Upstairs the studios of the brand new KKWE radio station are lit up, Tom Petty’s American Girl is on the air, and a couple of members of the White Earth Veterans Association are about to get on the microphones. They recount a story about an ill-fated bear hunt, and its hard to tell if its a parable, or a joke. The dead space says it’s serious, but it’s followed by a huge joyous laughter.

Just on the other side of the studio glass sits a 20 something young man, slouched in a chair. His frame is wrapped in a black hoodie sweatshirt and black baggy jeans, and he’s staring blankly into his cell phone. He says about a week ago he lost his girlfriend, the mother of his young son, to a heroin overdose. He’s trying to keep a brave face, but it’s obvious he’d like to cry.

The pain this young man, and many on White Earth feel is textbook for many Indian communities around the country. The 1,300 square mile reservation, just south of the Canadian border, encompasses the poorest county in Minnesota. Native residents have a per-capita income below the poverty line. Local residents also suffer a disproportionate rate of diabetes, alcoholism, and suicide. Last year the local tribal government declared a state of emergency because of an epidemic of heroin, and over the counter drug abuse. There’s also a dearth of basic resources, from nutritious food, to housing, to heating (some residents get winter heating assistance from Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez).

White Earth tribal member Winona LaDuke says on top of all of that, it’s important to add what happened more than century ago. “The fact that we lost all our land, our people were forced into poverty, lot of our people landed up buried in an unmarked grave in Fergus Falls, mental institution, the shame of having lost everything, and now living with the consequences of that, after all those years. The reality that, because of the dispossessions of our people, we end up in a situation where we are the poorest of the poor.”

With all of this looming, what could possibly constitute joy up on the White Earth reservation?

Driving up route 59, frozen cornfields and prairie are met by an endless horizon. It seems like a quintessential Midwestern scene. But upon closer look, a threshold is crossed, and the region people on the coasts like to refer to as “flyover,” has been transcended. The signal from 89.9 FM, Niijii radio comes in, and a beating drum fills the car. Then, cries from a powwow song. Audibly, it is clear, you are no longer in Minnesota, the Midwest, or even the United States of America. You are on the White Earth Reservation, a sovereign territory that belongs to the 20,000 enrolled tribal members of the White Earth Nation, descendants of the Anishinaabe (original people) of Minnesota.

The person behind Niijii radio is Winona LaDuke, one of the best known Indian activists in the U.S., in part due to her consecutive bids as the vice presidential candidate for Ralph Nader, in 2000 and 2004. She runs two non-profits, based on White Earth. Those organizations, and the radio station, are all housed in the old public elementary school in Callaway.

LaDuke says its that assertion of identity that creates joy in an otherwise challenging environment for most community members.

“The difference between us and other folks is we know who we are. We know the issues we want to talk about. We know how beautiful our music is. How amazing our stories are. How rich and deep our history of seven thousand years right here is.”

And for the past two months, White Earth, for the first time in its history, has had a public outlet to spread that joy. KKWE radio is referred to as Niijii, or “friend” in the Anishinaabe language. It’s the latest Tribal community station in the U.S.. Currently 46 different tribes have licenses and are broadcasting, but it’s not just for entertainment in regions that are often remote, and complicated. Tribal radio operators are developing the resource as a way to speak to their people, often in their traditional languages. And, says Winona LaDuke, it’s also a way for Indians to talk to and educate the world outside reservation boundaries.

“Non-Indian people stop me in the store and say we like your radio station Winona. They say we like listening to your powwow music, we never heard that before, we like that you have Anishinaabe Mowen or your language on there. For me that’s a good thing to have this pride, and the non Indian community that’s our neighbors to get an opportunity in the safety of their own homes or cars, to hear our people.”

An FCC ruling that gave “Tribal priority,” in the licensing regulatory process helped increase the chances for a station on the White Earth reservation. And a grant that paid for the construction of the studio and necessary equipment got Niijii on the air. But despite broadcasting 24/7 since its launch in early November, the station is essentially broke.

That hasn’t stopped JoDan Rousu from showing up every morning to host Niijii’s first signature program. “Cup of Joe” runs from 8-10 am every weekday, and it’s a mix of tribal music, community news, a native history lesson, a Anishinaabe word of the day, and a song catalogue, pulled from MP3 players and CDs dropped off by community members, that ranges from Elvis to Snoop Dogg.

