bicyclemark

Regrouping and Recharging

For the first time in the history of this site I have been mostly silent for almost a month, choosing instead to spend time with family, and act as a good tour guide for visiting friends here in Portugal. A sort of regrouping as over the past few months several issues have arisen and plans have fallen through that left me confused about how to proceed.

One issue is perhaps familiar to many freelancers out there in these times of economic difficulty and the decline of paid journalism, a client who will not pay for work that I have been doing for several months. It is probably a legal issue to even mention it so I’ll just leave it at that, those that do similar work are probably all too familiar with the issue so I don’t even have to explain further. The kind of unexpected development that leaves one financially crippled and looking for any available solutions in the short term, including falling back and regrouping in a country where life is cheaper and family can provide a little comfort for a few weeks.

While I have been on this hiatus I also did something I have never felt comfortable doing, applying for funds from a foundation in order to do a podcast project. Those familiar with this site know that direct donations from readers and listeners has long been the way to go when it comes to funding my work. No middle person or hoops to jump through, no having to explain my work to people in a position of power who have little idea of what this world of personal media is all about. Somehow, presenting myself here in this forum has long been something I feel more comfortable with than trying to write an essay or submit a proposal in some formal manner. Even crowdfounding our project last year felt more natural and logical than sitting before a committee of 4 judges. There may even be a committee out there that would understand my work and their financial backing would probably be more than I usually can raise on my own, but to this point, I still feel that this here is where I belong and where I am understood. The world out there, filled with forms and hierarchies, thats the world where I get strange looks and disparaging comments. Though I have to admit things have come a long way from the days of having to explain what a blog is or why podcasting is interesting.

It is fitting that setbacks come around the same time that the summer hits and my family gathers in the country that shaped a big part of who we are. It gives me a chance to reconnect with my roots, to reflect on how I got here and why I do what I do. Surely days spent on the beach watching my niece and nephew play in the sand are good for the soul and will become the fuel I need to make things happen and push on with my journalistic-artistic mission that has been playing out on this website for more than 10 years now. It may take some time and there will surely be more disappointments in the future, but recharging and regrouping is just what was needed at this point in my life-career.

What comes next? I’ll show you, very soon.

Remembering a Friend: RIP Atul Chitnis

Many years ago I attended my first hacker conference in Berlin, an experience that would forever change the course of my life. During those beautiful days I met many inspiring new friends and acquaintances who’s work and life philosophies would become an important part of my online (and offline) life. One of those individuals, the great Atul Chitnis, passed away this week after a difficult and very public battle with cancer.

The truth is, I only met Atul, in person, 2 or 3 times over all these years, but every meeting was a pleasure. He was the kind of guy who it felt like I had known my whole life, there was always something to talk about that sparked both our interests. Despite the fact that he lived in India, and I am here in Amsterdam, through our online activities we kept in touch using what are now very familiar ways: blogs, facebook comments, twitter, and even skype.

Atul wasn’t always speaking directly to me, but his words always felt personal and insightful. Even his infamous documenting of breakfast food, a practice I normally don’t pay attention to on social media, in the context of dealing with chemo therapy and because of the way Atul presented it, I kept up with what was cooking at his place. I worried about his health, watched for status updates bringing good news and quietly celebrated when he posted that he was feeling pretty good.

This week I noticed I hadn’t seen any posts and that – in fact- I hadn’t seen any tweets from Atul either in quite a few days. A terrible feeling struck me, a possibility that I wanted to shake off by going to his facebook page and seeing that all was well – maybe there would be an omelet from this morning. Sadly, there was no omelet. No post by Atul about how things are going. Instead, a long list of comments, each one paying tribute to their beloved friend who had passed away.

So it goes in this world. A great person can influence your life, even someone you don’t know well, they are a part of your everyday like a good neighbor, colleague at work, or a friend at the local pub. And then everything can change. Whatever memories you have of them will be the ones you have to hold on to. That latest blog post becomes the last blog post. The next conference will go on, but it will be lacking its most unique and inspiring voice.

