it to a crescendo with fits of laughter and squeals, anytime the moon seemed close to peeking out from behind the clouds. My sister explained it to me. She said “They sometimes shout ‘Help the Monks!’ because if the moon comes out from behind the clouds, we will have a year of lots of plants, rice, vegetables, and the people will be happy. If it stays dark, the country will have problems.” We spent the next forty minutes laughingly picking out ‘pictures’ we could see from the clouds, almost bridging into hysterical laughter when we would simultaneously proclaim our discoveries.

It’s about the small things.

I’ve stayed relatively silent and evaded writing about the Peace Corps, Cambodia, and this very real experience until now. It’s a daily struggle to stay plugged in, alert, to keep learning. There is always that tug at the back of my mind of home, friends, a life that is comfortable, where I am competent and aware. Here, things are turned on their head. It’s such a lesson in learning how to be uncomfortable, incompetent, awkward, …and okay with it. It’s also a lesson in love.

I’ve had two host families. Two months in Sa’ang – a town an hour outside of Phnom Penh and home to our training shenanigans. Ten hour days, stumbling through our first phrases in Khmer, the local vegetable sellers that hilariously patient (and unfortunate) victims of our first bargaining attempts. The roads were ours to race on, and ours to dodge the omnipresent honking vans, shiny Lexus SUVs, and barrowing trucks en route to Vietnam.

I fell in love with my family. My host mother defined my experience, along with my other PCVs. As we struggled, laughed, strained, and learned, we had each other. And that was a lot.

Days are long, and it has felt like years since we have left. Yet time lags and the stifling heat does not help. But in this communal culture, there is always a guest to welcome, a word to learn, an awkward experience to come, and undoubtedly an oncoming shout of “Helloooo!!!! Varong!” (…hello, Frenchie.)

You’ve gotta love #ThisCambodianLife.

That’s it for now. More coming soon.

From 30,000 Feet

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D10590863_2392664541538_1232686286_oivergent. 

Yep. It’s a(n okay) movie. And it’s what I just finished watching, alongside 58 other boisterous, “fresh-faced” (as dubbed by the waitress who served us beers at 10:30am in the LAX airport), PCVs, en route to Cambodia.

That’s right, we’re officially in the Peace Corps.

Well, training for it. 

The moment when Maureen dropped that on us, our enthusiastic, positive trainer (but almost to a fault when even I begin to question whether she has been fully immersed in the problematic political history of our organization’s aims / Cold War origins), there was a bit of a deer caught in the headlights look for most of us.

This is it.

For many of us, Peace Corps has been long in the coming. For others, it was a next step. I tell you, for choosing a next step, I admire the people alongside me on this program. This is far from an easy choice for those who are looking to sort things out, or establish themselves. For others, it’s a tool, a building block. I’m both in the first and the latter camps. But for me, it’s the thought of this as a way of life.

Peace Corps has only been established in Cambodia since 2007. Yes, the country endured a genocide which ravaged a fourth of its population. Torture, a US invasion (and ongoing bombings along the border with Vietnam), an anti-intellectual purge, and an agrarian pipe dream of returning to a more “equal” // egalitarian // agrarian society reigned.

This is the image many of us have in the West of it.

But what is the “West” anyway? That’s another conversation.

I suppose it is more apt to say that many I’ve discussed the country with back in the States frequently elude to this history, if they know of it. Other than that, the country is more than a bit unknown.

My personal (i.e. disconcertingly frustrating) favorite was when I was about to endure a mild medical procedure (say heyyyyyy for Peace Corps regulations and big needles) and the woman who was charged with doing this inquired, “Oh! Cambodia. Hmm. That’s in AFFF-ri-ka, right?”

I made sure another medical staff member was in the room after that one.

Anyways, all Liz sass aside, Cambodia – aside from being an uncertain spot on the map (which, for the record, is nestled comfortably between Thailand and Vietnam, with Laos to the north), has a rich history, but one frequently demarcated internationally by a genocide, spurred by political mobilization and darkly seized opportunity by those who realized how destabilizing, demoralizing, and overtly violent the U.S. presence was in the region. That destabilization led way to a power vacuum, later occupied by the Khmer Rouge.