“The first song we played was the Smoky Hill Boys, they were in here live, and they did a grand entry song, and they did a veterans war song.  We had a smudging ceremony, a prayer and blessing. It was a beautiful thing.”

Indeed Niijii isn’t your average radio station. The smell of burning sage in the studio is the first signal, the next is the station’s first bumper sticker, which features a reference to “Commod Cheese,” an inside joke about the federal food subsidies many Indians still rely on. It means cheese in a can. Niijii is relying on handouts itself for the time being, it hasn’t got the money to pay for standard public radio programs many community stations rely on. Station staff members say they have two goals. One, stay on the air, by any means necessary, and two, develop their own programs, ones that will speak directly to their community.

Programming manager JoDan Rousu has spent 20 of his 30 years on the White Earth Reservation, and has learned how to live a traditional Ojibwe life. “My life is controlled by seasons, we have our ricing seasons, we have our trapping seasons, our sugaring seasons, berry seasons, all of these, are things given to us by our creator. It’s just a matter of being able to handle them respectfully so we have enough for the next seven generations to come.”

He thinks the key to improving conditions in the community is to get more people out trapping, fishing, and gathering rice and syrup. Now that he has a megaphone, the radio, he plans to remind listeners of these things as often as he can.

“The biggest thing that I want to see happen is self sustainability, that’s what I truly want to endorse. The traditional ways of life, because we have all the resources we need right here. It’s just a matter of knowing how to harness them.”

For their part, the community is tuned in. Down at the Indian Health Services Center one of the secretaries beams when asked about Niijii radio.

“I love the stories that they do on there. And I love they have some native Anishinaabe on there. Growing up, that’s the only language I knew.”

Lee Rousu is a little upset she can’t listen at work, an ill-fated DJ selection that included a Cheech and Chong excerpt caused administrators to turn it off. But she says having a radio station for the first time is a big thing, and everyone on White Earth is talking about it. Especially, Rousu says with a big grin, that awesome morning program.

“Whose that kid on the radio in the morning. Cup o Joe?
Is that your kid? Yep…!”

Everybody from Chinese tourists to Hell’s Angels wait in line to get a photo next to the “Southernmost” monument with the horizon and ocean blending together into one seamless blue landscape. What’s often missed is a smaller plaque nearby, commemorating all of the Cubans who have made the trip to Florida, by boat, raft, and anything else that can float, since Fidel Castro took control of the island in the 50s.

There’s no similar plaque on the Cuban side of the sunset, of Americans who headed south 90 miles looking for something a little different. And while I’m not suggesting the economic downturn in the US will prompt laid off factory workers to brave shark-infested waters. I do think it’s time to study our Cuban neighbors and learn something.

A few weeks ago a group of 26 people arrived in the Florida Keys via boat. A fairly unremarkable sight considering more than a million people, many of them arriving via cruise ships, disembark in the Keys every year. But in this case the mode of transportation was a speedboat, and the human cargo, trafficked Cuban refugees.

According to Coast Guard statistics, the number of Cubans setting sail for Florida is up from past years. In the past four months 316 Cubans have been intercepted in the Florida Straits, and returned home. The US Government’s policy known as “wet foot-dry foot,” simplifies things to, if you make it to dry land, you are fast tracked to stay, and if your feet are still wet at sea when you are discovered, you go back to Cuba.

Growing economic uncertainty, and the continued strain of lifetimes spent under a communist regime certainly get at the root of the continued Cuban exodus. An additional 5,000 Cubans are said to have crossed into the US via the Mexican border last year.

But looking out towards Cuba from Key West, it’s a bit of a wonder what Cubans must think before they set out for this life changing adventure, and their reaction when they arrive dry footed at their desired destination.

I’ve been on both sides of that view in the past year. First in Cuba, looking back from Havana’s historic and majestic sea wall, north towards Florida. I remember sunsets off of the Vedado neighborhood. A few families gathering to listen to some local musicians play a song and maybe even dance a little. Mist from the aquamarine sea spraying up and cooling everyone just a little as they sip beers. I feel a sense of calm just thinking about a long Havana stroll.

A few weeks ago I landed on the other end of the telescope, looking back at Havana from the colorful, crowded tip of the Keys. The serenity I felt a year ago was obliterated by a complicated mix of tanned pleasure seekers riding around in ramped up golf carts looking to consume “southernmost” tattoos, beers, and offensive t-shirts. For somebody coming from a country void of capitalistic beacons like McDonald’s golden arches, the Florida Keys must stir some new emotions. Kind of like trading your sip of rum at the unadorned corner stand in Havana for a world that looks like it was organized and decorated by Hooters.

