I sat on the boat allowing the wind to jostle my curls and the sun to warm my face. The splashes from the waves flickered on me as a twenty year old National Park volunteer approached me with two sea sponge fossils. She explained that animals are a colony that form one, so if two live sea sponges were to be diced together in a blender and then placed in sea water they would join again into the two original colonies.
Earth, in a way, is like those sea sponges. No matter how many blades cut through her and mangle her the Holy Spirit regenerates and the colony continues. The earthquakes in Haiti, Japan, and Burma, the fighting in Libya and Syria, and radioactive iodine contaminations all seem to disconnect and dismantle life. Yet unfailingly life continues and the same Creator, the same Spirit, regenerates.
With you,
Luisely
Showing posts with label Hope in dancing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hope in dancing. Show all posts
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Theater of the Oppressed
Theater of the Oppressed is a form of theater started by a Brazilian director, Agusto Boal. Theater of the Oppressed presents a play in a variety of locations, from the street to a theater, that reflects a situation of oppression lived by the people of that area. Here in Jean Rabel a group of 7 women along with 1 man have journeying with me, exploring their realities to create a play that challenges spectators to change their reality. During this journey the group acted out numerous scenarios of oppression, opening my eyes to unspoken realities. In the beginning they didn´t know the definition of oppression, as soon as I explained the concept they recognized it. Every day they opened their eyes to more situations which they would act out and search for solutions, not through discussions, but by acting it out in the theater. There have been days when I have come home to cry after seeing the injustices and their reactions to them.
We created a piece which we plan to perform in the streets, in different communities, in different places of education that reveals the realities of the educational system here in Jean Rabel. The play highlights corruption in the administration and different ways students and parents deal with the system. The play lasts about 25 minutes and from that point on the audience begins to play. One of the actors, Ermithe, in this case, takes the role of the Joker. She invites the audience to become part of the piece to search for a solution to the injustice by entering the play as one of the oppressed characters. The spectator now becomes a spec-actor, a term coined by T.O. The audience member, or spec-actor, says what scene they would like to enter in and as what character. The actor who played the role in the play gives the spec-actor a part of their costume and the spec-actor begins to act out the solution with the other actors on stage. This continues until the audience decides that a solution has been found, or until they decide they are done. The practice of theater of the oppressed believes that the audience teaches the actors, as much as the actors teach the audience.
It becomes a game the audience wants to win, a game which reflects their lives, a game that may help them change their realities of oppression.
Last week, the group I have been working with decided that the play works wonderfully, but that there is no solution. I heard this slightly heartbroken because after all this time trying to motivate them to search for creative solutions, without violence, they threw in the towel with the play they created. I listened to them and told them, we could continue with the theater, but if they did not believe a solution could be found we would not perform the play for others. I explained that I didn´t say this as a threat, rather as a form of respect for the people of Jean Rabel. “If we go around performing the play without believing in a solution we are going around showing a reality they already now without giving hope of liberation. That is not theater of the oppressed. We can´t ask others to see hope for change if we ourselves are not willing to do the same.” I asked all of them to come up with one solution each for the following session. They did.
We plan on going through with the play; we will see what comes out of it. I pray that it motivate a few to dare to search for solutions and maybe plant seeds of hope in others.
With you,
Luisely
P.S.: If you have more questions, please ask, I’m more than happy to answer.
We created a piece which we plan to perform in the streets, in different communities, in different places of education that reveals the realities of the educational system here in Jean Rabel. The play highlights corruption in the administration and different ways students and parents deal with the system. The play lasts about 25 minutes and from that point on the audience begins to play. One of the actors, Ermithe, in this case, takes the role of the Joker. She invites the audience to become part of the piece to search for a solution to the injustice by entering the play as one of the oppressed characters. The spectator now becomes a spec-actor, a term coined by T.O. The audience member, or spec-actor, says what scene they would like to enter in and as what character. The actor who played the role in the play gives the spec-actor a part of their costume and the spec-actor begins to act out the solution with the other actors on stage. This continues until the audience decides that a solution has been found, or until they decide they are done. The practice of theater of the oppressed believes that the audience teaches the actors, as much as the actors teach the audience.
