LISBON PORTUGAL - 2 - INTERNATIONAL STREET BAND IN SINTRA

After an unforgettable afternoon at the Moorish Castle, I savor every moment of descending into Stirna downtown. With vistas of the Stirna plains extending all the way to the ocean, the doors and windows and the walls of buildings and churches that stood against time through centuries some millennia...

The façade of a beautiful architecture, despite its age, elegance is still there

When I get to the central square, I find a tiny corner bar with outdoors seating. I love the wooden stool I perch on with the sense of safety my back that touches the wall of the bar emanates. Right across from the bar is a group of three young men and a woman along with an elderly man. They are sitting under a tree and on the cobble stoned square floor carelessly...  All seem to be off the rat race with a hippie-ish touch including the older man. One of them is playing a very long blow-instrument that makes a sound much bolder than that of an oboe. However, as, who turns out to be Scott plays the instrument, it almost sounds like a small orchestra is playing. I am so intrigued with the instrument, I can’t wait to finish my delicious Vinho Verde to approach them to learn more about them and this instrument.

Sintra square hosting an ad hoc street band

I learn the names of two of the musicians: The instrument Scott is playing is called “didjeridoo”. Its origins go back to Australian Aboriginals. Scott  explains to me that the indigenous Australians let termites eat through the pulp of this particular tree, then “burn” it so that the hollow lumen becomes smooth. Finally, they attach three pieces of different caliber in this telescope style. Scott, moves these pieces to set the key, and blows into the pipe to create the harmonious sounds I have been enjoying. “Who travels not who reads more knows more ” is very apt for this situation!

Alejandro playing a lovely tune on his accordion

Alejandro, who is from France plays the accordion, I enjoy his music for a while when Scott is resting. The only female in the group is also from France, but I miss her name. Alex is from Portugal and is just hanging out just like the female. I watch her rolling a cigarette with what seems to be tobacco out of a pouch. I hope it was just tobacco. Had my daughter been here, I know she would have found her seat next to them with her drum. My coins join the rest of theirs they have been collecting in the didjeridoo case as I wish them all well on my way back to the train station.

 Alex and the French beauty hanging out                                                                         This time I take a different route, which gives me a glimpse of what this town looks like behind the façade trimmed well for the eyes of the tourists. On the off-the-beaten-path streets of town, I see multiple old mansions that are falling apart, windows and doors broken, exterior deteriorating, roofs in shambles… I hope they preserve these once must-have-been lovely buildings. As I walk through more modest neighborhood streets I come across working class people fixing up more modest homes on streets of the maze of Sintra.

Away from tourist eyes, the other Sintra

Finally I find myself on a street behind the train station, where I get a huge mango and citrus for the duration of my stay in Portugal since I cannot survive without fruit. Citrus fruit turns out to be the most delicious and juicy I have had for a long long time. When I am back on the train, I feel a serene fulfillment of visiting history, connecting with people, learning more about Portuguese culture. Although initially, I was planning to go to a Fado place in the evening, I decide against it as I approach Lisbon. I would like to savor the day instead, and leave Fado to my next visit following a very wise friend’s recommendation: Always leave something unexplored to come back to...

I might come back to visit the National Palace in Sintra

 

LISBON PORTUGAL 2018 - 1 - TIME TRAVEL THROUGH THE MOORISH CASTLE IN SINTRA

I have always loved Portugal, in all countries I have traveled to, I felt most connected to this land and to this people. Perhaps somewhat because, I don't feel like I have to change anything in me, when I am in Portugal to adjust, to be culturally competent, and to fit in effortlessly. Never have I appreciated Portugal more than this time.

My people in Portugal, the most beautiful, inside and out, colleagues and friends from University of Porto

I wonder if it is a terrible thing to feel so at home in one culture and not so in others. I recall Tara Brach's teaching "Compassion has two wings, one for yourself, and one for others." I can't help but think I need to take care of myself now in Portugal where I feel safe, physically and emotionally. I am sure, my compassion for Ugandan and African fellow human beings will increase over time when I have given myself some space from it. I can't help but wonder, though, how it would have been if I had chosen to live in Uganda... Would I also have had to learn all the tricks to protect myself from harm and exploitation?

This is how Tara Brach describes the two wings of compassion or lack thereof...

Wasn’t this need to constantly protect myself from corruption, injustice, and not knowing what the next day would bring that made me leave Turkey even when all of these were not as deeply ingrained in the culture as it seems to be in Uganda and worse in many other African countries according to my friend with whom I spent three days in Entebbe just last week?

A street vendor selling roasted chestnuts, can't pass that, so much like home!

I repeat and will continue doing so, to myself that everybody wants to be happy including those fellow men and women in Uganda.  I send them my compassionate wishes, but I am not sure if I can ever live in Africa and now I would like to make sure while donating to NGOs in Africa that the service they promise indeed goes to people in need not only to the salary of professionals. It is too bad that I have come to this point with only 4 days in Uganda and mostly with what I heard from my friend, whom I trust 100%. Put it on the side burner for now and keep an open mind for the next time I will find myself in Africa. That is the best advice I can give myself.