But when traveling in the region this past December, (with the lovely Matt, say hey.), we came across a fascinating Tuk-Tuk driver who was 22, vibrant, taught himself English (casual. In a year. This man is a genius), and kept us company for a day.

It was through him that I realized in Cambodia, there isn’t a national education structure to discuss the genocide. When I asked him a clarifying detail about the years (…yeah, I bought a few books before going), he simply said “You know more than I do.”

It was a startling realization.

But back to my arbitrary beginning: divergent.

For any of you who have seen the film, I’m sure you could explain this infinitely more eloquently than I will (poorly) attempt to. It’s a dystopian take on a future, post-war, in which the general population goes through a testing process to determine an identity hinged upon one of four groups. If you don’t fit, you’re trouble. But the kind that would destabilize-the-system-must-end-them sort of trouble.

Enter our protagonist.

The film takes a number of interesting turns. With a number of them being pointed questions. What if our notions of maintaining security by depriving individuals of their will / intellectual capacities / choices, doesn’t work? Isn’t right? Isn’t the best option?

What if it is?

It eerily reminded me a bit of the Peace Corps stipulations upon service. I cannot engage politically, be seen at political events, and very potentially not attend town hall meetings or speeches that may engage with political matters.

Alright, y’all know me. This is like pulling teeth.

There are very valid reasons, most regarding safety and the long term aims and missions of the program. Namely, volunteers cannot be seen as spies (#NigeriaFirstProgramProbz), as political, as targets. If we engage, particularly during controversial political times, when civil unrest is unlikely, we will not be seen simply as aid workers but as potential …trouble, to be frank. (But not underwood. Because he causes it.)

But in so many ways, in a country which still grapples with immense corruption, allegations of fraudulent elections, and demarcated by impunity – with many community and national leaders having been in the leadership of those who commanded the genocide – it will be a slippery slope. And how truly can we engage with a community without at least becoming cognizant of structural, political marginalization, oppression, and violence?

In many ways, as I learn from these fun, spunky fellow volunteers, the in-country Peace Corps staff, my host family, and country nations, I am certain my views will become infinitely more nuanced, with less a focus on domestic politics. More, perhaps, on “pragmatic solidarity” as Dr. Paul Farmer dubbed it, when discussing the nexus of poverty, human rights violations, and a lack of health care access. And I hope, in many ways, that this 27 months of training and service does.

But for now, we’re left to wait. To wonder. To hope.

From 30,000 feet.

Much love,

Liz

What Feminism Means to Me

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I’m exhausted.

Today one of my closest friends told me she was raped last night. She did not lay claim to the term, nor did I when I was with her, but it took all of 45 seconds for her to start victim blaming herself, rather than holding the man accountable who responded to her statement I don’t want to have sex with “okay” then proceeded to do otherwise.

It didn’t help, either, that her claim was minimized by friends who said “Wow, what a jerk. Want to start a rumor about him?” as if what he did was not a felony offense nor immeasurably damaging to her life-long physical and emotional health.

I’m exhausted.

Tonight I was contacted for the first time in five months by my emotionally abusive ex. What started off as an unhealthy relationship spiraled downward when I finally reclaimed control and ended things. What started off as a minimalizing claim “…I happened to be filtering through old texts and I’m pretty sure I didn’t mean to send this to you” to disregard a drunk text he accidentally sent back in September turned into him, once again, telling me how I felt: “And I’m sure it doesn’t make sense to you.”

I felt frozen, once again.

Then things took a turn for the better. He made another minimalist claim: “And yes, I have realised I was a bit of a nob.” His drunk texts somehow started to reveal that yes, he did claim that he was “Maybe more than a bit of a nob” and then apologized, wishing me well, saying he was sorry that he was wrong and “never had the balls to admit I was wrong.”

After pausing for thought, I simply responded with I appreciate that.

Instantly, the tone changed.