Though I realize I was not a close friend of Atul’s, I was and am a huge admirer and online friend of his. His approach to life, work, and humanity will not be forgotten, and his recorded words will serve as an example for future great minds. I wish I could say thank you and that he would hear it now. Alas, all I can do is write, remember, and wish his family and loved ones my deepest sympathies.

Syria Comes Closer

I have been silent over the past 2 weeks, trying to process a recent journey and an experience that had a profound impact on me. Although it would seem there are several ways to tell this story, I will start from the beginning and later this week delve into more specific details.

It is late April 2013 and I find myself working in Istanbul as a media trainer for a group of about 12 Syrians. Outside our hotel is the bustling city of 12+ million people, living their lives in a relatively prosperous and peaceful nation, which despite its problems feels more like an oasis when compared to what is happening just south of the border. (despite the recent car bombing) Inside our hotel, day after day, I find myself getting to know a group of Syrians who only last week were living in a war zone. Who next week will be back in that war zone, and the only thing that will have changed is that -hopefully- I (together with my partners on this project) have successfully taught them new and better methods for reporting the extremely important and tragic events unfolding around them.

Friends in Istanbul. - April 2013 — Friends in Istanbul. – April 2013

But while there may be peace outside and inside this Istanbul hotel, in our classroom war is ever present. Every piece of advice we have to give on recording and story telling has to be tempered with the disclaimer that if your city is being bombed and you’re in constant risk if being shot, you might have to do this another way. In between lessons we see the students consulting facebook and other independent Syrian media outlets for the latest developments back home. They show us photos and videos that depict unspeakable horror, and in between photos of children smiling amidst the rubble, people showing a peace sign in font of their destroyed homes. We are told about the terrible loss of friends and family over these past two years. The harsh reality of life in Syria today becomes more real to me in these rooms among these beautiful people, in a way that I have never felt before.

I want to hug my new Syrian friends (and we do hug). I want to do something more, yet everything feels insignificant considering the size and scope of the struggle they face. There is even the irrational desire in my heart, to take them all away to some place safe. Put them all living as my neighbors where we can have dinner every night together and enjoy the peaceful life they so obviously deserve.

But that is not the goal of this project nor of these new friendships. Each one of these people has a personal mission to return to their city, to keep trying to get the information out to the world. To at the very least, document the loss of life and culture, when no one else has the ability or the courage to do so. 2 years ago many of them were university students of science and humanities, when suddenly their world collapsed. Most never intended to be reporters or journalists, but when war broke out, they saw it as their personal responsibility.

After one brief but intense week together, I too was left with a renewed sense of personal responsibility. Though it pales in comparison with the task they have undertaken, I too want to help record and communicate the stories of Syria. I want to honor my students, my new friends who are toiling right now in different parts of that precarious land, by sharing their experiences and their stories with anyone and everyone who cares about human life in this world .

Forgotten Schools, Limited Vision

While spending some days in Portugal this month I got to enjoy the beauty of spring in the small agricultural villages of my ancestors. Places where social and economic life has slowed down over the past few decades, as tens of thousands emigrate in search of steady income and a more certain future. Those that don’t leave the country, choose instead to move to bigger towns and cities where urban life may bring them the future their home town could not. Despite the mass exodus, these villages remain standing, all be it with more empty houses and quiet streets than ever before.

Among the growing list of institutions and concepts of the small village that have been discarded over time is the iconic school house. Built during the dictatorship as part of the plan that all Portuguese children should attend primary school (between 1940 and 1970), you can find this school in the heart of most any village. Prominently located with its simple style, these traditional buildings are increasingly being abandoned in favor of centralized urban schools where the few remaining children in villages are sent. A more modern and cost-effective approach to education in an era where the government tries everything it can do to cut costs and services.