Two of the most loving, kind people Portugal has raised, Teresa and Augustino, my dear friends and colleagues...

My love for Portugal started with my dear colleagues from the Institute of Legal Medicine Porto branch, when they invited me to teach in Porto. I fell in love with Porto and Gaia and the Doro River in between these two sister and rival cities that created a mini Istanbul in my mind and heart. Dear Bill was with me the first time I went there. Teresa and Agustino and other staff of the institute took such good care of both of us. We fell in love with everything about Porto. Every time I went back, I felt so at home that I never felt anywhere else in the world, not even in my own country of origin any more (at times)! It warms my heart that Augustino decided to attend the conference in Lisbon, where both Teresa and I will be presenting, just because of meeting again after several years of hiatus since our last reunion around one training or another. This is why I like international training more than anything. Human connection, recognizing that we are all the same when we feel safe physically and emotionally. All suffering and discrimination in fact is bred by fear... Not with these people...

Even the make-shift cafe staff takes good care of me on top of Alto Barrios

I take the metro from the airport to the hotel where the conference will be held and all speakers will be staying. Just as Daniela told me, it is a breeze, very easy to find the station, to get the ticket with the help of two lovely young tourists, and true, the exit from the metro is right across from the hotel! The hotel staff is as friendly and humble as the ones I recall from my previous visits. Good, globalization has not corrupted Portuguese people, at least, yet. I have very little free time in Lisbon, but I have a plan. On my only, totally free day, I am planning to go to Sintra and stay in town the day after my lecture at the conference and enjoy Lisbon some reminiscing those areas I had already visited and liked and some finding new gems to explore.

Beautiful cobble-stoned Sintra: Where my hike to the Moorish Castle starts

Trip to Sintra is also a breeze. I had bought a ticket that would allow me transfer to train to Sintra, it was a good plan. 45 minutes after I leave my hotel, I am at the train station in Sintra! Everybody is walking toward Sintra downtown, I follow them. A meandering road with cobble-stoned side walks is climbing up toward our destination past the Municipality building. Finally, we reach the town square on the right of which is the white-washed-yellow trimmed National Palace. This is the best-preserved medieval royal residence in Portugal, I learn from Wikipedia. Apparently, it was inhabited more or less continuously from at least the early 15th century to the late 19th century. This palace apparently was one of the two Moorish castles in Sintra, mentioned in historic text as early as 10th century. However, nothing in the castle from Moorish era survived. Instead, rebuilding of the palace in the 15th century created today's National Palace. I might visit it if I have enough time after I visit through and through the Moorish Castle overlooking Sintra from the top of the majestic hills surrounding the city. 

I love the use of tiles to mark streets, in Portugal

To the left is a very steep and narrow cobble-stoned street going up the hill, this must be the turn according to what a store-keeper had told me a while back. Sure enough the signs point to Pena Palace and the Moorish Castle. The travel books recommend taking a bus to go to the Pena Palace, which apparently is a Disneyland-like a palace that one of the very flamboyant kings in Portugal had built. They state, it is much easier to get down to the Castle. But luckily, I still do not have any problems with my physical condition, in fact I seek topographies that involve climbing up heights. Besides, I have no interest in going to a Disneyland-like a structure when history is calling my name. Again my white hair gets in the way and whoever I ask about walking up to the Castle, they almost try to talk me out of it. Never mind Resmiye, and starts my day hike...

Beautiful old architecture is everywhere during my climb up to the Castle

The steep climb starts on a very good footing. Every time I need to catch my breath, I discover a spectacular scenery unfolding below us, the road and I. After all the Pena Palace turns disappear and the road is closed to all traffic but those who are on foot, the scenery also becomes very meditative. Green and light blue are such calming and relaxing colors. Green is all around me, in some places, the colors and habitat reach rain-forest quality. Grass and flowers are exploding through every crack on the road, on the walls and between cobble stones. And as I reach higher elevation, slivers of blue emerge in the distance, majestic Atlantic...

The place will almost utter "My name is green"

Half way up to the castle, I feel like I am on the Black Sea coast of Turkey climbing up to Sumele Monastery. The green, the lush, the climb, all are almost a de ja vu… All rocks are covered with moss, through every crack shoots life in all shades of green. In a bit, the terrain turns into a staircase. A wide trail goes up in steps with a variety of height, width, and depth. I wish I had counted them. The de ja vu now is of a different place, again in Turkey: Ihlara Valley in Cappadocia in Turkey, to which one has to go down via some 500 steps from the main road. That was also quite some experience.