These recently arrived 26 Cuban migrants are very different than the original dry footers, who were fresh from watching their businesses and haciendas expropriated by Fidel Castro. The newer migrant crowd has largely not known wealth, only socialism. But they are aware of the world outside, from a mixture of relatives who escaped and from pirated National Geographic channel DVDs. And they aren’t so sure about Florida, even though 60 % of the Cubans in the US live there.

One rental car employee, who noticed my Cuban baseball hat (purchased at a game in Havana last year), was overjoyed to talk about his home country. He misses it he says, especially the camaraderie and sense of community. He told me he’s dying to get out of the US and head to Spain. “I’ve lived here in Miami for a few years and I’ve never met my next door neighbor.”

I guess, having had the view from both sides of the Florida Straights, I’m left wondering, what if 26 US citizens washed up on the shore of Havana, and were absorbed into Cuban society. What would they feel like in a world void of fast food chains and box stores? Would they stay? Would they choose the unobstructed, low-key view of the sunset from the Havana malecón? Or would they miss the light beer sponsored sunset circus on the Key West pier. I know it’s not that simple, and like many Westerners, it’s easy for me to idealize a very complicated island after a visit.

But while talk in the US continues to revolve around economic downturns, and struggling American families, it might help to look south 90 miles to put things in perspective. Maybe it’s not a bad thing to consume a little less, and have a little less money to focus on. While Cubans continue to suffer greatly in many ways under a dictatorial government, they also have learned a few things that we might embrace. Like knowing and relying on your neighbor, and enjoying the unencumbered version of the sunset, the one where that last brilliant light of day isn’t overshadowed by a billboard.

a dispatch from Buenos Aires

The aging proprietor has his back to the TV as he pours house wine into a dime store glass reserved for tap water in most parts of the world. Wine flows like water here, which is evident as the barkeep heaves a jug up to his shoulders and directs the red flow into a funnel. The funnel leads to some green glass bottles whose faded labels suggest they have seen some use over years, not days. The barkeep squints through thick prescription glasses as his pour splashes onto his burgundy apron, a cloth shield that absorbs the red drops perfectly. He is still pouring a few minutes later when he begins to bark at the TV. Although the barkeep has yet to actually gaze at the screen he yells with such confidence that this must be a routine. A series of mumbled explicatives stream out with a climax of, “You Suck.” The 12 patrons of Tabare Café-Bar take their maestro’s lead and chime in with their own variations on “You Suck.” 
The object of disdain is a soccer game and in particular the home team, Boca Juniors, a capable squad that has just taken a 1-0 lead. In fact the Boca players are more than capable, seemingly unbeatable as they dance around their helpless opponents as if intoxicated with the spirit of the tango, a dance that got its start a few blocks away from the stadium.
Just a few days before Boca Juniors was rated the best soccer club in the world.
To this the unimpressed reply, “You Suck.”

Is Tabare Café-Bar enemy territory? Are these men watching their team get beat by bitter rivals? A quick glance around the room provides a response. The walls are covered with three things, a layer of grease from years of short order meals, dozens of pictures of Christ in various poses, and Boca Juniors.
Welcome to Buenos Aires, a city where you can be the best in the world and in the eyes of locals you still “suck.”

On a late Sunday afternoon the first service of the day, mass, is over, and the second, soccer, is just getting going. The Boca stadium, also known as the Bombonero because it is shaped like a box of chocolates, is filled to capacity with screaming fans. The general mellowness of Café Tabare, a Boca stronghold, sits in direct contrast to the scene on the TV above. The feeling is that these men could easily be at the game but why bother.

The strongest glimpse of emotion in this discrete Boca shrine comes from a picture of Christ who sheds a tear as he embraces a lamb. The picture sits just to the left of a bottle of whiskey. Nearby is a team photo of Boca Juniors in their world recognized blue and yellow jerseys looking particularly cocky after winning yet another trophy. If these near perfect footballers suck, it begs to wonder what these hard to please locals make of Christ, god’s version of perfection.

