weapons of war

I am in shock right now. The Mail and Gaurdian reported yesterday that South Africa has been supplying Zimbabwe with weapons of war, including helicopters, revolvers and cartridges -- despite the mounting human rights atrocities in that country.

"Information at the Mail & Guardian’s disposal points to a cosy relationship between the defence forces of both countries, as well as government-to-government arms transfers. This appears to conflict with President Thabo Mbeki’s mediation role between the ruling Zanu-PF and the opposition MDC, which demands neutrality. "Read the full story here.

I have become increasingly frustrated and anguished with Mbeki in the last few months. If anyone had the opportunity to exert meaningful pressure on Mugabe, it was him. Instead, he remained silent. Now, it appears he was complicit in this brutal regime's terror tactics.

Shame.

I cannot understand it.

After all that South Africans endured to achieve democracy, this is what emerges.

Today, the words of a South African poet Sandile Dikeni hang in the air:

Nowadays
they don't hang you by the neck
till you die
They dangle you by the feet
till the blood comes to your brain.

zimbabwe, we stand with you

Today, Zimbabwe votes. In extraordinary acts of creative resistance, red fliers have fallen from the sky urging Zimbabweans to boycott the vote. Go to This is Zimbabwe to see the full story as it unfolds today and keep Zimbabwe in your prayers. I am amazed at the courage, patience, and endurance of the Zimbabwean people.

Also, the pictures are amazing. I can't help but laugh and smile~

Red Alert! Red Alert! Red Alert!
June 26th, 2008
Reddy for freedom, and reddy for peace!
Late this afternoon, residents of Bulawayo’s inner city population were treated to a glorious red show. Those who start their days very early - vendors, people walking long distances to work, those who get up early to have more time to find food - caught a glimpse of what was to come later in the day when red alert flyers carpeted some areas of the city.

This afternoon, thousands of ‘red alert flyers’ rained down on the inner city streets; people were speculating that they had been thrown from a plane. One person was overheard to say that maybe it was God himself, throwing them down as a reminder to Robert Mugabe that he still existed in Zimbabwe and was ready stand by the downtrodden and the oppressed and to remove him from power and deliver as all to freedom and peace.

A small group of singing supporters of the MDC also marched through the city while the flyers clouded the horizon.As soon as they hit the ground the flyer were scooped up by excited pedestrians. People were seen in supermarkets afterwards discretely showing each other the flyers and laughing. This show of defiance after a time of terror has delighted those who were lucky enough to see them.

However, nobody is complacent in Zimbabwe. Everyone has had been touched by the regime’s terror tactics and no one believes that they regime will back down without a fight. While they use terror and fear and violent weapons, democratic forces are determined to spread words, and hope and bright colours in a dark period.

This City of Kings, renowned for its resistance to the Zanu PF regime despite gross terror tactics during the 1980s, wore its pink fingers like a badge of pride on the 29th March 2008 when we voted for change and brighter future. That resilience hasn’t diminished. One Bulawayo gentleman who was beaten and stabbed recently has said he has recovered enough to get ready to boycott.

We stand by everyone in our nation and especially those in the terrible areas where we know the regime will come out in their numbers and attempt to force citizens to vote for the geriatric dictator through a mixture of threat, intimidation, lies and violent force.
We pray for all of you.

heart home

How can I live better? I have been thinking about this a lot the last few weeks as I have found myself unsatisfied with several areas of my life. Boredom is a bitch. It makes me seek to fill my time and fill myself with all sorts of irrelevant things. I watch way too much TV. I spend way too much time surfing the internet. I spend way too much time obsessing about nutrition, my body, wrinkles, fashion, cooking etc. I never really used to think about these things very much. Now, I think about them frequently, mostly because I am bored but also because of what I see reflected in the culture around me.

It’s a lot easier for me now to understand the role consumerism plays in American life. While we are very busy, this business often translates to emptiness and lack of rootedness. In turn, this translates to quick fix solutions and cravings for moments of pleasure to help relieve the monotony of our days. This translates into spending money. They cycle repeats itself.

In Texas, most people go out for the majority of their meals. (I don’t think this is particular to Texas. This was a regular part of my life in Seattle.) Obesity is rampant. Yet, I am surrounded by beautiful fit college girls every day. This has made me self conscious about where I fit on the spectrum. I don’t want to be the one showing up to church with a 64 ounce cup of soda, nor do I want to constantly be working out and consumed by my appearance.

I find myself oscillating between trying to resist the culture and trying to adapt to it. Either way, both feel empty and consuming. Right now, it feels like I have no space within me or outside of me that is free from consuming forces. I don’t like this, and yet I feel resigned to it unsure of how to be free and live better.