Sintra starts unfolding as I ascend toward the Moorish Castle

The castle itself is very similar to all other castles I have visited all around the world, the one in San Juan in Puerto Rico, those I visited all along the Agean, in Greece are some that come to mind. The higher I get the more breathtaking the views get, the National Palace looks like a monument of purity, although, who knows what kinds of conspiracies, plots, and schemes among colluding sects of the ruling class might have taken there betraying its pure whiteness. That is cynical Resmiye for you upon encounters with remnants of ruling class of any era in history...

National Palace and Sintra down below  from the castle itself

The Atlantic in the distance is as inviting as any body of blue has ever been for me. There is a vague difference between the color of the sky and the ocean, horizon barely discernible. From this distance the ocean seems to be stretching all her expanse into eternal limitlessness in peace and with serenity. Who knows what is actually happening at her surface from close up... At every turn with changing ambience, I do visual meditation, focusing now on the ocean, then on the lush green all around, or the Pena Palace that comes to view as I approach the highest point of the castle.

From one of the highest points of the Castle

The castle consists of two rings of walls surrounding it, the second wall being built at lower elevations: The signs report that the second layer was built after the first enclosure became inadequate to house and protect increasing number of residents that had settled within the castle. The trail up is within the outer ring of walls. Thus, I walk up with the outer ring to my left and the inner ring to my right. It gives one quite a sense of security. As I move closer to the entrance to the inner fortress, the boulders appear to grow larger. These are clearly bedrocks of enormous size that make the place even more mesmerizing.

Bed rocks and inner castle walls integrated

Just before I enter the actual fortress, that was built in 8th and 9th centuries, I come across a glass dome that allows the display of well preserved skeletons: This is the burial site of the castle. I learn from the internet that Sintra among other territories was left to Christian rule to establish an alliance with the ruling King's army to provide the settlers security. However that becomes the first step in Muslim Iberia losing its power to Christianity. Moors eventually lose control of the castle. However, the King allows the settlers stay in the castle as long as they work with the King and his army to provide security to the area. Collaborate with me, I will let you live...

Burial site at the Moorish Castle

There is a chapel at the entrance to the outer ring of walls. I learn from the internet that this chapel in fact served all three religions that were practiced in the region, first Muslims, then Christians, and finally Jews that probably were fleeing the inquisition of Iberia at its peak. Once I enter the actual fortress things change dramatically. The well preserved/renovated walls of the castle overlooking the plains below  are impressive, emanating power and control, security, but also isolation, loneliness, a sense of being cramped. I wonder if the settlers of its time felt any of that. After all, their limits were the sky above them and the expanse of land and sea as far as eye could see, as long as they didn't wish to go smell and touch and intermingle with any of those.

The expanse of the fortress, the plains, and the ocean

I am impressed with how diverse the international visitors are although, the castle doesn’t seem to be extremely crowded. All kinds of languages are abound, some I can easily recognize, some not at all. I even bump into a Turkish couple, which I recognize from the intonation of the language they speak from a distance that doesn’t allow me discern the words. They are as surprised as I am, the man works in Morocco, and the woman is his wife. They are on vacation, I see them later in town as well. On both occasions, I catch them in a disconcerting interaction, when they didn’t know me witnessing their interaction:

Looking back from the highest point on the walls.
On both occasions she was demanding her husband act a certain way or do something she asked him to. He was in a passive aggressive mood. All that was left to her was scolding her husband with a “You’ll see what will happen” attitude and expression on her face. I am put off with this abrasiveness and feel sorry for both of them, curious about what makes them settle down to a who knows how long of a relationship. This is so common way of an interaction between couples in Turkish culture. I have always wondered why they can’t express their innermost desires and discontent more openly and lovingly, I know understand that the answer lies in how courageously we may accept our vulnerability and embrace it in our close relationships.

Pena Place from the Moorish Castle

There is a huge cistern within the inner walls, very similar to but a bit smaller than the one in Istanbul from the Ottoman era. Two ceiling chimneys allow the entry of rain water apparently.  It is cool inside, quiet and serene. I sit on the elevated platform that creates a long bench on one side of the cistern. I meditate for 15-20 minutes. Again, I indulge in loving kindness meditation. I accept and embrace my frustrations with some of my experiences in Uganda. I move away from being judgmental against myself for not being able to embrace everything I experienced there.

Every time I think, I have reached the highest point, there seems to be more elevation to be gained

I then move onto contemplating somebody I love dearly in loving kindness. That is most of the time my daughter. She has worked very hard in her medical school tenure and has applied to Psychiatry residencies. She is awaiting to match in the spring. I send her all my love and wishes for her to reach her goals and serve homeless people by bringing mental health services to them in their communities. One would wonder why we waited for so long to reach out to populations that are least likely to seek health care in our well adorned facilities... I trust, she will join the handful of practitioners, who are pioneering this work in the US.

