We’ve just finished our final workshop with 62 extraordinary Iraqi, Palestinian and Jordanian children.
Jim Webb and the folks at National Geographic had the genius idea to give the kids simple writing exercises during the course of the workshops – to help us better understand their lives, experiences and thought processes.
The exercises included answering questions like: “I remember…” and “I dream of…” We also had the children write an imaginary letter to someone they love or admire.
Below is a sampling of what they wrote.
On Friday we’ll be exhibiting the kids’ photos at the Children’s Museum – Jordan, under the patronage of Her Majesty Queen Rania Al-Abdullah.
=======
-Bassme: “I remember when the war started. My mother and I were sitting on the porch, I had final exams, and a man got killed in front of me.”
-Aya: “I dream of becoming an active person in society, and to be able to help others. My hope is to become a successful architect, and to travel to Venice. I remember once I had one friend, but now I have a lot.”
-Saber: “My life's dream is to help people. I would love to make a study about the percentage of homeless people, and to open a project for the people to be able to donate for the poor families. Since I was a little kid I dreamed that I would have a magazine to write in with my friends and the people I love about the common issues, Palestine and general opinion. We are now the generation of revenge. Everyone wants to fight with each other. Why aren't we like brothers? Like the Quran says: ‘We are all brothers in Islam’. So why can we not live like that?”
-Fatima: “I remember that my happiest days were with my father before he died, and I remember that when I was little my father used to play with me and my sisters. I remember the war in Iraq, and I see something burning in my eyes, the cars, and the homes. I also remember my cats and my sisters in Iraq. I hope that things will get better in Iraq.”
-Noora: “I remember the first day I came to Jordan we didn't know anyone, and I didn't know the language that this country was speaking. But after living here for many years, I mastered the language, and I got used to my life in Jordan and now I am very happy.”
-Mohamad: “My cousin's car impresses me a lot, because, it is very fast, and it has a turbo engine and it has big speakers, an amplifier and two screens and a system.”
-Hawa: “To my father and mother. They are the most valuable people to my heart. I love them with all my heart. I live in their shade (in a good way) and I love them. They made me. They taught me how to love and respect others. I hope for them health and peace, and to stay in a nest. I hope that Allah dear will keep them and to keep them for me forever. Thank you.
-Fatema: “To my dear sisters who are in Iraq now, I'm sending this letter to them and wish they could come with their husbands and kids here. I love mom very much and respect her, I wish she could stay with me forever. And this letter is also for my dear father who is dead but I still feel him with me. I hope he is in heaven now. I also wish that all Muslims will be in heaven with him.”
-Rashad: “I love you dad, because, you helped me and you taught me how to think about my life, my career. I know that you get tired every day so that we can stay alive, so when I grow up I am going to take good care of you.”
-And this from 11-year-old Sandian, whom we called “The Philosopher” because of her astonishing analysis of photos during the workshops:
“I remember the war, and the screams I used to hear at night, they were from a child who lost his parents or from a mother who lost her children, or from a wife who lost her husband. Yes, all of this is tied to the war. From it I saw eyes filled with tears, but from this pain I found support, for hope was my title, and the light of love and forgiveness I held in my arms, so that I may finish my journey. The sentence I love and always say is: ‘From the young of the future; the little ones of the nation; the heroes of tomorrow.’”
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
National Geographic Photo Camp in Jordan
Jordan Photo Camp - Day 1
We just finished the first day of our Photo Camp in Jordan with National Geographic.
International Medical Corps conducted one of these two years ago with NatGeo for refugee kids from Rwanda, Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo, who were living in Uganda.
This time, we’re working with Iraqi and Palestinian kids living in Jordan, along with vulnerable Jordanian youth.
There are about a million Palestinian refugees and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis living in Jordan, so the strain of this population influx is profound. And for these kids, who have all witnessed violence, many having lost one or both parents, an art therapy project like this provides a much-needed window into their world – for them and for us.
Having previously done the same project in Africa, I am struck by the contrast between the cultures of kids there and the kids here in Irbid, a populous town in northern Jordan with a distant glimpse of the West Bank. The 20 children we worked with today, ages 12-19, are urbanites. All had experience with cameras; they’ve either used one or own one. So they were relatively quick to grasp the technology. They’re also not as shy and reticent about taking photos as the kids were in Uganda.