Perhaps upon reading the bible for the first time in parochial school they were likewise unimpressed. Christ’s accomplishment of turning water into wine conjured a “You Suck,” because he didn’t turn grains of sand into chorizo as a complimentary feat.

This seems plausible as the chorus of boo’s increases as Boca passes the ball effortlessly around the field. The mostly 50 something crowd continues to ignore the soccer game except for the occasional glance when the announcers’ voices pick up. They are more engrossed in a game of cards that is being contested with dried lima beans instead of money.

A cat skirts across the room at the sound of a dog barking across the street. The cat disappears behind a curtain in the back of the room. A younger man appears from the curtain almost simultaneously. His furry appearance, big curly hair and a scruffy chin, begs a wonder if the cat simply took on a human form so it could drink some wine and catch the soccer game. Cat-man slaps a few patron backs, grabs a beer from the fridge and heads to the kitchen. The bar has begun to transform into a sort of halfway house for local soccer fans. Grease spatters as Cat-man fries something in a large pan. A few minutes later he sits down with a small t-bone steak and proceeds to gnaw at it so vociferously that one expects to hear an animal-inspired growl.

Back on the TV Boca Juniors star forward has just clipped an opposing player from behind and received a red card. Boca´s coach, the controversial Argentinean Ricardo Lavolpe, is up off the bench and screaming. Lavolpe has just returned from a 20 year exile in Mexico where despite coaching numerous professional teams and even the recent Mexican World Cup team he is still considered a loser and not Argentine enough. Lavolpe is apparently trying to convince his countrymen otherwise as he has transformed himself into a caricature of a Latin man with gelled hair, jeans, and a white dress shirt unbuttoned almost down to his waste exposing a hairy chest and gold chains.

The Tabare fraternity don´t talk much about Lavolpe, which is a testament to just how bad he sucks in their opinion. He is an interloper. Go back to Mexico they say.
While the overly emotional Lavolpe kicks equipment and screams at the referee the bar is a sea of calm as it debates the merits of the red card. The Tabare fraternity seems unworried this turn of events will hurt Boca´s chances of winning. This is the paradox of these men, their indifference is equaled only by their self-assured cockiness. They are not unlike their beloved Boca players, except instead of defeating their opponents with physical skill and grace, these guys dribble and pass with their wits and sarcasm. The result is an equally stifling array of talent.

A tall man with slicked back hair and a black second hand suit walks in to a quiet welcome. He stumbles a bit as he approaches the bar, appearing to have already spent the post mass afternoon drinking. Whatever prayers that were said apparently couldn´t save this guy from some rough moments, a big smile reveals no front teeth. The barkeep pours him a glass of red wine and he shoots it like tequila right through the gap in his teeth. Another glass of wine quickly follows. The man in the suit looks up at the TV screen, sees the 1-0 score, shakes his head and throws a ¨You Suck¨ at the Boca players before he turns and heads out the door.

The poker game heats up and everyone is engrossed. They miss a great 2nd goal by Boca off a set play. Cat-man, still pawing at his steak, doesn´t bother to look up at the TV but is apparently paying attention as he begins to yell por fin! por fin! Finally! Finally! Boca is doing something. The barkeep is across the room at the makeshift poker table losing badly and almost out of beans. He goes back to the bar cracks open a bottle of coke and grabs a pastry from a display case, tearing off half with his incisors as he heads back to face his poker reality. As the game wears on and the Barkeep gets more involved, a sort of open house starts to develop as patrons grab food and drink as they feel like it. A few men grab handfuls of ice from the freezer and dump them into glasses, forming a line in front of a bottle of whiskey. The barkeep grabs another pastry from the display case and eats it quickly. He is back a few minutes later for a third.

The tall man in the suit walks back in the door with wet hair and a change of clothes. He is now wearing a pink golf shirt. Mr. Tall continues on to the bar and picks up right where he left off, shooting glasses of wine, although this time he is mixing a little water in to dull the effect or perhaps so he can drink more.
The Barkeep is now back behind the bar rummaging around for something. He checks a shelf that hosts a curiously eclectic shrine: tabs of aspirin, white out, a figurine of the Virgin Mary flanked by incense and a shot of rum, a flashlight, and an enormous jar of olives. The barkeep gives up for whatever he was looking for and turns his attention to the jar of olives. He sticks his arm in up to the elbow and rummages around for a good juicy prize. After a minute of fishing he finally snatches a keeper and holds it up as if a jeweler looking at a priceless diamond. The barkeep then pops the 24 karrot olive into his mouth and walks back to the poker game.