“Okay, you did get all my bad side,” he claimed. And went on to say that he was not a bad person, just “didn’t conduct my business appropriately.”

So, I was minimized to a transaction.

I’m exhausted of being told how to feel. Yes, as to be expected, he went on to further degrade me.

I’m exhausted of being told that emotional abuse was simply deriding properly conducted business, and of having close friends say “Well, he was just being a jerk.”

No. He was being emotionally abusive and that is distinctly damaging to one’s psyche, but also to structural issues of male entitlement.

I’m exhausted.

Of victim blaming. Of abuse. Of a criminal justice system that less than 15% of survivors feel comfortable in reporting to, and in which an estimated 3% of rapists will ever be held accountable. Of close friends from high school saying “I’m very disappointed” in the feminist satire I post. Of some men instantly dubbing feminists as “man-haters” as the easiest possible means of disregarding their all together too pertinent points. Of being derided as politically incorrect and insensitive for daring to offend those who actively participate in systems of oppression — as if calling attention to the dangers of their actions is somehow impermissible, while their actions are not.

I’m tired of it being called radical for women to expect equality. For articles, such as Tomi’s and mine to be derided as twisted man-hating ideologues rather than taken for what they are: reclaiming safe spaces for survivors.

I’m exhausted of privilege. Of ignorance. Of rape culture. Of hurtful, hateful verbatim rather than taking the time to sit down and listen. To read. To educate. For a call to act.

I’m exhausted of men like one who messaged me two weeks ago and said, “So, what bad thing happened to you?” as if my story is any of his business, as if that question isn’t phenomenally privileged in nature, as if his later claim to “not be the type” to get involved in that type of work somehow made his question palatable. No. It was triggering, problematic and deeply offensive.

I’ve worked on human rights issues for more than seven years. For three, I’ve spoken clearly and often about the necessity of ending the death penalty, of recognizing the structural injustices and deeply permeating discrimination which demarcates its utilization. Never have I been so regularly degraded and personally attacked for calling for human rights as I have been since working in a rape crisis center, speaking against interpersonal violence, and openly identifying as a feminist – something I never experienced when working with rehabilitation and death penalty abolition. Nothing separates feminism from a call for the recognition of human rights. Instead, the degradation of feminists it is the knee jerk reaction of privilege, pride and self-defense. That doesn’t make it right. It makes it pervasive and exhausting for those who speak against it.

I’m exhausted of a reality comprised of 1 in 3 women experiencing abuse in their lifetime, of 66 million girls globally out of school, of 80% of human trafficking victims of being female-identified and an estimated 150 million girls being subjected to sexual abuse each year. I’m tired of claims that feminism is antiquated, its goals have been met. Anyone who takes a moment to research these issues, even if not feminine-identified and living the manifestations of these oppressions each day, will recognize that feminism is necessary, timely and immeasurably important.

I’m inspired.

Contrarily, I’m inspired by this beautiful feminist community I’ve found. For the solidarity it provides. For being taught the tools to deconstruct my own oppression. To recognize how my own thoughts have been silenced. How being called a man-hater for arguing for equality is a defense mechanism for the privilege for others. For Bell Hook’s articulation of what love really is. For organizations like the Orange County Rape Crisis Center. For One Act training and other community education models which articulate that interpersonal violence includes emotional, physical and verbal abuse. For the feminist theories which breathe life into the everyday. For beautiful publications like this. Of days of remembrance like this. By photos projects like this. For the words of Jackson Katz, who asserts that violence against women is a men’s issue: because men perpetuate 95% of violence against both women and other men; the responsibility does not lie with the survivor, but with the men who commit the offenses. Last, I’m inspired by the beautiful community that has welcomed me as one of its own.

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I hope.

That one day, each and every one of you feels compelled to get involved. To join the feminist movement and interpersonal violence prevention effort because it touches each and every one of our lives. Men, boys, girls, women, and all of those fitting outside that gender binary are influenced by constrained constructions of masculinity, of the predominance of men’s violence (against other men and women), and by the fear that this violence creates in our lives. I hope for a day free of this violence. I hope for a day in which gender equality is realized.