Then there are the young girls. As a woman and a semi-professional photographer, it is difficult for me to watch a young girl whose cultural mores make her reluctant to push the physical envelope required from photography – crouching down to get a great angle, sticking the lens close into the face of a male shopkeeper, maneuvering herself aggressively around someone to get the shot. For one girl named Ayat, I hesitate to push, knowing I need to respect the way she’s been raised as a female in Muslim society. And yet, something interesting happened when I, the pushy instructor, left Ayat alone to do her thing. Away from my gazing, judgmental eye, she started maneuvering around others, taking more shots, finding interesting angles. I can’t wait to see the images she captures as the 3-day workshop unfolds.
Tomorrow, we will go out into their home environments again to shoot more photos. Then, we’ll come back to the Child Protection Society center to sit with the children, the photographers and a team of mental health experts and let the children tell us the stories behind the photos they took.
This is always the most powerful part for me: sitting with the kids to review their photos – stunning, heartbreaking, joyous portraits of their lives – and hearing the stories of behind the images.
Over the next 10 days we’ll be working with 60 kids in Irbid and in East Amman at the Queen Rania Center. When the workshops are over, we’ll have sorted through probably around 20,000 images. Each student will help us choose their two favorites for a closing-day exhibit in Amman, with subsequent exhibits around the world. The students also will receive a few prints of their photos and a CD with all of them.
But just as important, Nikon has donated cameras for us to keep at the centers so the kids will be able to continue their photography and storytelling after the workshops end.
I often think back to the kids in Uganda who participated in Photo Camp there. Kids like Theo, Joyce, Andre, Mapendo and Ester. I wonder where they are and how they’re doing. One corresponds with me quite often. She is now 18, still struggling to survive in the refugee settlement where she has now lived for many years. She tells me she still takes photos with our cameras and that it’s still important to her that others know her story. We have shown the Photo Camp Uganda exhibit at schools around L.A., and have sent books of photos and letters from the L.A. students to the Uganda students so they can share their lives with each other.
I am very aware that once I leave – whether it’s Uganda or Jordan - these kids’ stories will continue to unfold and they will continue to need an outlet for expressing themselves and sharing their experiences.
We just finished the first day of our Photo Camp in Jordan with National Geographic.
International Medical Corps conducted one of these two years ago with NatGeo for refugee kids from Rwanda, Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo, who were living in Uganda.
This time, we’re working with Iraqi and Palestinian kids living in Jordan, along with vulnerable Jordanian youth.
There are about a million Palestinian refugees and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis living in Jordan, so the strain of this population influx is profound. And for these kids, who have all witnessed violence, many having lost one or both parents, an art therapy project like this provides a much-needed window into their world – for them and for us.
Having previously done the same project in Africa, I am struck by the contrast between the cultures of kids there and the kids here in Irbid, a populous town in northern Jordan with a distant glimpse of the West Bank. The 20 children we worked with today, ages 12-19, are urbanites. All had experience with cameras; they’ve either used one or own one. So they were relatively quick to grasp the technology. They’re also not as shy and reticent about taking photos as the kids were in Uganda.
Then there are the young girls. As a woman and a semi-professional photographer, it is difficult for me to watch a young girl whose cultural mores make her reluctant to push the physical envelope required from photography – crouching down to get a great angle, sticking the lens close into the face of a male shopkeeper, maneuvering herself aggressively around someone to get the shot. For one girl named Ayat, I hesitate to push, knowing I need to respect the way she’s been raised as a female in Muslim society. And yet, something interesting happened when I, the pushy instructor, left Ayat alone to do her thing. Away from my gazing, judgmental eye, she started maneuvering around others, taking more shots, finding interesting angles. I can’t wait to see the images she captures as the 3-day workshop unfolds.
Tomorrow, we will go out into their home environments again to shoot more photos. Then, we’ll come back to the Child Protection Society center to sit with the children, the photographers and a team of mental health experts and let the children tell us the stories behind the photos they took.