This is it, there is nothing but the sky from this point on in the fortress

Then I contemplate somebody, who is neutral for me, like the guy at the entrance, who greeted me in Turkish! It was a sweet touch, which makes it easy for me to cultivate loving kindness thoughts for him. The most difficult is to contemplate loving kindness for those that make our lives difficult, for whom we feel disdain, aversion, anger, even animosity. I haven't managed to cultivate loving kindness for Mr. Trump for instance, yet! The recommendation for being able to think of such difficult people in loving kindness context is to imagine them when they were a child, innocent, pure,  not corrupted, yet, with scars of trauma... It really works. And, loving kindness meditation is the best of meditation techniques, never have I left a loving kindness meditation without feeling good inside and out feeling the positive energy exuding from my skin...

The cistern in the fortress, must have been renovated in the 1800s since the castle was already in ruins by that time

Time to go to the gift shop. There are well preserved storage spaces on display close to the gift shop. I buy a book on Portuguese poets and their poetry. Just as I am ready to leave, a necklace catches my eye that has the same design as the ear rings my dear Portuguese friend Teresa had given me years earlier. I had been looking for something like this to match my ear rings with no avail all these years. Here it is before my eyes... I can’t pass this opportunity; I learn later on that the style is called “The heart of Vienna” and is very typical jewelry in Portugal. My lonely earrings now have a matching pendant I can wear together especially when I come to Portugal. Teresa will notice and appreciate it lovingly right away the next day when I meet her at the conference. That loving expression on her face is worth anything...

Almost identical to the pendant I bought at the Gift shop of the Castle

As I start heading out, I can now enjoy more of the architecture on the way down. The two very old churches, Sao Martinho and its "twin" Sao Miguel that are a block away from one another on the way to or down from the castle are both from 11-12^th century AD. They were in fact a collaborative congregation. However, they are not used for either masses, nor are they open to visitation, a pity. I just peek through the fences and appreciate the once Romanesque later replaced with Gothic style. I recall, how lovely it was to visit the Old Church in Amsterdam from the same era, which was renovated beautifully and open to visitation. It was also used for all kinds of cultural activities, where I had seen a photography exhibition of the history of Judaism in Netherlands and another on the history of gypsies. Memories are the most precious treasure we may preserve...

The infamous chapel of the Moorish Castle

Time to head down to Sintra itself. I would like to visit the town itself, engage in people watching, pause for brief periods of time to drink something and take it all in. On the way down, I take pictures of beautiful old homes with dilapidated facades, doors with intriguing knobs, door handles: One has used the head of an ancient Roman figure. Beautiful gothic style window frames, the top portions of which are ornamented with shimmering "gold" metal work. Worn out two-panel wooden doors separating and protecting walled in homes from the outside world. Tiles used everywhere: Trimming on street walls, enveloping public fountains, providing the support for benches on the road side, sings for any and every purpose... For some reason, the use of tiles in this type of urban setting gives me a sense of cleanliness, is it because it is much easier to clean tile than any other material... As I approach Sintra, I feel as if I have gone on a time travel. When I think about it, I indeed did. For several hours now I lived with Moors, breathed in the air they once breathed in day in day out, saw what they saw up above and extending all the way to horizon. Time to get back to real time...  

Public Fountain in Sintra on the way to Moorish Castle

 

ENTEBBE UGANDA 2018 - 6 - COLONIALISM AND ALL

My last 14 hours in Entebbe. My destination today is the Botanical Garden. On my way to the gardens, I can’t help but stop by the textile vendors and purchase multiple pieces. Loose pants for restorative yoga sessions for myself and my dear friend Jeannie; and a dress for my daughter.

Beautiful textile may be found in these simple stalls in Entebbe

Botanical garden is an oasis away from all the dust and crowd. I bump into a group of African youth, guided by two young white men, a bit older than the group, perhaps volunteers from Europe, who are teaching the youth how to play a team game. I watch them for a while making a mental note of how sweet their bonding is; they trusting their white guides and the guides loving and caring for their students. Why can’t this happen all over the world? Why is all the racism alive in pockets of communities and societies?  It’s all about fear, mostly unjustified, exaggerated, coupled with narcissism and locking hearts into our own bubbles...

The sign to the Botanical Garden is too humble, but the Garden itself is spectacular...

I make my way to the waterfront to find a spot to meditate. On the way, I bump into a South African bi-racial appearing young woman, who has a hired choffeaur driving her on the dirt roads with stops at sites of interest. The driver is local, clearly. I wonder what she does to be able to afford such luxury commodity. We visit the rainforest section of the park together, she offers to take a picture of me against the backdrop. As I continue my exploration in the rain forest, I discover couples who have retreated to the solitude of the forest to make out. I respectfully leave them alone recalling my time at that age…

In the rainforest section of the Gardens, I look like a mini-truck with all my gadgets!