The tasks of daily life are consuming. I’m tired of thinking about money. I’m tired of thinking about cooking and shopping. I’m tired of thinking about gas. Yes, I need to think about these things, but I probably over think them because I’m not sure how else to fill the space.

I still haven’t really found a place where I can just be. I have started walking to work in the mornings, and this has helped a lot. I’m not looking to put more stuff on my calendar. I’m not looking to fill my time. Instead, I’m longing for something I haven’t quite found yet.

Perhaps, in the words of Eugene Cho, it’s my “heart home.” As I have written before, I believe we can never get back to home. Our experience in this world is one of exile and wandering towards shalom. Any attempt to return to home is misguided to me, and yet the power and longing for one's “heart home” is very real.

My friends used to make fun of me because I would say: “I just want to be.” My heart home, I think, is a space where everything feels in balance, and I feel content with simply being myself in the world. I’ve experienced this sense in different places of the world so I know it’s not tied to a particular location, though at the same time it can’t be divorced from particularity. My heart home is always tied to specific sounds, colors, tastes, smells, experiences. I know enough about myself to know that my “heart home” is somewhere between the mountains, the ocean, urban life, and absolute quiet. Changing seasons. Snow and the hot sun. Burnt orange and red leaves. A room full of light. Bold and bright colors. People.

Every now and then, it will hit me. And I will get tears in my eyes. The wind in Texas will smell like South African wind. The coastline in Cape Town will remind me of Scotland. The mountains in New Mexico will bring me peace. And so on. I’m always amazed by the familiarities and similarities of different places in the world. While the connection may not be apparent, the feeling or response it elicits in me is remarkably similar and always a gift.

But right now, I feel far away from all this. I’m not sure if it’s physical, spiritual, mental, emotional or simply geographical. And I’m tired of trying to figure it out and adjust. I just know that I’m dissatisfied and think that there must be a way to live better, to cultivate some sense of “heart home” right here in Texas. Or maybe it is not up to me to cultivate, but rather to receive as a gift. Or maybe I just have to accept that this isn't a place for me to really call home. Either way, I desperately need spaces where I can be if I am to resist and hopefully respond to the consumerism and disconnection I am struggling with.


Small things are enough sometimes: a cup of tea, art, a gentle breeze, wine with friends, and shadows of the late afternoon sun.

mapping terror in zimbabwe

Each icon represents a single case of violence; the pin colours identify the perpetrator groups involved in the incident. Over 1,000 cases of political violence and intimidation, carried out after the March 29th elections, are represented on this map.


This full interactive map detailing election violence can be found at Sokwanele.

how do we forgive our fathers?

If you haven't seen the movie Smoke Signals, it is an incredible film. It ends with a striking poem, and I'm including the clip below. I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness these days as I have felt called to extend several gestures of forgiveness and reconciliation to my own father in the last few months. I won't lie, it's been pretty difficult and I haven't wanted to do it. I identify strongly with the last line of the poem: if we forgive our fathers, what is left?

However, I feel called to forgiveness as I am learning to take seriously the gift I hold within me. I have the power to bless even when it is not deserved, and I should never underestimate the transformational nature of this grace even if I do not see it's fruit immediately or ever.

Forgiveness has been a process; it has come slowly piece by piece. First, I had to recognize the pain and name it. I had to grieve and mourn. I had to set boundaries. I had to confront so that I knew what was at stake when (and if) I forgave, and I had to let go. Finally, I was able to write to my father this week and say: "whatever your failings as a father, I forgive you." Even in this expression, I did not deny the pain or the lingering questions I still have. I did not deny what has been lost. I did not deny that there are failings.

My dad called after he got the father's day letter (I was so nervous). To my surprise, he thanked me many times for my letter and said that it was very "generous" of me. He said he would put my letter in his book of memories. That was it.

Even as I write, I feel conflicted. However, when I think about forgiveness, I realize it is more for me than for my father. In an act of freedom, in a spirit of empowerment, I can bless and forgive knowing that he doesn't really deserve it but I can make the choice to bless anyway. I have the power to free my father from the impossible burden of having to make things right. And so I used this power because I felt called to out of love, not necessarily because I wanted to.

I definitely don't think forgiveness is cheap, easy, or immediate. It is not denial. It is not escapism. There is still much more for me to let go. If I had attempted this step of verbal forgiveness any earlier, it would have been about getting a specific response from my father or seeing a change of behavior. However, at this time, in this place, it wasn't about what my dad could offer me because I recognize he is a weak and broken man. Instead, it was about me choosing as an adult to let go and recognizing that time is short. Not to be too morbid, but in my relationship with my father death is always on the back burner because of his age. So, quite literally, it has became a choice between forgiveness or death. In forgiving, I choose to hope in the future. This father's day, I gave my dad the gift of life. What he chooses to do with this will be up to him.