This is always the most powerful part for me: sitting with the kids to review their photos – stunning, heartbreaking, joyous portraits of their lives – and hearing the stories of behind the images.
Over the next 10 days we’ll be working with 60 kids in Irbid and in East Amman at the Queen Rania Center. When the workshops are over, we’ll have sorted through probably around 20,000 images. Each student will help us choose their two favorites for a closing-day exhibit in Amman, with subsequent exhibits around the world. The students also will receive a few prints of their photos and a CD with all of them.
But just as important, Nikon has donated cameras for us to keep at the centers so the kids will be able to continue their photography and storytelling after the workshops end.
I often think back to the kids in Uganda who participated in Photo Camp there. Kids like Theo, Joyce, Andre, Mapendo and Ester. I wonder where they are and how they’re doing. One corresponds with me quite often. She is now 18, still struggling to survive in the refugee settlement where she has now lived for many years. She tells me she still takes photos with our cameras and that it’s still important to her that others know her story. We have shown the Photo Camp Uganda exhibit at schools around L.A., and have sent books of photos and letters from the L.A. students to the Uganda students so they can share their lives with each other.
I am very aware that once I leave – whether it’s Uganda or Jordan - these kids’ stories will continue to unfold and they will continue to need an outlet for expressing themselves and sharing their experiences.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Sienna's Final Post from Dem. Rep. of Congo
Final post from actress Sienna Miller, who's been visiting International Medical Corps programs in DRC:
=====
It has been a whirlwind three days and so much has happened that I don’t even know where to begin. Twenty four hours of the last seventy two have been spent in a car so we’re all feeling weary. I’m not sure if I even have the energy to attempt eloquence but I’ll give it a shot.
We left Bukavu for Chambucha on Wednesday morning at six. The journey was everything we had been warned about and more: muddy roads that could swallow a truck, flat tires, makeshift bridges, military checkpoints, very young men with very large weapons. It was a six-hour drive through Kahuzi Biega National Park and north to Chambucha. The scenery was breathtaking. Thick dense jungle, bamboo trees and wild orchids, monkeys, every shade of green you could possibly imagine. Enormous spider webs and their equally enormous creators, such a change from the urban feel of Bukavu. There were children swimming in the river that borders the forest where the FDLR (Rwandan rebel group) are in hiding, and where the FARDC (Congolese government troops) have taken positions along the road, weapons trained at their sides. And that’s what’s so confusing about this place..utter purity and beauty juxtaposed with brutal violence.
So where we are heading is an area engulfed by guerilla activity. As a result tens of thousands of people have had to flee their homes in neighboring villages and have been essentially herded into Chambucha. The road we are on stops there, and we are received like heroes. The people had been told beforehand of our arrival and hundreds turned up to clap and cheer and sing us into our camp. It was so moving and there is no way I can do it justice in words...David Serota has it all on film, so it will no doubt eventually speak for itself.
International Medical Corps’ hospital facility is set up next to the compound where we are staying and after dropping our bags we walk fifty meters into the fenced area for a tour. The care being provided, considering the extremely remote location, is again incredible. The stories I hear are again, harrowing. I met a mother who was running away from a group of militia three days earlier with her baby strapped to her back. They both got shot, but survived and thankfully made it into the facility in time. Her boy is so little and the huge bandages on his arms break my heart.
Everything about this place breaks my heart. These people all have stories which they share with me and there is just simply too much to try to grasp. Everyone has lost something, everyone has lost someone. I meet malnourished babies, mothers, fathers, widows and widowers, malaria sufferers, their eyes glazed, victims of rape and pillaging. They are all here in massive numbers, and their stories are agonizing.
I meet a group of about a hundred who have selected an old man to read out on behalf of them all, their list of grievances. They have no homes and no possessions and they need others to recognize they are in crisis.
I sat down with the Mai Mai, an armed community defense group that has been placed here by the government, but not paid for months. The general told me that he wants to go back to his old post but leaving this area would look like he was plotting to join another force and would essentially place a target on his head. He was surrounded by his men in green uniforms, holding their ammunition and AK 47s. It is intimidating for me to interview them and certainly against the norm for them to answer difficult questions posed by a woman. Even though their definition implies that they are allies of the government, I know that there is really no “good” armed group in this country.