On the way to the beach I come across interesting structures around tree trunks. They look like fairy chimneys of Cappadocia, almost. They are of various sizes, pierced into numerous mini-caves and tunnels on its surface. When I ask a young man, who is also watching the group playing the game, he tells me that an ant builds those structures. An internet search merely gives me information that they are called giant termite hills, no more. In fact, I see a large black ant that looks like a carpenter ant that comes out of one of the tunnels, which quickly disappears back into the same. Apparently, a 3-foot high hill as the local young man tells me takes 50 years or more to create. He didn't know what the purpose of these hills were other than clearly housing thousands and thousands of ants. Do they harm the trees that they are built around? Do they live in a symbiotic relationship? No information on the internet, either.

One of many giant termite hills I observe in the Garden 

Finally, I am on the beach. I am pleasantly surprised that there are several mini-bars and picnic tables on the beach to which these bars serve drinks. As I situate myself on the bar at the very end of the beach, I notice that one of the guys selling local food items is a boy, who looks like 10-12 years at the most. Skinny, not too tall. I ask him his name, it is James. He is 14 years old. He has never gone to school, too expensive, he doesn’t know how to read and write. He actually works at the bar and gets paid 80,000 Uganda Schillings per month. A 2x2 inch bag of peanuts that I purchase from another boy costs 1000 Uganda Schillings, then I can put it in context! He makes enough money to buy 80 such snack bags by working the entire month.

Close up of a giant termite hill
                                                                           How difficult would it be to give a Kalashnikov to him and recruit him into militia, down the road, when he is and will remain a nobody all his life with what life dealt to him? My friend told me that Kalashnikov is the most precious commodity in Africa, especially in war-torn countries. Kalashnikov is what keeps them alive, what gives them power, what allows them have connections, food, and sex. It is an unbelievable framework of survival. How much of this is their own doing, how much is the West’s intervention to keep wars and arms sales going? It’s a blur... My friend told me that his veteran African friends, who are all human rights fighters are divided in whether this can be resolved in the short run or not. I try to share positive thoughts and wishes for my human fellows on this continent, but there is a knot in my gut not knowing what good this can do for them.

From the rainforest section of the Garden: Symbiosis or parasitic relationship is not clear to me...

I order fried potatoes, apparently called Irish potatoes here, Keith will tell me that if you order potatoes here, you most likely will get sweet potatoes. Just as I relax waiting for my fries to arrive, Keith, the British tenant of my hostess Clair appears on his bike! What a serendipity. He orders a beer and a sprite mixing the two into what he calls “Shandi”. First time, I am trying this, but it tastes pretty good! After our potatoes arrive, we now share both the food and the drink, we move to a picnic table to hear each other better. Keith is over 80, pretty fit; the key to this combination is using his feet or his bike for transportation most of the time and eating healthy. When I tell him, I notice a totally different life style in Africa, he tells me when you know the ways to handle the ins and outs of day to day operations in Uganda, nothing is a problem. He doesn’t use a credit card here for fear of identity and card theft. He only uses cash and cash transferred to his Ugandan bank account via exclusively UK lines of connection.

One of the tables around the make-shift bar on the beach, we enjoy at the Garden

He speaks some Lugandan to get by and to suggest to Ugandans that he knows this culture to divert them from exploiting him. He tells me stories about how people that he knows ask for financial support, such as paying for their child’s educational expenses. Since he raises funds and supports only the students that his foundation takes care of, he feels comfortable to say No to such people, but is not surprised when such requests arise. The more we chat, the more it becomes clear that he in fact is a right wing old aged Westerner: He voted for Brexit. When he starts explaining why, I am appalled, I had never heard such brutal honesty from anybody, who doesn't care a bit about political correctness:

The above-the-ground roots of many trees in the Garden has this interesting appearance

Keith believes, European free flow of populations bring to UK "Pakistanis, Afghanis, and Africans, who are lazy. They don’t work. Most of them are on welfare. Even if they work, they do so in their own under-the-table community economy and don’t pay taxes.” I tell him Trump and his circle claim the exact same thing for Mexicans. He exclaims “Oh, Trump is a racist!”. I ask him how is it that Brexitists are not racist when Trump is. He changes the subject. He believes the only way to fix African problems is to bring back British to administer, manage, and rule Africa without corruption! He makes sexist comments as well about Africans. Is that enough to see this man as a hidden racist, sexist colonialist? How can I feel compassion for him?