His grin exudes extreme contentment.

Boca Juniors score a third goal, this time people take note, it is a beautiful curling strike into the left hand corner. A few nods hint at pleasure. 3-0 for Boca.
This strange satisfaction lasts less than a minute as the opposition kicks off and immediately marches down on a lazy Boca defense to score.
The chorus is back, ¨You SUCK!!!¨
Order has been restored.

The barkeep returns to the poker game a phone rings at the end of the bar. Not a cell phone mind you, no, this is the kind of place where you wouldn´t want to be caught dead with technology. Somebody with a laptop or cell-phone would last about five minutes in Tabare, the evil stares alone would send a man reeling towards the nearest Starbucks. No, this is a circa 1970 payphone that is shaped like a box with a coin-slot at the top.

One of the patrons answers it and begins to chat up the other line. It is not clear if the call was for him or not. In this time-warp of a bar details like that don´t really matter. What matters is that you can simultaneously embellish and complain about the best things in life. If you embrace the intricate logic that something can both suck and still be the best, then you are not only welcome at Tabare, you can also pour your own drink, grab your own olive, and fry your own steak.

Top that Christ.

“Fiesta” lasts two days, and is highlighted with a big mass, which Padre David is rushing to oversee.  A kind of Guatemalan Romero, he talks more about his “proyectos,” which he voices with an imaginary exclamation point!, than Jesus or God.  Since coming to the Aguacatan region, near the Mexican border, five years ago, he’s helped bring peace between warring political factions, and watched the majority of the male population head to the US, leaving behind wives and children.  And now, he’s finally got the confidence of this ethnically diverse population, four different Mayan dialects are spoken here, enough to do his “proyectos,” the latest of which is a series of micro pharmacies in the most remote villages.  A way for very poor, rural, uneducated community members to get basic medicine.  The pharmacies are “Proyecto 2,”  the reason I am here, riding shotgun, listening to Abba, feeling a little altitude sickness as we go higher and higher, is because of “Proyecto 1,”  RADIO ENCARNACION, a radio station for the people.

The people of Chex Central want their “Fiesta” mass broadcast to the entire valley, so we are going to do a live transmission of their party.  After a quick stop for a prayer with a sick elderly woman, we continue our way up the mountain.  The small communities are a collection of very old wooden shacks, and strange brightly colored cement multileveled relative castles, monuments to the sons and daughters who have made the dangerous trek north and sent back their earnings (called remesas).  Every few kilometers, there is another symbol of Northern fruition, a paved curve, just a few feet, enough to make the rocks passable on rainy afternoons.  Otherwise people live as they did before, harvesting corn, beans, onions and garlic on inhospitable terrain.

Finally, walking a good fifteen minutes up a steep incline, we arrive at a small white church, overlooking what feels like the entirety of Guatemala.  We are above the buzzards and hawks, fittingly we are touching the clouds.  Everybody is dressed in their Sunday best, for the women beautiful woven red skirts and white blouses with embroidered flowers, the men in humble work shirts and pants, cowboy hats at their side in reverence.  In fact, after a week of seeing only red skirts and white blouses, I will admit to have fallen for Mayan style.  Apparently every year the seamstresses add slight variation in designs and colors, as the local ladies like their fashion.  Milan has nothing on Guatemala.

It is explained to me that in Guatemala Catholicism and Mayan tradition got jumbled up, and somewhere found a happy medium.  The Virgin Mary wears a red skirt in Aguacatan, and churchgoers burn candles that represent the four directions, and mother earth.  The outside of the humble Chex Central church is filled with young men, loitering on rocks, wearing baseball hats sideways and listening to the service from outdoor loudspeakers.  They are Guatemala’s lost boys, young men whose parents left for the US, and who wear the second hand clothing of the North, including baseball hats and jeans.  They farm, and wait to head North themselves, lost in an uncertain future as unemployment in the US has meant less money coming back home.  Local families are preparing the post mass meal, a free serving of tamales, caldo, and fresh corn tortillas.  A new kind of sustenance is also noticeable, vendors lay out thousands of bags of junkfood and soda, a new, and increasingly popular way to demonstrate abundance.  A man in fake snake skin cowboy boots, jeans, and a ten gallon hat lines up a metal pipe and fires off a homemade explosive which rattles above and below.  It reminds me less of celebrating and more of the mortar fire I got used to last year while living in Sri Lanka.

