Note to Self: Inspiration

 via

Sometimes, inspiration comes when I least expect it.  And today it came over a simple lunch with three women human rights lawyers, from South Africa, Argentina, and the US.  In my little world, they often sit on the other side of the process, and at one point, when I have a case to bring, we will likely get into heated disagreements.

But today was just lunch: grilled salmon over some kind of puree and a discussion of how we can better support communities in accessing redress mechanisms, how we can shift the development model to be more inclusive, how we deal with security issues when working in difficult countries, and how each of us landed in this weird niche of international human rights  law; a discussion of yoga, boot camp, and twin babies.

On my walk from the restaurant back to my office in Dupont Circle, I looked up and into the shiny office buildings, the red leaves lingering on trees, the cars and people jetting by with purpose, and the white clouds dotting the sky.  On days like this, I feel like I can do this work here.

Little reminders to keep going.  It's been a very challenging week. 

Note to Self: At 6 months.

It's September, which means that it has been 6 months since I moved to D.C. and over a year since I left Cambodia.  How do I feel? 

The city doesn't feel as alien to me as it did those first cold months, when I was easily unsettled by the darkness of the Metro and the tired faces commuting in the evenings.  I guess you could say I'm more accustomed to the lay of the land, including what is expected of me at work.  Also, now (most days) I can stare at the gigantic world map situated on the one blue wall in my office, stare at the little spot of the Mekong region, and not cry.  During my first three months, that was not the case.

I say this to Ethan and to any friends or colleagues who listen to my circular rants:  It's incredible what an emotional tie I have to that region.  Fine, I was born in Southeast Asia and lived in that corner of the world for a few years of my life.  But I never thought I'd want to live there, work there, and miss doing so.

Cambodia holds a special place in my heart, despite my struggles there.  Thailand-and the awesome concrete jungle of Bangkok - also hosts fond memories.

This week, I shared a drink with a woman who works at a certain human rights organization.  We met in Manila last year, during one of my meetings at the Asian Development Bank.  She flies around the world - all over Europe, Asia, South America, Africa - and advocates on  behalf of communities suffering human rights abuses. (She intimidates me a little.)

She asked me if I ever cried during a meeting, and we started talking about dealing with the stresses of this work. And I was brought back to this conversation and this one. It's not so different, is it?  Amazing people in a different city, in a different country, in a different phase of my life.

In other words, I'm starting to realize this work in the District is a continuation of those experiences.  It's connected, and hopefully that will help me push through.

Note to Self: On Working in Cambodia, Pt. 2

via Landesa

Can I confess that some days I am just so tired?  Land rights work in Cambodia is taxing. It is such a highly politicized area of law.

I'd like to share an exchange I had with a superstar American lawyer, who has worked on rule of law and land law issues in Cambodia for nearly 10 years, after having been in private practice in the States for a decade before.  Now based in Geneva, he was one of the people who warned me that land issues can be "toxic."  This first warning came about 9 months ago.  And I shrugged it off.  You see, while I certainly  am not an optimistic do-gooder, I did think I was a little tougher than that. 

I ran into him at a dinner party a few months ago.  I confessed to him that when I first met him that I did not listen, but (in the same breath) that 9 months can take a toll on you.  He advised me that it's okay to take a break from this work now and then, to leave the country, to re-energize, and to come back in some shape or form.  "There's no shame in it," he said.  This is a little sad, but it should be indicative of the state of things: we chuckled under our breath when he confessed that his recent work with domestic violence and gender issues in an un-named repressive country was a "nice break" from land law issues in Cambodia.  Seriously?

That's my mindset at the moment.  It has been for a few months.  I've  recently been offered an opportunity to represent refugees before UN bodies for a short period of time starting after my self-imposed summer vacation.  I was warned by the lead attorney that this was no break - that stories of rape and torture are often interwoven in these tales of displacement.  Still, I cannot help but think the experience might re-energize me, if not by allowing me to learn a new field of the law. (I'm not a refugee lawyer.)

But I am getting away from myself again.  The pictures of the women in Odisha!  Amazing, right?  Even when I am bogged down with the weight of Cambodia and land issues, I get really jazzed up about women and land issues, which makes me think that, no matter which path I take in the next few months, I may keep coming back to this work.

 

I'm looking back, to nearly two years ago when I moved to Cambodia.  It's been an incredible journey.

To be continued. 

Note to Self: On Working in Cambodia

When I first moved to Cambodia, a colleague took me to my first meeting UN meeting on land rights.  As I sat around the table, listening to updates on land disputes and forced evictions within the country, I noticed that people laughed at really awful things. "That's what happens when you've been here a while," my colleague whispered to me, after noticing that I sat there, silent, mouth agape.  At the time, it weirded me out.

I understand now:  People cope, in any way,  by any means they can, and sometimes that involves laughing at some of the political and social realities, many of which are ridiculous, disheartening and frustrating to no end.  For other expats, it means drinking themselves silly;  yet, for others, leaving the city whenever the opportunity arises.