Africans enjoy themselves in Lake Victoria that we Westerners are recommended not to touch due to fear for Billharziasis

I feel like I have had enough of him and courteously ask for leave to finish my tour of the gardens.  As I walk away, I can't harbor positive feelings toward him. Somehow I can’t trust people with a discriminationist, racist, and exploitative politics to have a big enough heart. I don't even know how he can do the kind of altruistic work he claims he does. Just as I had never trusted a colleague of mine from the US, who is a theoretician of republican even libertarian politics in his “caring interest” in visiting developing countries to get connected with people of other lands…

Announcements like this cover all electric posts in Entebbe

At 2:45 am, Ismail arrives in his van to take me to the airport. Claire is up to say good bye to me. Ali is at the door. I bet this is a very similar picture from centuries ago, when the white woman is ready to go, all Africans in her service to be up and about with great respect. It turns my stomach, I wonder how much of this respect and care is due to  the natural human connection, how much due to intergenerational transmission of colonialism-imposed duty, and how much of it is capitalism-imposed? I give each of them a warm hug with a moment of hugging meditation, telling each of them to find peace and joy in life. I hope they do, I hope they recover from the historical trauma that inundated Africa for centuries and still is. I hope we in the west manage to pressure our governments to such an extent that they cannot continue exploiting Africa and supporting wars in Africa with their arms sales. Everybody in the US, France, UK, Sweden, Germany, among other countries is responsible for that. I will meditate on that for some time to come.

I hope blacks and whites do integrate all over the world to enjoy life and friendship on this beautiful earth soon.

                         

 

 

 

ENTEBBE UGANDA - 5 - WHAT AFRICA HAS STIRRED UP FROM 4 DECADES AGO

My friend, who is a UN expert in Africa tells me about a story when he worked with a large international NGO in Europe that was partnering with many member NGOs from other countries. Apparently, this European NGO had four member NGOs in a particular African country and 22 other NGOs were in the process of applying to become a member since the parent European NGO was financially supporting the member NGOs.

Extreme poverty doesn't allow boundaries for ethical behavior...

My friend was sent to visit each applicant and member NGOs to verify that they were credible and deserved the financial support they were receiving or requesting. Through that visit, 3 of the 4 members lost their member status since the money they were receiving from the European NGO was going to the “professional” NGO founders’ bank accounts with no documentation of any of the work they had promised to do being accomplished! Of the 22 only 3 deserved membership and funding.

Poverty may hit the eye in different shapes in Africa versus
 Another unbelievable story: Another European NGO transfers 2200 pounds to an African NGO. The bank employee by mistake wires 22,000  instead of 2200 by adding an extra 0. Despite numerous attempts for the African NGO to return the excess payment made to them, they never pay back. My friend tells me he has all the reason to believe that the money most likely went to buying land or a house for the director of the NGO, instead of being used for NGO purposes. No wonder my friend is so cynical and skeptical about Africa. In fact, many Europeans, having understood this dynamic, prefer raising funds in Europe and sending European people to deliver the services with those funds, how sad.

Heading to the water through Africa

We deserve a beer on the beach after the tension this interaction created. We find another restaurant and settle at a table on the beach. They do have Guinness, my only favorite beer! The sun sets beautifully to our left one more time as kids play in the infectious waters of Lake Victoria. I wonder where the truth is: Are these waters as dangerous as they are portrayed to be to us Westerners? Are they safe enough as Africans clearly experience it by swimming in it in a non-chalant manner just as I would do in the Aegean? Or is it somewhere in between... Won't know the answer at least during this visit. My friend tells me that there is an interesting economy here. Most of the food naturally grows all around; mangos, bananas, jack fruit, passion fruit are some of the food items that nobody pays for. There is also an exchange economy among the neighbors with no money exchange. Thus, there is a baseline food availability that doesn't require a formal economy. The rest of the economy on the other hand, that requires governmental organization suffers big time due to corruption and ethnic wars that cripple many African countries. 

Symbiotic or parasitic life forms?

Claire tells me that the eggs we enjoy every morning come from her mother. She enjoys quite a bit of services, though, I assume she is able to do with the income she receives in USD from her tenants. She hires a taxi-driver, Ismail, available to her at any hour of the day to pick up and deliver her guests to and from the airport, a brief 10-minute ride. She has a security guard Ali, who is on the premise 24/7, and perhaps lives there. She hires help, Janet for the house-cleaning. Janet not only cleans the rooms for guests but also cleans the entire house. Quite a businesswoman that Clair is. When my friend needs the taxi service to the airport a day before I, Claire gets serious and tells him, he will have to pay for it since she provides only two pick-up/deliveries for her guests. Understandable and my friend obliges gracefully. Why is there a tense expression her face though? Did she think, we wouldn't want to pay that extra? Was she getting ready for a "fight" with assumed "small-mind" on my friend's part? Who knows. When my friend complies, she relaxes right away, that's what counts.

A restaurant in the neighborhood! I didn't dare trying it...

The restaurants on the coast are mostly for the visitors and the rich Africans. Thus, the service is accordingly. Staff is smart and consider making clients comfortable even with the lake flies phenomenon: They turn all the lights to red after dark to avoid the attack of lake flies, apparently they come only to white light. We are happy to eat our cream of mushroom soup, vegetable pizza, and goat stew with sweet potatoes, the latter being the best food I will have in Entebbe. After dinner, we enjoy our watermelon that we purchased from a vendor in downtown Entebbe right after our boat trip at the end of the day. Paul, Claire’s sweet son is still awake and will enjoy some of the fruit along with us.