It becomes a game the audience wants to win, a game which reflects their lives, a game that may help them change their realities of oppression.
Last week, the group I have been working with decided that the play works wonderfully, but that there is no solution. I heard this slightly heartbroken because after all this time trying to motivate them to search for creative solutions, without violence, they threw in the towel with the play they created. I listened to them and told them, we could continue with the theater, but if they did not believe a solution could be found we would not perform the play for others. I explained that I didn´t say this as a threat, rather as a form of respect for the people of Jean Rabel. “If we go around performing the play without believing in a solution we are going around showing a reality they already now without giving hope of liberation. That is not theater of the oppressed. We can´t ask others to see hope for change if we ourselves are not willing to do the same.” I asked all of them to come up with one solution each for the following session. They did.
We plan on going through with the play; we will see what comes out of it. I pray that it motivate a few to dare to search for solutions and maybe plant seeds of hope in others.
With you,
Luisely
P.S.: If you have more questions, please ask, I’m more than happy to answer.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Reminders
The breeze weaves through my freshly twisted hair, seizing the heat of the day and fading voices of the choir. The atmosphere shifts from the excitement and chaos of the festival of St. John the Baptist and Brazil’s game in the World Cup this morning to a more tranquil Friday evening. The week passing, leaving numerous joys along the way:
The women from the salsa class performed for a group of school directors, a seldom, if ever, event for them. Mothers, widows, daughters, grandmothers, all elegantly striding at the beat of the drums and swaying their hips to the rhythm of a Beatles song made Salsa. The spectators applauded, they received the recognition. The once students assisted in giving classes of their newly acquired talent to the group of directors. The humble confidence the ladies slowly gave light to during the lessons these past two months blazed.
Ingrid and I lay on her stunted twin-sized bed, Mauza sat snugly next to us enjoying her lollypop, in Ingrid’s poorly lit, poorly ventilated compartment as we laughed sharing the joys of attaining the water in Kay Pov. The women’s eyes engaged with mine in a way unknown to us as I retold the process of attaining the water, their faces came to life hearing the influence the women acquired by joining together. “Solidarity,” Ingrid said. Silence and goose-bumps followed. Ingrid’s curiosity to see Kay Pov and meet the people there seems to be superseding her implicit confinement. Our friendship mutually liberates us, in our own needed way.
I glorified in the amazing creations that emerge out of Love. All the marvels that come to life because of our attraction to beauty, to Love: the vivid colors and texture of a painting, the delicate melody of a song, the faultless rhythm of a poem.
We tumbled through a 3 hour drive on a white-cloudy, windswept Sunday to visit friends in Gros Moune. Where we joined in watching Brazil defeat Cote D’Ivoire and witnessed outrageous expressions of ecstasy in the crowd with each goal. (Haitians, from what I’ve seen, root devoutly for one of two teams, Argentina or Brazil.) Following the excitement I took a swim in the river right below the gathering. As I lay allowing myself to float along, the rustle of the leaves intensified, the clouds darkened, and thunder joined the leaves in their song. The delicate shapes formed as the rain plunged into the river’s surface perplexed me, the gracefulness produced out of such an instant, overpowering encounter. I allowed the rain to cascade over me as my toes fastened on to the pebbles below trying to resist the current. During the downpour’s intermission as sprinkles replaced the droplets, a faint rainbow outlined a mountain’s peak which tried to show itself through the weighty clouds. Soon after the raindrops returned bringing with them lightning and thunder. A masterpiece sent to finish off the evening.