Somewhere in the plan to have modern centralized schools, the fate of the old fashioned school house never received much consideration. Locking them up and letting time or the elements wear them down seems to be the only idea being carried out. This is despite a few exceptions where villages have found a way to re-purpose their school house as a community center. Rare examples of some proactive thinking that will allow a main stay of the community to have new life. (assuming there is a community in the area still)

For the most part, in the villages where my ancestors grew up, the very school houses they sent their children to, lay empty and forgotten. They don’t fit into the new Portugal (and world) where small and old has little value, while bigger and cheaper is considered the best path to take. And regardless of what photos are taken and what comments are made for a few corners of the internet, they will remain shuttered, a beautiful relic of a bygone era.

Why I Talk to Jehovah’s Witnesses

Years ago, when I finally put my last name on the front door bell of my home in Amsterdam, I began getting visits from Jehovah’s witnesses. Not just any run-of-the-mill witness, but Portuguese and Brazilians who noticed my last name and figured – here’s a guy we can talk to!

Sure enough, each time they rang, I would come out to greet them. Usually it was the kindest elderly Portuguese couple that reminded me of all my favorite relatives. Other times I would chat with two middle aged Brazilian ladies who were always smiling and pleasant. In either case a long tradition began, the word was out: some Portuguese guy lives in that house and he’ll talk to you, he’ll even invite you in for tea sometimes.

Why would I, a person who has no religion and no desire for one, spend so much time chatting with people who are constantly asking me if I believe in all these religious names and writings? My simple answer is- I live far from the Portuguese environment I grew up in back in New Jersey, I miss the daily contact and the language that brings me right back to my childhood and my family somehow. I’ll watch a copies of the newsletter pile up in my recycling bin; I’ll never turn one down. I’ll even dodge the question of whether or not I read the last one, so as not to hurt their feelings.

There is another reason I speak with Jehovah’s witnesses- the journalist in me is fascinated by people and their life missions. I obviously have mine, right here on this website. And I know how hard it can be, to carry on, to be heard, and to keep your faith (in my case, faith in my own abilities). I imagine my gentle Portuguese couple, walking the cold streets of Amsterdam, and getting doors slammed in their face. It makes me sad and want to boost their spirits, by preparing the tea and asking questions about their home towns and their families. Sure, they can ask me a few questions about god in exchange, it is a fair trade I suppose.

People probably think Jehovah’s Witnesses are weird. Part of me does. But if I think longer about it, about all the beauty in a warm greeting and friendly conversation over tea, I’m reminded of all the other missions people have in this world that are deemed understandable. People dedicated to making money. People dedicated to their partners or children. People dedicated to their art. These things are not all the same, but I see a certain similarity between everyone and their personal missions. Even those who’s mission is religions, one of my least favorite topics.

Not surprisingly, while I was visiting New Jersey in late 2012, I answered the door at my parents’ house. There, standing before me, were two Brazilian Jehovah’s Witnesses asking for my father by name like he was an old friend. “Is your father home? We normally chat with him and he always accepts our literature.”

The Refugee Church of Amsterdam

At the beginning of this winter, as I prepared for the great journey to North Africa, here in Amsterdam I heard about a group of asylum seekers who were living in a tent camp somewhere in the city. Despite my preoccupation with my own plans, I was pleased to hear that many organizations and individuals that I know to be good at making things happen and finding solutions were involved. Then in early December I heard that after their tent camp was taken down by the authorities, with help from concerned citizens of Amsterdam, the refugees occupied an empty church not far from my neighborhood. They called it “De Vluchtkerk”, literally translated: “The Flight Church”, though I prefer to simply call it The Refugee Church.

After all my travels and everything else that has kept me busy these past few months, a few weeks ago I finally had the good fortune to be welcomed at the church and meet some of its residents.