Paul, Claire's son with one of his dogs..

                                                                                  Our last morning together is bitter sweet for both of us. The wonderful days we had together will get integrated into the memoire of our indispensable friendship. Who knows when we will see each other again, looking at our history, we bumped into each other, as hard as we tried, every ten years or so since departing from med school. Our special history started with a "could be perceived as a very negative interaction: We both attended a special college-prep middle-high school in Turkey where the educational language was English. Since we had to pass a two-level national exam to be excepted to that school, most families hired private tutors to prepare their children for the exam series. Thus, most kids that made it to that school came from affluent, wealthy families, but not all of us.                           

I am proud that the new generations of my high school are of protests spirit, too... "Resist Gezi Park, Bornova Anadolu High School is with you"

My friend calls the ones, who didn't have private tutors but made it to the school "the peasants" since we all came from either rural Turkey or urban working class families. The moment I had walked into our school, I had figured out "if I want to survive among these rich kids, I must study hard". Coupled with my father's oppressive "you have to accomplish anything and everything at 100% level", I did work hard. Throughout my childhood I was always fearful to get less than 100% on my exams. A score of 95 out of 100 would meet my father’s condescending “What, you think, this is good, come to me when you get 100 out of 100” statement. How sad, I spent all my childhood to gain approval of and praise from my father that I was good and enough.

It took me 40 years to understand this was a form of child emotional abuse: Parents trying to fill in the void in themselves by forcing their children to the limits

There was a time we had a very lengthy homework to complete over a weekend for one of our classes. It was unthinkable for the 13 year-old Resmiye not to have completed her homework. Thus came Monday, I had 20-30 pages of that voluminous homework done, ready to display to the teacher, who would always check the homework before starting every class. After recess, I came to my desk, took out my notebook in which the homework was… rather was supposed to be. I looked though all the pages with no avail, my homework had disappeared.                                                                  

This is the kind of notebook we would be using 40 years ago in Turkey in our schools

As I was enveloped with anxiety around “What will I tell the teacher?” I noticed a chunk of paper underneath the two staples that held the pages of the notebook together. “My homework was ripped off of my notebook” landed on my head like a hammer! Sitting in the front row of the class, the nerd I was, I always sat in the front row, I turned around to see if I would catch a face that would tell me who had done it. No clue… What started pounding in my head at that moment was “Somebody hates me in this class…”, was it only one body hating me or the entire class?

This might have been the reflection of my inner turmoil on my face 40+ years ago that day

I had never known despair the way I was acquainted with that day. I turned around, silent, sad, ready to cry, but still holding together. When the teacher asked about the homework, there was such uproar about how difficult it was, how long it was, and how we needed more time, yes indeed, I also needed more time! The teacher gave in and started teaching the class without checking the homework. As the day wore away, the question in my mind was “What did I do for them to hate me like this?” I knew the answer, though... I was such a hard working student, exclusively indulged in it, I probably made other students feel bad about themselves.                                                       

I could have easily been this mini teacher- substitute in my elementary school

“Did I help them enough?” followed since in elementary school, the teacher had used me almost as a substitute teacher and I was a helper. But not in this school, everybody was equally smart here, it had never occurred to me that some might have needed my help. What to do next was the big question in my mind: I couldn’t tell my parents about this. They could come to school and escalate the issue that would create more tension and perhaps more hatred toward me.

My high school class generated many national and international leaders including Tunc Soyer, who is one of rare honest politicians in the country

I cried three days in a row, in bed, alone, without being able to share this with anybody. Devastated with being hated by at least some body, most likely by a lot of “bodies” in what had become a place of existence for me. Hopeless, not knowing even where to look for a voice of wisdom to help me out of this mess. I knew deep in my heart, it was me, myself, and I alone that would get me out into the light.              

Another friend Rasit Tukel, a professor of psychiatry and head of Turkish Medical Association was recently arrested by the Turkish government for informing the government that the civil war was a public health issue!

I don’t know how and where I found that courage and inner wisdom to confront myself with what I was doing wrong rather than developing a defensive negativity to what somebody had done to me. Was it my mother’s kindness and openness to all ways of human existence that she had instilled in me without my knowing it? Most likely…

Alp Ayan, another psychiatrist from my class has been a  staunch activist for human rights in Turkey and received scholar at risk status from Harvard University

                                                                              I made a decision; I had to change my attitude toward my friends and success. I had to help them somehow, I had to focus on lifting all of us together rather than on my own success. It wasn’t an easy path. The first was easier: Although I didn’t have the communication skills to reach out to my friends to offer help with classes in a tactful way, I found a way to help them with their scores… Perhaps not the most ethical way, but it won me their hearts, and we discovered the technique of learning together while taking exams!