On the 24th, the feast of Jean-Rabel’s patron saint, Jara and I thanked God for the 6 o’clock mass in the morning because it was the first moment of silence since the night before around 9pm. Our hours of supposed slumber were joined by a concert next door that blasted its Compa and Rara beats the whole night through. We hadn’t been wise and joined the party; instead we stayed tossing in bed. The mass was sent from heaven, it granted us a few hours of deep, drool-coming-out-of-the-mouth sleep. The 9 o’clock mass is the spectacle the town does not miss. Relatives from Miami, camera people from Port-au-Prince, and all the regulars of Jean-Rabel’s streets gather to celebrate the feast. God graced Jara and I with seats in the back corner where the opening for the window and the open doors of the church collaborated generating superb cross ventilation for our section of overpopulated pews. After three and a half hours of singing, sitting, standing, and dancing we left the church with the multitude and tried to see the parades passing by playing music in the blazing sun. The sun eventually gave way to heavy rain which Jara and I thrilled in. As others looked for shelter, Jara and I skipped palm-sized seeds on the newly formed puddle s aspiring to be lakes, splashed around in the mud, laughing and acting our age. Walking down rows of banana trees by the river yesterday we saw the change in the landscape the thunderstorm provoked.
The moon’s brilliance allowed us to see the majesty of Jean-Rabel’s hours of darkness.
Lydia, Yvka, and I crammed our way into a “cinema” across the street. This cinema is responsible for filling our rooms with Shakira’s voice belting out “Oh Africa,” and the rest of the World Cup music repeatedly even before the church bells have a chance of waking us up. The music goes on until the games begin at 6:30am, competing with the priest’s voice and the women’s enthusiastic hymns. The cinema consists of three 16-inch flat screen TVs not too conveniently placed and two walls with the game projected on them. Part of the excitement of game-watching is trying to get a view of the game. More than 300 of us stuff ourselves in the cement structure without windows and with chairs for only a third of us. I found new yoga positions trying to see the Portuguese-speaking players run at least through one fifth of the field, where I would have to find another position to finish seeing the play. The experience improved my flexibility, allowed me to be with the people of Jean-Rabel in a different atmosphere, while all the while being fanned by the first ceiling fans I’ve seen while in Jean-Rabel.
The performance, the visit, the painting, the raindrops diving in the river, the silence, the moon, the game, remind me of what I am here to do, find love in every moment, in every creature.
The women from the salsa class performed for a group of school directors, a seldom, if ever, event for them. Mothers, widows, daughters, grandmothers, all elegantly striding at the beat of the drums and swaying their hips to the rhythm of a Beatles song made Salsa. The spectators applauded, they received the recognition. The once students assisted in giving classes of their newly acquired talent to the group of directors. The humble confidence the ladies slowly gave light to during the lessons these past two months blazed.
Ingrid and I lay on her stunted twin-sized bed, Mauza sat snugly next to us enjoying her lollypop, in Ingrid’s poorly lit, poorly ventilated compartment as we laughed sharing the joys of attaining the water in Kay Pov. The women’s eyes engaged with mine in a way unknown to us as I retold the process of attaining the water, their faces came to life hearing the influence the women acquired by joining together. “Solidarity,” Ingrid said. Silence and goose-bumps followed. Ingrid’s curiosity to see Kay Pov and meet the people there seems to be superseding her implicit confinement. Our friendship mutually liberates us, in our own needed way.
I glorified in the amazing creations that emerge out of Love. All the marvels that come to life because of our attraction to beauty, to Love: the vivid colors and texture of a painting, the delicate melody of a song, the faultless rhythm of a poem.
We tumbled through a 3 hour drive on a white-cloudy, windswept Sunday to visit friends in Gros Moune. Where we joined in watching Brazil defeat Cote D’Ivoire and witnessed outrageous expressions of ecstasy in the crowd with each goal. (Haitians, from what I’ve seen, root devoutly for one of two teams, Argentina or Brazil.) Following the excitement I took a swim in the river right below the gathering. As I lay allowing myself to float along, the rustle of the leaves intensified, the clouds darkened, and thunder joined the leaves in their song. The delicate shapes formed as the rain plunged into the river’s surface perplexed me, the gracefulness produced out of such an instant, overpowering encounter. I allowed the rain to cascade over me as my toes fastened on to the pebbles below trying to resist the current. During the downpour’s intermission as sprinkles replaced the droplets, a faint rainbow outlined a mountain’s peak which tried to show itself through the weighty clouds. Soon after the raindrops returned bringing with them lightning and thunder. A masterpiece sent to finish off the evening.