Stepping inside the cement church, 600 descendents of the ancient Mayan world pack into narrow, humble wooden pews.  As I make my way up the aisles behind the father, the crowd parts, he is their hero, and I am a curious white guy following behind him.  I am immediately introduced to the entire congregation, and with no warning, Padre David, ad-libbing, asks me to come up and say a few words.  Silence.  600 pairs of eyes are fixed on me, as I grab the microphone and step between the Virgin Mary and a Catholic rock group, complete with electric guitars and synthesizers, gifts from the North.  As I begin to speak, I notice no less than 15 video cameras, from the newest, to what appear to be the original models, which look immense on the small, but work strong shoulders of these farmers.  I feel like I’m at an Obama press conference, as lights shine on me, and I fumble for some inspirational words.  These videos will bring this most important event to family members in the US who wish desperately that they were safe and happy back in Guatemala.  I am also on live radio, as the transmitter we brought is now up and running, so thousands around the valley will hear me.  Pressure.

I manage a few minutes on the importance of information, how this community radio station is an important part of their community, that people need news and information to be good community members, to participate and have good lives.  I search the crowd for reactions as a trusty translator puts my words into the local K’iche’ language.  I end with a thank you in K’Iche’ which brings smiles and applause.  The gringo is O.K. they say with their smiles.

Next come prayers from the congregation, most are for a good harvest, and for safe passage to the US.  A few couples, who couldn’t be more than 16, line up for a special prayer with Padre David, while the band plugs in and rattles out a lively Catholic tune in Spanish, a language many do not speak fluently here.  The couples are getting married, a special honor on this special “Fiesta” day, they will have extra luck and expectations in the future.  The girls look so young, dressed completely in white, not too far removed from their first communion.

As the service goes on for another hour, I step outside.  People smile at me, and some shake my hand.  A few elderly men ask me if they can talk in private.  We go to the side of the church and they ask if I might be able to pay for a new school for the community.  They point down the road to a three-room shack, 300 students go to school there, they say, it’s not enough room.  I explain that I’m just a journalist, here to spread the good word of independent media.  They want a school.  Thankfully Padre David appears out of nowhere, puts his arm around one or the men, and asks them what they are up to.  They shy away, and later I learn there is a divide in the community over the school, that these men wanted to add me to their side to gain influence.

After the service Padre David and I sit down at the table of honor, with local community leaders who carry wooden canes to symbolize their power.  They don’t speak much Spanish, so lunch is quiet.  After helping some of the radio station staff do a few interviews with the new equipment I have brought with me, we pack up our things and head down the mountain.  As I step down from the church entrance, an elderly Mayan woman steps into my path and looks up, forcing eye contact.  She grabs my hand and holds it for a few seconds, staring into my eyes.  I smile and say thank you, she replies in her language and walks away.  I wish I knew what was in her mind, even if I knew the words, I probably am years away in human development from understanding the significance.

Mostly I am overwhelmed by the strange paradox that so many of the locals are in my country, dreaming of home, and here I am, descending on their world with very little understanding, but grateful for every detail that is shared.

But this mirror image of Occupy Wall Street is something different. This crowd is quiet, and smiling, and excited, and seemingly not angry about anything. They carry BIG duffel bags, not tents and cardboard signs. In ten minutes they will rush into Best Buy and purchase a retail 500 dollar HD TV set for 200 dollars. Or a stereo, an X Box, a DVD player, all discounted for this once in a lifetime opportunity according to the store fliers being passed around.

Banks selling out their friends and relatives couldn’t get them out at midnight, but discounted televisions can. These are the middle/lower middle class Americans, at least they look like it from their clothes and smart phones. Because of hard times they now need a deal to get the same consumer extras that they have become used to, that they demand to have as their RIGHT as Americans. Its the same demographic that are taking BULLETS and tear gas in Tahrir square right now. People with education, who aren’t too destitute to have an opinion, and who have the time to voice it. The people who are REALLY fucked are too busy trying to find jobs and housing to protest. You have to go one more rung up the ladder to get the catalysts of change.

I sat with a man in Tahrir Square last March who had come to that iconic spot from his rural village not to throw molotov cocktails, but to see if the revolution had created anyone who would look at his resume, who would give him a job. He couldn’t get married, or move out of his parents house without a job he said. He asked me to help him. At the end of the day the global 99% want jobs and money I think…and HD TVs. If revolution is the way to get those things…then maybe it will come to the US too.