My dear friend Onder Ozkalipci has been an expert working with numerous human rights organizations all over the world

In Turkish literature class for instance, our teacher, who had exceptional command of Turkish grammar wanted us all to do the same. In every exam, half the score was on identifying all types of clauses in an almost page long one single sentence: solving a grammar puzzle! Being in love with languages including my own mother tongue, I loved such exercises and was good at that. During each exam, I would “solve” the sentence for myself and transfer the solution to four small pieces of paper, folded into a pea size bullet, each one of these would go in four directions of the classroom, traveling as far as they could throughout the exam hour…

Our cheating technique was no different than this
                                                                                  Did I ever feel guilty? Once: At the end of the semester, our teacher came to class and proudly announced “I finally taught Turkish grammar to all of you. You should be proud of yourselves”. Nobody giggled, neither did I. My heart cringed, I don’t know if he ever found out about our conspiracy… We mastered our in-exam learning practices in a variety of ways pulling other nerds into the group: 4-5 students including me would take on one of a,b,c,d,e options in math tests. If the answer to a question were “a” for instance, and I were the “a” designee, I would find something in the foil of the question I pretended I couldn’t read or understand and raise my hand to ask the teacher. That would be the cue to the entire class that the answer to that question was “a”.

We were more inconspicuous than this, of course...                                                                                 Out of a 20-question test, if 5-6 such public questions were asked, everybody would get at least a quarter of the test right!! This continued almost a year until the teacher must have smelled something fishy and reprimanded me with a “No more questions, answer as best as you can with what you read on your test”. That was the end of it, but everybody passed their math class that semester!

This is exactly how I felt my friend was telling me the truth

Months went by after the notebook incident: This very friend who is with me now in Uganda and I were in the classroom during lunch hour one day, all alone. He asked me out of the blue “Resmiye, did you ever wonder who ripped your notebook months ago with that homework?” I was startled “Is he going to tell me who did it? Why, after so many months?” I found the courage to say “I don’t know, I guess it is not important, I was so self-centered I thought I deserved it.” He looked at me piercingly as he always did throughout our lives when he wanted to get a point across and spilled these three words out “I did it.”                                                                                         

I am glad in all my loneliness, I was able to see what happened to me at age 13, exactly like this

My heart sank a bit, but I appreciated his honesty as I always would throughout our friendship. Since that day, we became best friends, despite distances in time and geography, our friendship always continued flourishing to this day. Years later, I learned that in fact it was not him but another dear friend of mine, who had ripped my homework off of my notebook!!! Even in that testing moment, he was being big, bigger than life. I love my friends… Little did I know, that seemingly and slightly violent act and the seemingly insignificant decision that I had made after three days of crying would change me forever and set the first foundational stone in my life: Do good for the WHOLE, you get lifted as much as others are lifted…

How could I know semi-hostile punishment by my friends would teach me this great lesson at age 13

And now I am learning that Buddhist philosophy is teaching the same non-duality and interconnectedness and inter-being as Thic Nhat Hanh would say: Indeed, we are all inter-connected, we can neither be happy nor save our own skin without reducing if not eliminating the pain and suffering of others. I have learned over the last decade that simply dedicating your life to big causes doesn't cut it, either. The greatest fulfillment comes from doing acts of kindness for individuals, be it a friend, an acquaintance, a beggar.... Yet, one also needs to be careful about how much we give out and how much we take care of ourselves. After four decades over those days, having found my path to mindfulness, meditation and Buddhist philosophy, I am now trying to conquer the balance between compassion for one’s self and for others.                                                                                

 

 

This sums it all, to be kind to others, we must be kind to ourselves... Easier said than done..

Following our last breakfast when my friend and I enjoy our mango and watermelon, we chat about Buddhist Philosophy and Psychology. I wish I had been exposed to both much earlier in life. I probably would have dealt with my childhood anxiety in ways that would have brought less stress and more joy to my life. But… Never too late, better than never, I will move on with doing my best to be mindful of my breath, my thoughts, my feelings and bodily sensations when faced with especially stressful situations as well as positive experiences with a hooking quality. As Pema Chodron recommends, “swim in the middle of the river, don’t crave to get to the shore, enjoy the swim…”

A lot of times, what makes us dissatisfied is not appreciating the beauty and treasure we already have right around us

 

As we give each other our last hug, one more time, I feel deeply what a good, kind, and caring friend I have in him and how deep and strong our friendship is. I wish English had had the word equivalent to “Dost” in Turkish. Friend, which is “Arkadas” in Turkish doesn’t cut it for me to define “Dost”. Dost in Turkish is one that you can open your naked soul to, who will be there for you in good and bad times to help, to protect and to care for you, with whom you may dive into experiences and get out intact with a renewed sense of connection. He is my dost and I am his, we both know this.

Dostluk, deep friendship doesn't require to be side by side all the time. It is to have the deep souls and hearts facing each other (Rumi)