Winter Education in Mexico

Thanks to my aunt and uncle, I spent a fab week in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico this month. My alabaster skin can scarcely stand five minutes under the direct sun, so this was not a week of lying on the beach. In fact, the one time I did venture onto the pristine sand in shorts, my lovely eight-year-old niece innocently observed aloud, "Wow, you're really sunscreen-y." "No, honey," I said, "that's just my skin. That's just my white, white skin." (Were it not for the fact that Latin guys tend to admire whiteness, I might have let her statement actually diminish my self esteem. Instead, it became a family joke and I am now Tia Blanca.)

While there, I took advantage of the opportunity to further develop my proficiency in Spanish by meeting with a tutor for three hours a day. I was randomly assigned to an educated, passionate, and wise young woman. In addition to her general insights on life, she knows a great deal about the migration that occurs not only from Mexico to the U.S., but from Central American countries to Mexico. I found interesting her observations that the Mexican government focuses too much of its attention on arriba, rather than abajo. That is, the degree to which they criticize the U.S.'s immigration policy, instead of working to improve the situation for migrants in Mexico.

It is really mind-boggling to consider the efforts people make to seek a better life. In the very south of Mexico, adults and children alike sit atop a train that travels the entire length of the country, all the way to the U.S. border. It is a tremendously dangerous journey. People are kidnapped and forced to provide telephone numbers for relatives in the U.S. in order to demand ransom. If they don't provide the number -- or the money -- they are killed without hesitation or remorse.

Women prepare for inevitable assault and rape on the journey by using birth control implants so they will not be forced to decide whether to carry the child of a thug rapist. This, within the context of an intensely Catholic culture, is all the more profound. Children my niece and nephew's ages travel alone with no understanding of what beholds them. They see their companions maimed and decapitated, hungry and tired, alone and afraid.

When given extensive information about all of the tragic possibilities they face -- complete with cartoon diagrams of kidnapping and murder for illiterate migrants -- they overwhelming choose to accept the risk. Life is filled with trade-offs about which battles to choose. But some people sure have the deck stacked against them.

The documentary The Invisibles: A Hidden Journey Across Mexico provides emotional accounts of unrequited hope, indescribable loss, and the agony of not knowing. Not knowing whether they will reach their destination. Not knowing how to survive. Not knowing if their families will ever hear from them again. Perhaps the only thing worse than losing one's life on this uncertain trail of tears is never again hearing from your child or another loved one, all the while praying that they have created a new life away from their sad reality.

But, lest you wonder whether my whole time in sunny Mexico was mired in depressing stories, I can assure you it was not. Thanks to my tutor, I spent quality time dancing and drinking tequila until the wee hours with some of the finest (and funnest!) young professionals on the Pacific Coast. Whenever I see them next, whether here or there, it will not be soon enough!

Touchy-Feely

Here's a recent piece for the Armenian Weekly.

A Lebanese Prison

I spent time in a Lebanese prison today. When I told my dad via Skype, he said, “I hope it was a tour.”

It was, in fact, a tour of the prison in Tripoli, Lebanon. Our host organization, Restart, went through the arduous process of gaining permission to visit the prison for their work, and they faxed copies of my and my colleagues’ passports so that we could witness the conditions ourselves. The visit provided a great deal of perspective on a day that I might have otherwise spent mindlessly drinking tea between meetings.

The women’s prison housed just fewer than 100 women of various nationalities. They walked freely around the two main corridors, and even cooked their own meals. In each room about 14 women slept in bunks, where they also kept their modest belongings. Some were illegal immigrants, some thieves, some murderers, yet they were all mixed up regardless of age, ethnicity, status of case (pre-trial or convicted), or type of offense. It wasn’t a place I’d choose to live, but it wasn’t altogether horrible either.