I later asked a victim of rape if she felt protected by the Mai Mai or any of the military here. She simply said “I don’t trust any man wearing a uniform”. This woman had been raped on three separate occasions, each time requiring fistula repair. The last time she was held captive for three months and was consistently raped by eleven men. The reason she had had so many of these encounters was because she was disabled and therefore when the men came into the village and the women fled, she was always left behind. She simply could not run as fast as the others.
I sit with a fourteen year old girl who was raped nine days ago… and another and another. It is impossible to fathom the sheer number of women who have been violated here, and their stories are way beyond anything I can even begin to comprehend.
I was able to deliver one wonderful treat in Chambucha. Lysa Heslov and her terrific foundation, Children Mending Hearts, provided hundreds of t-shirts for the children who are in desperate need of clothes and it was uplifting and rewarding to later see them running around smiling in their new clothes.
We spend the night in bunk beds within the camps and eat a supper of cassava leaves with some river fish and rice. There is no electricity so everything is cooked on clay pots over coal and we wash before dinner with a bucket of cold water. I haven’t felt so present in a long time. There is something to be said for eliminating choice and the calm that comes with it. It dawns on me that I get so overwhelmed at home and life is often spent planning or organizing or making decisions in general. Here there is really not much choice at all and as a result I find myself stopping and actually having the time to process the experiences we have had.
The drive back on Thursday took about seven hours. We slept in Bukavu and then drove eight and a half hours to Rwanda.
I broke down twice on this trip. The first time after being in the displacement camp outside Goma, seeing the woman with the colostomy bag. I had to step into an empty tent and sob. I had consciously planned on keeping it together, but the visual and the look in her eyes broke me. After that, some form of defense mechanism kicks in. Of course you feel enormous empathy but there is no room for personal emotion in these places. Still, as we crossed the border into Rwanda, it all hit me, and I cried. It was a pretty silent journey to Kigali because we all leave a piece of our hearts in DRC. There is a lot to process, but I have never gone on such an incredible journey before and am inspired to come home and start the real work.
Please go to imcworldwide.org and if you have anything to spare, donate. Trust me the money you spend will be very well used and these people need and deserve all the help they can get.
=====
It has been a whirlwind three days and so much has happened that I don’t even know where to begin. Twenty four hours of the last seventy two have been spent in a car so we’re all feeling weary. I’m not sure if I even have the energy to attempt eloquence but I’ll give it a shot.
We left Bukavu for Chambucha on Wednesday morning at six. The journey was everything we had been warned about and more: muddy roads that could swallow a truck, flat tires, makeshift bridges, military checkpoints, very young men with very large weapons. It was a six-hour drive through Kahuzi Biega National Park and north to Chambucha. The scenery was breathtaking. Thick dense jungle, bamboo trees and wild orchids, monkeys, every shade of green you could possibly imagine. Enormous spider webs and their equally enormous creators, such a change from the urban feel of Bukavu. There were children swimming in the river that borders the forest where the FDLR (Rwandan rebel group) are in hiding, and where the FARDC (Congolese government troops) have taken positions along the road, weapons trained at their sides. And that’s what’s so confusing about this place..utter purity and beauty juxtaposed with brutal violence.
So where we are heading is an area engulfed by guerilla activity. As a result tens of thousands of people have had to flee their homes in neighboring villages and have been essentially herded into Chambucha. The road we are on stops there, and we are received like heroes. The people had been told beforehand of our arrival and hundreds turned up to clap and cheer and sing us into our camp. It was so moving and there is no way I can do it justice in words...David Serota has it all on film, so it will no doubt eventually speak for itself.
International Medical Corps’ hospital facility is set up next to the compound where we are staying and after dropping our bags we walk fifty meters into the fenced area for a tour. The care being provided, considering the extremely remote location, is again incredible. The stories I hear are again, harrowing. I met a mother who was running away from a group of militia three days earlier with her baby strapped to her back. They both got shot, but survived and thankfully made it into the facility in time. Her boy is so little and the huge bandages on his arms break my heart.