And in honor of the immeasurably inspiring recently passed Nelson Mandela, and for all of you standing up for equality but also having an incredibly difficult time, “It always seems impossible until it’s done.”

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Flashes

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Yesterday was a flash of inspiration. Inspiration to write, to reflect, yes. But even a day to reflect the meaning of activism – not only as an identity, but moreover as a way of living that has come to feel like home.

This semester has been a beautiful, albeit chaotic one. Days are filled with classes / the internship / my job / working with the fabulous co-chairs of the Coalition for Human Rights / supporting the campus y / seeing friends / having chill Carrboro moments / biking at all hours / procrastinating real work by applying to all/any international fellowships.

But days like yesterday are worth documenting.

A few weeks ago, the Coalition for Human Rights had our first huge event: the Human Rights Festival. After weeks of stress, it all came together. Twenty social justice organizations – ranging from CAST (Carolina Against Slavery & Trafficking) , the Carolina Women’s Center, Project Dinah’s Dear Assaulter Photo Project, SWAG (an organization for Gender Equality), SUIE (for immigration reform), the Duke Human Rights Center, Immunization Ambassadors, Globe Med and many, many others – eight performances, ranging from moving spoken poetry, the Guitar Heels, the Carolina Ukelele Ensemble, the amazing Morning Brigade performance, and a variety of acappella groups, joined the event. It was a space for collaboration, activism, energy and #HumanRightsHappiness.

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At the event, Emily, who works with the Duke Human Rights Center, and I ended up chatting and sharing ideas. She invited CHR members out to a talk this evening with John Prendergast. John is exactly the sort of person I want to be — a background with the UN, Human Rights Watch, UNICEF, co-founder of the NGO Enough, but also former Director of African Affairs for the National Security Council, part of the Clinton Administration, with substantial work with the State Department, he has managed to seamlessly flow between the government, politics, policy and activism — casually name dropping my idol, Samantha Power, as his best friend.

Yep, so you better bet I took Emily up on her offer.

This evening, two lovely members of the Campus Y & CHR joined me for the trek over to Duke. We somehow managed to arrive to the reception right as it started. Emily sweetly nudged us in the direction of John, right as he emerged from an interview. We managed to have a small group chat with him for 20 minutes. Including photos. We had to work hard to downplay the enthusiasm. It was incredible.

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He spent the evening’s discussion on the role of activism, how to make it effective, and his own route. His talk ranged from forming a team, means of staying inspired, how to engage in meaningful work. It was just the spark I think we all needed in the audience.

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So excited. This week is full of incredible human rights oriented events, as well as entirely too much work / class facilitation planning / an incredibly large application. But Wednesday will hopefully be marked by talking to John with a few other activists. #SoMuchHappiness.

More soon. Over & out.

Lots of love,

Liz

P.S. – These songs: +1 +2. This +blog. This +moment. This +news article. This +activist. This +description. This +quote. This +piece.

The Valleys Where We Hid

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The days grow long and challenging. The stress comes in waves. The passion, activism and enthusiasm drives me onward. But every now and again – evenings are spent just like this. Sipping white wine in my favorite cafe, in the nearby presence of friends, writing my first (attempted to be published) piece of travel writing. Of course about Rwanda. Late this afternoon, as we wrapped up our teach-in, dialogue regarding Syria at the Coalition for Human Rights, another Campus Y member mentioned the notion of having our very own commemoration of Rwanda’s 20th anniversary.

I couldn’t be more thrilled at the prospect. Until later, then. Much love.

Liz

The Afternoons We Spent Broken Down: When communities came together to fetch us from the hills in which our van fell into disrepair. Games ensued. 
A Figure of Strength: Jackson, our host, guide and beloved friend – spending a day with us touring Rwanda’s most notorious killing sites. Photo Cred: Sarah Collman. 

The Valleys Where We Hid: The moment when a valley, so graceful in its peace, came alive for us when we realized it was only through its murky marsh waters that many found their survival.