I wonder if there was a Best Buy in Tahrir Square if Egyptians would be less likely to try and overthrow their military government. Would they be more happy to just sit at home and watch a discounted HD TV? Maybe watch Al Jazeera’s coverage of Occupy Wall Street, in between other news? It’s possible. But I guess, to put it mildly, they have been pushed to a limit that Americans have not yet reached, or are incapable of really understanding. We’ve never known a Mubarak, or Qaddafi, or Ben Ali, or… As demonstrated in this amorphous Occupy universe, some of us KNOW things are messed up, but we can’t quite put our finger on what to do about it. But if things were so bad, say the military ruled our country, and our civil liberties were locked up by plain clothes police officers who could swoop in at any moment and take our breathe away, literally, then maybe this would feel more focused. That’s not an outcome to wish for, but maybe one to acknowledge is much much worse than anything Americans have seen in the last 40 years.

It’s hard to know what would be a better sign of progress. An Egyptian walking through a peaceful Tahrir Square to buy a HD TV at an affordable price at Best Buy. Because he has a job, because he has upward mobility, because he has freedom. Or an American throwing a molotov cocktail through a Best Buy window, because he’s had enough, because he’s realized that HD TVs aren’t going to solve his problems, and because his house was foreclosed, and he has nowhere to put that TV.

As I search for my shirt, I hear the simple, cautious English of a policeman, able to speak a few words, unable to understand most of what comes back. This, mind you, is a country where English is the official language, yet few speak it well and fewer understand it, in part a misguided nationalism implicit in the rejection of colonial powers long ago. I am summoned by the lead policeman who has lost interest in my hostess and is happy to have a new investigation on his hands. He is young, stands upright like a pencil, and like a junior varsity boy looking up to the star of the varsity team, he fashions the look of his idol, the president, a black mustache that grows from corner to corner. A mustache that hugs the wily grin that has descended on this place, a grin that reassures, while behind the scenes so many lives are swept under the carpet.

The policeman stands in front of me, an audience of guns, landlords, and onlookers at his back. He pauses as if to remember his lines, as this is most certainly an elaborate play, and with a clearing of the throat he speaks,

“where is your passport…?”
“At my house…”
“Where is your house…?”
“close by…”
“Why are you here…?”
“I slept here…”

He pauses again, apparently in awe of my equally simple responses. He looks back at his entourage as if to say, “line please.” There is a brief huddle, and then he returns, confident again.

“Where is your passport?”
“At my house.”

His face sinks. He thought he had me. The policeman turns again to his entourage, translates my response, and they all nod in agreement. The two boys with rifles in the back of the group stare and smile at the red-haired foreigner. I yell “see you” in their native language, which produces a giggle. I have learned how to play too.

My hostess sits angry, she says this is the second time in a few months this has happened. It’s violating. And she’s right, it is violating, and slightly humiliating, and debilitating too. In other words, it’s extremely effective. Unbeknowst to the simpleton policeman, the leader of this hunting party, who thinks he is merely searching for terrorists and ultimately glory, the people who train and position him are simply trying to piss us off. And they are very good at it.

A week earlier I am sitting in a town at the cusp of the war front. It’s 8 p.m. and my colleague and I are in front of a chain grocery store, an oddity and a bit of a triumph in a place that has seen more conflict than development. A couple of young local boys stand watch in front of the store, they have been charged with a new promotional experiment, a grill. They slowly cook tandoori chicken on a bed of charcoal, the smell wafting through the warm night air. They face a number of problems in their quest for customers. First, there are no street lights in town, so after dark its tough to get peoples attention. Problem two is that nobody goes outside after dusk, dozens of clandestine kidnappings and disappearances over the last few months have made sure of that. People leave work at 4:30 and immediately race home and lock their doors.