Why do people stay?  How do they continue to do this work?  These are questions I myself have tried to answer this year, though unsuccessfully.  I believe that people who work in this sector in Cambodia burn out quickly - over the course of the year, I have met four lawyers, all of whom have independently warned me about the intensity of land rights/human rights work here, how it can affect you.  For each of those lawyers, the answer to continuing their work in Cambodia came in the form of moving out of the country and working regionally on these issues, finding a home base that is safe and comfortable:  Geneva, Chiang Mai, Melbourne, Manila.  As much as I can surmise, the answer came in establishing distance, drawing boundaries.

Over a year later, I do not have answers.  I only know that somehow, at this time in my life, this work clicks with me.  As idealistic as it sounds, I feel fortunate to be able to contribute through my profession. 

But this year has been so very intense.

To be continued . . .

Note to Self: Remember this time.

Even though it doesn't always feel like it these days, you will look back on this time, many years from now, and appreciate it for what it was: an incredible and challenging opportunity; a time in your life when  you were surrounded by some of the most inspired people you've ever known; a period in your life when you felt alive , though somedays raw.

And this remains the case despite the daily frustrations that give you pause and make you shake your head.  Remember this when you cannot understand why Cambodian street food can't be as tasty or clean as its Thai and Vietnamese counterparts, or when you cannot comprehend the lack of order and infrastructure in light of the foreign money pouring into this country, or why good cheese  is so expensive  in this country and baking ovens such a household rarity, or when the realities of working in this country continue to wear on you, when the divide continues to engulf and push. 

Note to Self: Packing for Siberia

Cashmere leggings and yoga pants, even when paired together, don't insulate the bitter bite of Siberian winter, its chilly embrace bleeding through every bare thread, into every pore. Ah, it was an interesting attempt.

Mongolia, your images still haunt me!

Note to Self: Escaping Rabbit Island

The storm raged without pause. From what I could make out through the blue mosquito netting under which I lied awake, outside my bungalow window the wind and rain blew until night blurred into morning, ruffling everything in sight, except the white cow that, I swear, was grazing on the green grass – in that same spot! – the evening before, an impervious fixture.

We were stranded. That morning, the small boats would not shuttle us back to Kep, would not make the 30-minute passage. The water was too choppy, they said. We took refuge from the wind in a three-walled restaurant, ate warm banana and nutella pancakes, salted fries and grilled prawns. We conspired with other stranded travellers, caught up on our reading, and napped in net hammocks.

Once, we took a stroll to a small cove.

And once, I took a walk by myself down the beach, past the empty hammocks swinging idly in the wind, and stared at the frothy grey water lapping at my toes, at the cold grey skies above, and at the cool sand collecting on my skin.

In end, the boatman came. We boarded the small boat, with cheer. But our cheer soon dissolved into shared glances of worry, then frantic laughter, as we braced ourselves against the water that swelled up and grabbed at us, threatening to capsize our small boat, one violent wave at a time. And it was then, as I sat soaked to the skin, wiping the sea water from my eyes and watching the shape of the island grow more indistinct with each rise and fall, that I told myself: Next time, I will check the weather report before making a boat trip to a remote Cambodian island. Sorry, mum.

Note to Self: Camping in Dinosaur Parks

Don't do it unless absolutely necessary. It was probably illegal. Apart from that, singing our various national anthems over a cow-poo campfire was rad, even when I almost fell into the campfire from too much giddiness/exhaustion/Genghis Khan Vodka. And the view of the endless sky, littered with more stars than I have ever seen, was glorious.

Note to Self: Bathing in Siberian Lakes

High on my short list of places to revisit is Olkhon Island, Russia. Olkhon Island sits on Lake Baikal, the deepest fresh water lake in the world and also one of the oldest--at least 25 million years old. From Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, it is over a day's journey via train and then another six hours via bus to the island. To the Buryat people and to shamans, the island is one of the most sacred places on earth, a place of pilgrimage, the source of folklore and legend. According to one legend, a dip in Lake Baikal will add 25 years to your life.

Summers on the island, I've been told, are crowded and busy. When I visited, however, it was the cusp of Siberian winter, so my memories are of a place that appeared untouched, pristine and quiet, the stillness blighted only by the shrieking wind.

We set out in the morning to explore the island by foot, agreeing to return to our guesthouse by dark. I will tell you that exploring that island made me feel like a child, gripped by simple awe, open-eyed and open-mouthed, with constant murmurs of, "Krasiva, krasiva" (beautiful, beautiful).

My two days there were not enough. And, yes, in warmer weather, I will take another dip in the lake. Someday.

Note to Self: Hitchhiking

It was somewhat reckless. I won't do it again, even though the Thai and Laotian matrons, with brows furrowed in concern for the young (ha) woman travelling alone, told me it was safe, customary even, to hitchhike in Laos, AND I was stranded in a remote village because, in that part of Laos, buses only run in the morning. No, I won't do it again despite the fact that the 80+km ride on the back of the motorbike, against the glowing crimson sunset, slowly encroaching, and with the wind whipping through my hair, was incredible. Incredible.

(Sorry, mum, if you're reading this.)