Do we forgive our fathers in our age or in theirs?
Or in their deaths, saying it to them, or not saying it?
If we forgive our fathers, what is left?

The space of forgiveness is strangely empty, but in this space, there exists the possibility of new life. It's a gift, but not a guarantee. But what is the alternative? It is I who must make peace.

exile, wandering,and Taize

I am currently listening to a Taize broadcast: “The Kingdom of God is Justice and Peace and Joy in the Holy Spirit.”

Themes of exile and home have been heavy on my heart the last few weeks as I find myself struggling with living in my new home and longing to visit Seattle and Leavenworth, which in my mind represent “home.” It is so easy to characterize my experience here as exile --- but then I watch a film like God Grew Tired of Us about the lost boys of Sudan, and I am humbled by the dignity and courage of refugees who may NEVER have the opportunity to go back to their home country. And I feel sad about the fact that I may not be able to go back to the Northwest for a year!

Next week, I am returning to Winkler, Manitoba. It has been 12 or 13 years since I last visited. Much has changed. My grandparents have moved out of their house and gradually their bodies have eroded. My last memories include wandering through corn fields in the summer heat and eating rollkucken with watermelon. I am excited about this journey. As a child, I was at the whim of my parent’s finances. Now, as an adult, I can choose my priorities. I am excited to share Mennonite culture with Than because, though invisible to outsiders, it still shapes me. I want to continue to keep what little fragments I have alive.

Place is very important to me. I mourn the fact that I have not been able to return to Germany, the land of my childhood, since we moved. Each time I have been back to Europe, it has been therapeutic, but I still have remained on the periphery. At the same time, I have been challenged and convicted by a recent quote sent to me on exile. This quote is from a much longer article called Wanders by Choice by Eva Hoffman. Read the full article here:

“Since Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden, is there anyone who does not, in some way feel like an exile? We feel ejected from our first homes and landscapes, from our first romance, from our authentic self. An ideal sense of belonging, of attuning with others and ourselves, eludes us.

Exile was always considered one of the worst punishments possible because people’s identities were defined by their role and place in society. In recent years, however, we have come to value in our culture those qualities of experience that exile brings—uncertainty, displacement, fragmented identity. Post-modern nomads consider home mostly as a site of narrow-mindedness and nationalism. Now exile is sexy and glamorous. But it comes at enormous cost.

I wonder if in this world of easy come, easy go, of sliding among places and meanings without alighting on them for very long, we don’t lose internal focus…we risk being overwhelmed by what Milan Kundera calls “the unbearable lightness of being.” It is the illness that comes to unanchored people, those who travel perpetually to new moments and sensations and to whom no internal feeling is more important than another.”

I am challenged by this quote because I, like many in my generation, am so easily seduced (and discontented) by the romantic idea of postmodern exile. While I have been privileged to grown up in a swirling mix of cultures and to have traveled the world, the downside has been at times this loss of internal focus or rootedness. I’m also challenged by Hoffman’s subtle critique of those who become wanderers by choice, exiles for material or intellectual gain. Am I simply a new type of global consumer; a consumer of ideas, experiences, sensations, cultures, and traumas? And if so, do I risk trivializing real experiences of loss and forced exile?

As someone who desires to engage the world and its pressing needs, I am so easily tempted by the twin forces of disconnection and consumption. If I do not stay rooted in Christ and the reality that I am already home in Christ, I lose my relevancy, my vision, and my calling.

In my days of despair, I am reminded that all one day we will all find our way back home. And it may not be a place. Rather, in the words of philosopher John Caputo, “it is a time. A time when God rules rather than the world.” When we pray for God’s Kingdom to come on earth, we are asking that all of life become a time when God rules, that time be kept by God, as opposed to how it is kept in the world. In such a time, justice and mercy will rule, and we will no longer worry about being strangers because all strangers will be welcomed as friends. A recognition of God’s time is not escapism to a mythical paradise, but a radical engagement with the here and now as we cultivate actual, earthly spaces of community, hope and love.

I try to keep all this in mind when taking stock of my present circumstances. Though I question my motives and recognize my inner contradictions, I am still grateful to be here. I am being transformed not simply by this place, but by its people. I’m not sure what all this means philosophically, but I do know that I will carry this community in my heart long after I leave. I have to believe whatever pain I feel then, as I do now, is a result of connection and love. In this way, I don't believe that I am simply a deluded postmodern nomad. Love creates connection that counteracts this "unbearable lightness of being." It may just be our only hope.

heat and ashes

a spontaneous crowd tathers to welcome

Tsvangirai yesterday

I am at the beginning, at the end, of my words. I see a world in need of love, in need of impossibility, in need of the reign of God.