Everything about this place breaks my heart. These people all have stories which they share with me and there is just simply too much to try to grasp. Everyone has lost something, everyone has lost someone. I meet malnourished babies, mothers, fathers, widows and widowers, malaria sufferers, their eyes glazed, victims of rape and pillaging. They are all here in massive numbers, and their stories are agonizing.
I meet a group of about a hundred who have selected an old man to read out on behalf of them all, their list of grievances. They have no homes and no possessions and they need others to recognize they are in crisis.
I sat down with the Mai Mai, an armed community defense group that has been placed here by the government, but not paid for months. The general told me that he wants to go back to his old post but leaving this area would look like he was plotting to join another force and would essentially place a target on his head. He was surrounded by his men in green uniforms, holding their ammunition and AK 47s. It is intimidating for me to interview them and certainly against the norm for them to answer difficult questions posed by a woman. Even though their definition implies that they are allies of the government, I know that there is really no “good” armed group in this country.
I later asked a victim of rape if she felt protected by the Mai Mai or any of the military here. She simply said “I don’t trust any man wearing a uniform”. This woman had been raped on three separate occasions, each time requiring fistula repair. The last time she was held captive for three months and was consistently raped by eleven men. The reason she had had so many of these encounters was because she was disabled and therefore when the men came into the village and the women fled, she was always left behind. She simply could not run as fast as the others.
I sit with a fourteen year old girl who was raped nine days ago… and another and another. It is impossible to fathom the sheer number of women who have been violated here, and their stories are way beyond anything I can even begin to comprehend.
I was able to deliver one wonderful treat in Chambucha. Lysa Heslov and her terrific foundation, Children Mending Hearts, provided hundreds of t-shirts for the children who are in desperate need of clothes and it was uplifting and rewarding to later see them running around smiling in their new clothes.
We spend the night in bunk beds within the camps and eat a supper of cassava leaves with some river fish and rice. There is no electricity so everything is cooked on clay pots over coal and we wash before dinner with a bucket of cold water. I haven’t felt so present in a long time. There is something to be said for eliminating choice and the calm that comes with it. It dawns on me that I get so overwhelmed at home and life is often spent planning or organizing or making decisions in general. Here there is really not much choice at all and as a result I find myself stopping and actually having the time to process the experiences we have had.
The drive back on Thursday took about seven hours. We slept in Bukavu and then drove eight and a half hours to Rwanda.
I broke down twice on this trip. The first time after being in the displacement camp outside Goma, seeing the woman with the colostomy bag. I had to step into an empty tent and sob. I had consciously planned on keeping it together, but the visual and the look in her eyes broke me. After that, some form of defense mechanism kicks in. Of course you feel enormous empathy but there is no room for personal emotion in these places. Still, as we crossed the border into Rwanda, it all hit me, and I cried. It was a pretty silent journey to Kigali because we all leave a piece of our hearts in DRC. There is a lot to process, but I have never gone on such an incredible journey before and am inspired to come home and start the real work.
Please go to imcworldwide.org and if you have anything to spare, donate. Trust me the money you spend will be very well used and these people need and deserve all the help they can get.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Day 3 from Sienna Miller's Diary from Dem. Republic of Congo
I’m sitting in the dark, due to a huge rainstorm as I write this, from the balcony of the International Medical Corps guesthouse in Bukavu, eastern DRC. We left Goma at the crack of dawn and sandwiched ourselves onto a boat that was full way beyond capacity. And we laughed the whole way because despite the immense darkness that exists here, this country is beautiful in so many ways. Bukavu feels far more city like and certainly more developed than Goma, and equal in beauty and charm. We came to visit Panzi Hospital, where IMC is training doctors and which has become world-renowned largely because of its incredible work with thousands of women who are in need of surgical repair for a condition called “fistula,” a severe gynecologic rupture. It’s a frighteningly common condition in eastern DRC – because of lack of obstetric care, and the epidemic of rape.
Read Sienna's entire blog here: http://www.takepart.com/blog/2009/04/28/sienna-millers-travelogue-from-dr-congo-day-3/
Read Sienna's entire blog here: http://www.takepart.com/blog/2009/04/28/sienna-millers-travelogue-from-dr-congo-day-3/
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