On the 24th, the feast of Jean-Rabel’s patron saint, Jara and I thanked God for the 6 o’clock mass in the morning because it was the first moment of silence since the night before around 9pm. Our hours of supposed slumber were joined by a concert next door that blasted its Compa and Rara beats the whole night through. We hadn’t been wise and joined the party; instead we stayed tossing in bed. The mass was sent from heaven, it granted us a few hours of deep, drool-coming-out-of-the-mouth sleep. The 9 o’clock mass is the spectacle the town does not miss. Relatives from Miami, camera people from Port-au-Prince, and all the regulars of Jean-Rabel’s streets gather to celebrate the feast. God graced Jara and I with seats in the back corner where the opening for the window and the open doors of the church collaborated generating superb cross ventilation for our section of overpopulated pews. After three and a half hours of singing, sitting, standing, and dancing we left the church with the multitude and tried to see the parades passing by playing music in the blazing sun. The sun eventually gave way to heavy rain which Jara and I thrilled in. As others looked for shelter, Jara and I skipped palm-sized seeds on the newly formed puddle s aspiring to be lakes, splashed around in the mud, laughing and acting our age. Walking down rows of banana trees by the river yesterday we saw the change in the landscape the thunderstorm provoked.
The moon’s brilliance allowed us to see the majesty of Jean-Rabel’s hours of darkness.
Lydia, Yvka, and I crammed our way into a “cinema” across the street. This cinema is responsible for filling our rooms with Shakira’s voice belting out “Oh Africa,” and the rest of the World Cup music repeatedly even before the church bells have a chance of waking us up. The music goes on until the games begin at 6:30am, competing with the priest’s voice and the women’s enthusiastic hymns. The cinema consists of three 16-inch flat screen TVs not too conveniently placed and two walls with the game projected on them. Part of the excitement of game-watching is trying to get a view of the game. More than 300 of us stuff ourselves in the cement structure without windows and with chairs for only a third of us. I found new yoga positions trying to see the Portuguese-speaking players run at least through one fifth of the field, where I would have to find another position to finish seeing the play. The experience improved my flexibility, allowed me to be with the people of Jean-Rabel in a different atmosphere, while all the while being fanned by the first ceiling fans I’ve seen while in Jean-Rabel.
The performance, the visit, the painting, the raindrops diving in the river, the silence, the moon, the game, remind me of what I am here to do, find love in every moment, in every creature.
With you,
Luisely
Luisely
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Clapping palms, baby's breath, a flame
Thursday the bells rang at the usual times: 5:15, 5:30, and 5:45am. For some unusual reason they seemed endless on Thursday. During one of the chimes I decided to start counting the clangs, I reached thirty something and then my slightly delirious imagination started wandering. I thought, “Either someone died or a foreigner is filming the man who rings the bells and hasn’t captured the image she or he wants so continues asking the bell ringer to pull the rope.” I know, quite vivid and wildish thoughts for a half-asleep brain. Zaloa, who as the days go by I am more and more certain is a saint, heated up the left over soup for me. We bushed our teeth, cleaned up and were off to a new adventure... the lake.
Zaloa and I passed the market and the magnificent trunk of a tree that guards the lone bridge in town. Passing the banana, coconut, and papaya trees we laughed and played hide and go seek with the sun, the sun had the upper hand. With the sweat rinsing off our sun block we realized we needed a better sense of direction and a gentleman, Jean, decided to accompany us the rest of the journey to the lake. On our way there we met with Violet, her grandmother, her pregnant mother (with the 11th on her/his way), her 6 year old brother on their donkey, and one of her sisters. The women on their way to sell pumpkins and mangos in the market, while the boy and the donkey made their way to the well to fetch water. Violet decided to join us and welcome us to their home since it is the only abode on the lake.