The men’s prison was another matter entirely. A prison population of 950, with 70 men in each cell, it’s hard to imagine spending 24 hours a day 7 days a week in such a cramped, stinky, damp place – eating, smoking, sleeping, bathing, crapping. A note from the doctor is required to make use of the small outdoor space with nothing but block walls two stories high, a concrete floor, and a metal lattice roof. Even my lily-white skin couldn’t get sunburned in that place.

Restart is doing the work of the government there. They paid for the infrastructure to provide hot water in each cell for bathing, and ventilators above the locked doors. Their psychologists provide mental health and social work services to a number of prisoners, along with Arabic lessons for the illiterate and English lessons for the especially curious. There’s a small library with about 100 patrons, and a computer lab that hasn’t been used since a prisoner took some people hostage in it a year ago. As we walked the corridors, I saw a dumbbell that someone had jerry-rigged from about 10 filled water bottles. Further evidence that I have no excuse for not exercising more.

A cell was opened for us and we saw how the men’s beds – mere blankets on the floor – were jammed into rows, the facility overcrowded beyond belief. They were all sitting on the floor watching television. With so many male prisoners in one room, you could imagine the fights that would break out and how difficult for the few prison guards to manage. The man holding the door, also a prisoner, obviously held some kind of authority or power. When he told the others to back up, they did so immediately. When we continued on the tour, he shut the door so the guards could lock it. On the inside, he was shutting us out.

One man and his assistant are charged with the Herculean task of feeding all of these men, along with others at the police station – every day, three times a day. His lower back hurts, but his commitment to the work is touching. “I can’t get sick,” he said, “If I get sick, no one eats.” He pointed to the enormous vats of whole chickens, complete with heads, and other pots of beans and rice. He was clearly pleased when I said it looked good (and it honestly did). Another man showed me can after can of food in the supply room, pointing out the expiration date to show that they’re not serving bad food to the prisoners. It was a good reminder that we should all take pride in our work, and that we should do what we can with what we have.

Looking at the pots of chickens, I thought of those contests people have, where you’re supposed to guess how many M&Ms are in the jar. I would guess that there were 60-80 whole chickens in each pot. That’s a big range, but I never have been good at those contests. I asked the cook if he cooks much at home (it was a joke). His response was emphatic: “No, Madam!”

There are too few guards for the facility, with just one on each floor. A few dozen prisoners have some kind of special status that allows them to walk around the entire day, and about six of them were with us during the entire tour. The prison director said, “Between us, the prisoners protect the guards.” I mentally re-framed what I’d say to dad when I called him later that night. “Dad, I spent time in a Lebanese prison today. But don’t worry, the prisoners were protecting me.”

I must say that the prisoners were very respectful. I expected a cat-call or two, but if anything the prisoners met my eyes, nodded, said bonjour or hello, or even laughed (when I spotted the dumbbell and smiled). It’s odd to walk around a prison and peer into rooms where people may spend much of their lives. Do you look into their eyes, do you say hello, do you ask how they are? Or do you ignore them, do you pretend they’re not there, do you wish them away? The former, of course, but it’s not an everyday experience (for me).

There were many parts of the tour that I found remarkable, but it was perhaps when we exited that I was most touched. A woman and her son were waiting outside to be let in. We can assume that they were there to visit another son. In the Arab culture of shame, or in any culture for that matter, I was moved that they would still love and visit their family member, whether a drug dealer or a common thief or a murderer.

When I asked someone at the center about it, she said that the social workers often call the prisoners’ mothers to ask them to visit their sons, to say that their sons need them. The mothers’ first response is typically “We don’t know anyone by that name,” but they eventually agree. What a gift they give their sons when they allow for faults and missteps in life. It was comforting to be reminded that some things are stronger than hate and judgment. Some things are about unconditional love.

First Place

My most recent column for The Armenian Weekly.

Civil Society in Armenia

The Manana Youth Center extended me to the honor of talking with their students about civil society this past month. The Center and the youth that participate in classes and activities there continue to inspire me as they have for about 12 years. (The picture below does not represent how truly interested and engaged they were in exploring what civil society means to them!)

