Accompaniment

Given all of the aforementioned, I am forced to think about accompaniment itself – at this notion of solidarity – the preferential option of the poor, and how difficult I’m already finding that idea, as my mind dances in circles around these issues – about what I want to do and think I should do, but feeling as if the seemingly narrow margins of accompaniment limit these ideals. The other night at the dinner table, as we shared the highs and lows of our work days – the frustrations and struggles that are the foundation of cross cultural work – I found myself quite literally pounding my fists on the table and saying “To hell with accompaniment.” (Which, I know, was a reactive action – one which I am embarrassed to advertise, but I, too, must admit my own development and struggles to the world). I’m terrified I’m beginning to view accompaniment as some sort of straight jacket – knowing all the while that it is more of a spectrum through which I am challenged – to be a catalyst – to empower my girls to fight for the issues with clenched fists, rather than myself as a foreigner - to provide sustainable, progressive, evolving dialogue, not just abstract solutions.

I say this all with the understanding that I am a direct result of a problem solving environment and culture, a structure that promotes ‘do do do’ and ultimately results in a ‘white man’s burden’ ideal - which I’m having to fight to the bone each night as I fall asleep. I’m still learning to see the beauty in the simplicity of accompaniment – in walking with. I’m finding that I'm having to take the solidarity ring we were given as a token of our commitment to accompanying the poor, a simple wooden sphere that dangles around my neck on a string - and feel it between my fingers - to remind myself why I’m here. I’m still wandering aimlessly, fumbling blindly through this labyrinth of accompaniment, hoping that one day perhaps the blindfold will come off, and I’ll see it all so clearly.

I’ve been wondering a great deal about the future these days (I know, I’ve been here for one month, but I can’t help it). At work, when I’m not lesson planning, I’m finding myself elbows deep in UNICEF assessment reports and documents (Unicef sponsors our outreach program), and at home, pulling all the books from our library about Belizean history – taking notes from the “Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw,” which is riddled with information about the government, policies, and structure of the Belizean system.

Perhaps it all comes down to the levels of intervention - the bodies being thrown into the river analogy – and that each mode of involvement is a necessary component of the problem – the picking them up and drying them off, but also the running up the river to see who’s throwing them in, and WHY, and how to stop it, etc, etc - and it’s only a matter of assessing one’s own strengths and goals as to where they fit into that picture. Some huge part of me wonders if I’m destined to wander the broken roads of Belize for a while – to see it all through dirt stained bus windows, to look each person in the eye, to take a hiatus from learning about it all in textbooks and in classrooms, but to feel it all through the faces – to feel the ache and tremor behind each voice. But there’s this other pull inside of me, wondering if I have a fundamental responsibility to receive as much education as I can (right now?) to learn as much as is physically and intellectually possible – and to use that to fight for fundamental human rights – theirs and my own (OUR), and to somehow be a part of this relentless pursuit, this brutal war for social justice, something I so badly want to be a part of, if only a small sliver.

There’s this huge part of me that’s feeling that it’s simply immoral to leave this country after two years - that we will be deeply submerged in everything about Belize: it’s structures and bureaucracy, all the while stuck within the boundaries of accompaniment, and then peace out after two years. The more I learn about Belize itself – how new and young this country is, I can’t help but think of all the progression and transformation that is possible. I so badly want to speak and spread light on this infant of a nation – skin still pink and sensitive – finicky, even – as vulnerable as a newborn baby. But more than the country itself, its people - to accompany them in their fight – to truly understand what it’s like for my fate to be interlaced with theirs. But even more importantly than that, to provide evidence of this, not just for Belizeans, but for each creature who steps foot on this blessed earth.

It’s interesting, how disconnected I quite literally am from the rest of the world these days. It’s such an odd progression – to go from reading international news for nearly an hour each morning over coffee – to not having stepped foot into that universe for nearly six weeks. I’ve learned that I have no choice but to embrace my reality here with open arms – to pull its edges around me like pages of a newspaper – and burrow into their words – the history, the politics, the old, corrupt ways that have plagued Belize and countries all over the world since the beginning of time. In other words, I don’t have the present news, but I have history – all of it at my disposal, right downstairs, filling the shelves of our makeshift library.

With all that being said: Relevant poetry. (yes!) (It’s okay, you can roll your eyes).

“Mind Without Fear”
Where the mind is without fear
And the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
Into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from
The depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches
Its arms towards perfection;
Where tireless striving stretches
Its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
Has not lost its way into the dreary
Desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action-
Into that heaven of freedom,
Let my country awake.

-Rabindranath Tagore