As I walked into this strange cement structure, I immediately noticed the chilling cold in the massive main hall. It felt almost colder than the wintery weather outside, which made it perfectly understandable that everyone I saw standing or sitting near the entrance was sporting a winter coat and warm hat. Near the door, a few Dutch volunteers look through paperwork and chat with a few residents. It feels like a routine day, a camera crew sits near a couch and have a laugh during what seems to be a long interview. At a make-shift computer lab consisting of 4 computers in one corner of the hall, several men seem captivated by whatever they are reading. As I look forward towards what used to be the alter of this defunct church, I see a man and two women preparing what will surely be dinner using their improvised kitchen setup. Every few minutes someone else walks out of one of the side doors which lead to dorm style sleeping areas behind what are clearly recently created plywood walls. Each door is decorated with signs and pictures, featuring text in English, French, and Arabic. Every time one person passes another they speak a quick “hello my brother” or “hello my sister”. I also try to get into it by nodding my head towards people who pass me, “good afternoon”, “salaam alaykum”, etc. The friendliness is contagious.

The group, which is now comprised of over 100 men and women from countries like Sudan, Somalia, Mauritania, and Eritrea, has become a tight-knit unit where everyone knows each other. I’m welcomed by Mouthena, who I had arranged a meeting with via telephone the day before. He is dressed in full winter gear and sports an uneven beard to go along with his obvious tiredness. “I’m sorry I’m probably looking very tired because its too cold to sleep these nights. Many of us just stay up all night with this cold,” he explains to me in French. Mouthena is Western Saharan, though no such country exists in the eyes of most of the world. The UN technically looks after the territory of Western Sahara and Morrocco exercises control over much of what happens there. Mouthena identifies himself as Polisario, the traditional name of the independence movement that has been largely outlawed by Morrocco despite being recognized by the UN. As a result of all the difficulties within the territory, Polisarios like Mouthena live most of their lives in refugee communities just over the border in Mauritania. As he pours me a cup of tea, he explains the difficulties of living in such a place, and the tribal conflict that became a threat to his life and caused him to flee to Europe.

Over the course of the next few hours, Mouthena explains what had been his goal to seek asylum in Sweden, the complicated journey and eventually getting apprehended on an international bus ride in Germany, where immigration sent him to the Netherlands, the country from where the bus originated. The details are captivating and frustrating, yet he explains it all with relative calmness, until he comes to parts that clearly make him upset. “I can’t tell you more of these details, they make me too sad. Not today. But I’ll tell you other things about this place and its people.”

As we take a tour of the massive grey hall, every few steps he stops to greet a resident and introduce them. As I shake a very well dressed quiet man’s hand, Mouthena sings his praises, “This man is very talented. His name is Shirac, he is a singer-songwriter.” Sure enough I spot a poster on the wall with images from a concert by the “Vluchtkerk Band” and there he is on stage. Over in a side room we’re greeted by a stern, imposing African woman who is busy folding bed sheets with great gusto. Again Mouthena explains, “She is our mother. To all of us who don’t have mothers here. We call her our mother and she treats us like her children.” He sneaks a hug which the woman accepts gracefully.

The stories become too many to communicate in one text, one interview, or one video. Thankfully one by one, several journalists and dedicated media makers have been recording and disseminating these stories over the past months. Many of them prominently found on the church’s website.

When this month ends, so too will the temporary agreement local activists made with the property owner to house the group. Always the resourceful types, the organization says the Refugee Church will come to an end but the group will continue its struggle with Dutch immigration authorities, to not be sent back to their home countries where death and despair await them. I ask several members of the group what they think will happen, a question which always earns the same response: “We don’t know. We are hopeful. But we never know. The only thing we want is to be able to live legally and in safety. And after this experience, it is now important to us that we stick together.” When Mouthena answers this question he adds his own twist, “You know, in our home countries we have many conflicts, borders, languages, all kinds of differences that separate us. Here we are one family. These are my brothers and sisters now.”