The Republic of Georgia: Blazing Its Own Trail

With a population of some 4.5 million, the Republic of Georgia has been evolving and managing conflict ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union, which Georgians view as having been an occupation, evidenced by the construction of the Museum of Soviet Occupation in 2006 in the capital city of Tblisi. The unofficial unemployment rate is said to be about 40%, though roughly 10% of that statistic includes people who have occasional but inconsistent employment.

Unlike the rest of the former Soviet Republics (save for the Baltic states), Georgia is not a part of the Commonwealth of Independent States, an association of states, due to its bitter relationship with Russia. As a result, it is in many ways politically isolated. The U.S., though, as you may recall, showed its staunch support of Georgia during the 2003 Rose Revolution and the 2008 Russian invasion of South Ossetia, which is one of two de facto independent regions that are part of Georgian territory (the other of which is Abkhazia).

Georgia was a nation with its own mind even in the 12th century, when a woman, Tamar, was given the title of king, which in Georgian can be understood as “sovereign.” There is a separate word for queen, so it would seem that using the term king was a larger statement that the people made about their first female ruler. In any case, it is certainly a point of pride for Georgians today.

The largest minority groups in Georgia are Armenians and Azerbaijanis. The latter is the faster growing population due to continuing migration and bigger families. The diversity is apparent through the presence of a mosque currently used by the Azeris (pictured below), a synagogue, and an Armenian church in the old town of Tbilisi, not to mention the diverse roots of Abanotubani, the so-called bath district, also pictured below. Though Armenia and Azerbaijan have unresolved issues and a history of conflict with one another, the Armenians and Azerbaijanis of Georgia are said to have good relations and are both successful in business. My new friend, Diana, who I call "The Diplomat," is an Armenian from Georgia. She was evidence of the potential for good relations between long-time adversaries when we visited the mosque, took pictures, and she was granted permission to attend Friday prayers sometime.

Understanding BiH

On arrival in the Sarajevo International Airport, one would assume that Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) is a country run like any other country. But it doesn’t take much knowledge of recent history, or many conversations with Bosnians, to learn how very complicated the affairs of this Balkan nation of just 4.6 million people is. And that's just what I did last month.

The three-year war that ended 16 years ago leaves behind a fractured state rife with ethnic and political tensions. All who live within the borders of BiH are called Bosnians, but the population is made up of three ethnic groups: Bosniaks (48%), Serbs (37%), and Croats (14%). (For those who aren't familiar with the region, these terms are slightly different from those used in the neighboring countries. That is, the Serbians of Serbia, and the Croatians of Croatia.)

It is impossible within one week, or perhaps a lifetime, to completely understand the history and bureaucratic workings of BiH. The Dayton Accord of 1995 determined how the country is politically structured today. The result is two distinct entities (the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and the Republika Srpska); the Brchko District, which is comprised of land from both entities; 10 cantons within the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina entity; as well as 74 municipalities in the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and another 63 in the Republika Srpska. Got it?

The presidency of BiH is most curious. In effect, there are three presidents: a Bosniak, a Croat, and a Serb. Those in the Federation elect the Bosniak and Croat, and those in the Republika elect the Serb. The Chair of the Presidency rotates between these three every eight months over a four-year term. As one might expect, each tends to advance their particular political and ethnic interests just in time for the next candidate to assume the Chair position.

There is reportedly a great deal of duplication within the Bosnian bureaucracy. For example, there are 89 ministries: need I say more? To boot, there are three official languages that, until the dissolution of former Yugoslavia, were treated as a unitary Serbo-Croatian language. Today, the language is printed on signage and other documents in both Latin and Cyrillic alphabets, and officially documents are translated from one to the other, but they are functionally the same language.

And so, after spending a week in BiH, it's possible that I'm more befuddled than when I first arrived!