Upon arriving we saw the three dusty faces of Violet’s youngest siblings outside of their house, which is no bigger than my room, in the entrance simply sitting. Jesufran (7), Annette (5), and Mistrel (2) watched us come near and hid behind the door. Violet offered us their two chairs; we sat under the shade and began to sing with the children. In the beginning it was mostly Zaloa and I foolishly clapping our hands and patting them on our legs while singing a sort of patty-cake song from the Basque country, but suddenly the shyest of the three, Mistrel, began to pat with us. Ooo, the exquisiteness of seeing his dusty hands clapping on cue and his back rolling like a snake with the rhythm of the song.
We decided to take a stroll around the lake with the children, Violet and Jean. We raced, danced, and played hopscotch accompanied by the gaunt cows, the tied up goats, and the ducks responsible for the only ripples on the lake. I asked Annette the word for tree in Kreyol and instead was told the name of the specific tree, when I pointed to a hill with a variety of trees, so she could see I wanted the general name, she started naming each type of tree by name. I laughed and listened in awe seeing the wisdom she offered me. Since I had courageously offered to cook lunch at home, we parted with the children, once again leaving them sitting in front of their house alone. Violet, Zaloa, and I filled our journey home with song and laughter. Zaloa and I placed our feet in a stream of water that beckoned us to refresh ourselves, as I stepped out my shoe headed downstream without me. I got up and ran like a bullet and caught it. The people bathing themselves at the stream laughed and screamed as such a sight, “Le Blon,” “the white one” running after her shoe.
After a scrumptious lunch (Zaloa helped more than a little), we headed to Kay Pob, where we shared some left over cake from the priest’s celebration. Lisanne, after devouring her cake decided she was ready for bed again. As I walked her back and saw her lifting her head to feel the sun on her eyelids and cheeks I began to sing to her, which lead to a slow dance with a turn. The joy Lisanne radiated caused Tiffany, who was serious until that point, to run up and down laughing. I put Lisanne, listening to Samara’s (Sylvani in precious entries) groans. I walked towards her humming and began caressing her frail body, Zaloa entered and told me to smell her breath, “It’s the smell of death,” she told me. We stayed there accompanying her for a while.
A young lady from the neighborhood appeared while we were saying our goodbyes for the day. She walked towards me nudging a 4 year-old girl in a watermelon shirt in front of her. She murmured something to me. I did not hear and asked her to repeat; when I leaned closer I understood her request. She was asking me to take her daughter. Zaloa, looked at the young woman and sternly said, “Non, pas bon.” The little girl shyly looked up at us and then at her mother. “Les blons,” “the white ones,” are generally seen here as people with money and good intentions, so for a mother who does not see opportunities for her children, leaving her child with a “blon” could be a desperate act of love. The young lady invited us to her house. We were welcomed by her two blind parents, her two sisters, and her newborn baby. The encounter with the newborn’s breath, fresh of breast milk, the evening breeze, the interaction of the sisters as one groomed the other, enriched me with hope.
Following our visit, Zaloa and I went by the region’s hospital to pick up condoms. We planned an exercise session with our friends in Kay Pob and wanted to fill balloons up with sand so the people at Kay Pob could work their fine motor muscles by squeezing the balloons. Lack of supplies allows creativity to blossom, so there we were picking up condoms for our exercise date the following day. While leaving the hospital with 200 condoms we saw two foreigners, we were curious and went to introduce ourselves. They were doctors who had come, one from Ecuador, and the other from Chile. They arrived last week and take shifts at the hospital. From there we passed by the club to visit the prostitutes. The ladies live and work there and never leave the club. They do not socialize with the outside world, they are the marginalized. Zaloa is determined to have the women interact with other women. In that attempt, she asked if they liked to dance. After the affirmation, Zaloa told them about the salsa classes, their faces lit up. They started smiling and said they were willing to come to learn. Zaloa told them she would be passing by daily to invite them until they came. We will see. We left the condoms for their use and left with high spirits of the possibility of dancing in communion with them.
Before eating Rose, Zaloa, and I exercised, each to her level and each with perseverance and determination. During the reflection Thursday night, Nazareth pointed out how the perseverance and determination used during the exercises an hour earlier exemplify the perseverance and determination we have and must have in the work we do.
The wind picked up, lifting up leaves and threatening the candles flame, and I felt you. I felt how connected we are.
With you,
Luisely
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