This day, in the 104 degree heat, I read about Zimbabwe. The urgency of now breaks into my heart calling for God’s time to begin right now because I can’t take another picture of torture, of burning, of shattered bone.

My skin itches, parched from the heat. My thoughts, however, are across the world:
where is Zimbabwe’s madiba?

This is out of another time, another age, a paranoid state, terror unleashed, shame. Oh madiba, do you have hope for your children? It is now claimed that a single vote for democracy will be a vote for war.

Madiba, how would you council your children? Should they choose terror, torture, or war? Should they choose oppression or death? You more than anyone know the falsity of this choice.

I write anyone who will listen. Botswana (in contrast to Mbeki) quietly is strong. I write and say thank you desperate to let someone know I care. This morning comes news, though, that Tsvangirai has been arrested.

a tale of two mothers

I have been following the story of Rebecca and Alice Walker for a few months now after I first heard about Rebecca’s new book Baby Love: Choosing Motherhood After a Lifetime of Ambivalence. Rebecca Walker is the daughter of celebrated author and feminist Alice Walker.

Rebecca has published often about their conflicted mother/daughter relationship and the role feminism played in this relationship. I find her reflections fascinating:

My mum taught me that children enslave women. I grew up believing that children are millstones around your neck, and the idea that motherhood can make you blissfully happy is a complete fairytale.

In fact, having a child has been the most rewarding experience of my life. Far from 'enslaving' me, three-and-a-half-year-old Tenzin has opened my world. My only regret is that I discovered the joys of motherhood so late - I have been trying for a second child for two years, but so far with no luck.

I was raised to believe that women need men like a fish needs a bicycle. But I strongly feel children need two parents and the thought of raising Tenzin without my partner, Glen, 52, would be terrifying.

As the child of divorced parents, I know only too well the painful consequences of being brought up in those circumstances. Feminism has much to answer for denigrating men and encouraging women to seek independence whatever the cost to their families.

My mother's feminist principles coloured every aspect of my life. As a little girl, I wasn't even allowed to play with dolls or stuffed toys in case they brought out a maternal instinct. It was drummed into me that being a mother, raising children and running a home were a form of slavery. Having a career, traveling the world and being independent were what really mattered according to her.

I love my mother very much, but I haven't seen her or spoken to her since I became pregnant. She has never seen my son - her only grandchild. My crime? Daring to question her ideology.

Read the full article here.

While I don’t identify yet with Rebecca’s longings to be a mother, I respect her journey. Her story brings to mind the painful reality that sometimes the people who champion civil rights and emerge as social heroes are failures in the private sphere.

I am moved by how Rebecca has dared to venture into territory that would be considered taboo to some: motherhood and family building. She has done it with grace and grit. Rebecca identifies as a “third-wave” feminist who is responding to the radical feminism of the 1960s. Now, 40 years later, I think she is right in her call to assess what second wave feminism has and has not accomplished.

I know this will step on the toes of many feminists. It’s a delicate balance. Alice Walker should rightly be recognized for her many accomplishments. At the same time, Rebecca Walker should be able to tell her story and own her experience as a daughter, a mother, a woman, and a feminist in her own right. However, I recognize that her story is not the whole story. Her journey is no less the “right way” as the way of radical feminism is, but to the extent that it has brought her peace, joy, and healing, I applaud this. This is exactly what the women and feminists before her were seeking in their own unique ways as they fought for the right to make a choice about their own bodies and lives. Radical feminists should be willing to let go of their monopoly on choice and respect the fact that motherhood and loving committed relationship can also be an empowered choice.

I feel privileged to have seen so many models of this as couples navigate the tricky waters of family and vocation. The variety of journeys and models are endless. Because of this, a huge debt is owed to the feminists before us who liberated us from the ideology that there is only one way: the traditional family. The fact they that these same feminists now resent how younger women are putting this into practice saddens me. The evil has always been abuse of power and essentializing models that don’t take into account unique personhood and partnership. The evil is not children, is not men, is not marriage, etc. To the extent that these are regarded as evil or diminished, we deny ourselves the true joy of relationship, mutuality, life, regeneration, and creation.

So, I wish the best to Rebecca Walker and her family. I also pray for reconciliation and healing between Rebecca and Alice. I hope that some day another chapter will be added to this story.

politics and hunger

Editorial - Politics and Hunger - Editorial - NYTimes.com

One might expect that food riots in Egypt and Haiti would convince the world’s wealthy nations of the need to do more to feed the world’s poorest. If not, maybe the threat of 100 million more people falling into poverty due to soaring food prices would spur them to help.

Yet at last week’s United Nations food summit, the world’s more-developed nations proved, once again, that domestic politics trumps both humanitarian concerns and sound strategic calculations