My colleague and I are trying to lighten the mood after another long day, indeed every day seems a little long in this place. We purchase a few sausages inside the grocery store and convince our new friends, the grill keepers, to let us have an impromptu barbecue next to their chicken. We crack open a couple of beers and sit, breathe, and listen to what is left of the town. A massive Army convoy vehicle pulls up in front of the store, gunners still at their posts, watching for attacks. The turret gun swings towards us and points at our beer cans. We don’t flinch, we stopped doing that a long time ago. To our right is an army bunker, dug into the front of the sidewalk next to the grocery store, as much a part of the street as the liquor store behind it or the tailor next door. They are just neighbors with guns. That’s the thing with this war, it’s a nine to five kind of deal. It’s been going on so long that people would be lost without it. Conflict is part of the scenery, the infrastructure, the daily flow of this town. And this institutionalization, more than anything, makes it a tragic affair.

But if you look in the cracks, if you explore the alleyways of this place, you will see signs of life, of people trying, desperately, to find breathing room. Earlier in the day my staff and I follow up on a lead. Just down from the grocery store there is a lodge housing a special visitor. Ducking into a dim lit alleyway, my driver asks a man where to find the place. We have a bit of a method to our madness. The driver and I are the first wave, asking questions, getting bits of information, checking for safety. He knows everyone, speaks all the languages, and has a friendly disarming charm that usually gets us where we need to go. We confirm the location of the lodge, and head in, keeping an eye out for spies or other trouble. The front desk is a Vegas style show with blinking lights illuminating religious symbols and gods. A group of middle-aged women surround the room, chatting away and waiting for two telephone booths to open up. The manager is speaking into a full on PA system, calling out names through a microphone. Eventually women hustle down from the second floor, as if they have just won the big prize on a game show, and they are coming to collect.

My driver and I pass on the name we are looking for, and the manager calmly reads it over the microphone. A woman comes down responding to our call, but she’s not the one we are looking for. Another woman tells us on the second floor there’s a room where we might find who we are looking for. My driver and I head upstairs on the narrow staircase, squeezing by phone call recipients racing downstairs. Word has gotten out that a couple of strange visitors are in the building, and women peak out from their rooms to get a glimpse of the Muslim and the white boy. My driver ducks into a big barren concrete room filled with more middle-aged women. He returns with a lady in her 60s in a bright yellow Sari. She is forcing a smile but obviously in pain. She is from the North, a place currently closed off to the world by a military offensive and a humanitarian disaster. Somehow she got permission to make her way just South to this last outpost of government controlled territory, where she could seek medical attention no longer available at home. My driver and I look at each other and nod, we have been looking for this story for a long time.

News comes out of the North, but not about the people caught in the middle of the war. Journalists are not allowed in to talk to the estimated hundreds of thousands struggling to stay safe and have a life. Guns, mortars, casualty estimates, land captured, and small battles are the details, as if the North was just a lifeless chess board, with no humanity involved. This woman is our first proof of that humanity, of the fact that there are indeed people up there, fighting for survival. She talks of food shortages, medical conditions, flooding, schools being used as houses, and trees as shelters. A few minutes into the conversation the rest of the room turns away from the soap opera on the tv, gets up and starts to circle us, listening intently. 21 women, dressed in beautiful tattered batiks, gold jewelry, and barefoot come to life as the story commences. It turns out we have hit the jackpot, all of them have come from the North, and they are staying here, sleeping on a concrete floor for 50 cents a night, waiting…for phone calls, and for a chance to go back to the warzone.

My driver and I know we have something, we also know we need some backup if we are going to do a professional job. We tell the ladies we’ll be back in 20 minutes, and we hustle back to our hotel. One of the benefits of my reporting team is that we seem to compliment each other well. The driver is the fixer, his smoking buddy, the senior journalist, is the guy who keeps us safe, speaking the military language and making the right people happy so we can do our work, the young producer is the talent, finding interesting voices and stories everywhere he goes, and then there are the two girls, one older, one just out of high school, both daring and brave, traveling, as journalists no less (Sri Lankan ranks third in the world in terms of danger for reporters) in a country that culturally, socially, and otherwise does not look kindly on that behavior.

Simply by getting into our van they challenge a system that views them, dark, small, female, from the minority, as suspects, and on occasion suicide bombers. They are harassed by the female police and army who man the checkpoints we spend so much time at, they are harassed by the men of their own ethnicity who work at the hotels we frequent, they are harassed by their own colleagues, and yet they continue to get in the van. I am thankful for them, and at this very moment, I need them, they are my stars when it comes to sensitive interviews.

We knock on their door, interrupting music videos, and the younger of the two girls pokes her head out. I apologize, it’s already late, 7:30 p.m., but, “I have some work for you.” She looks back somewhat frustrated, closes the door, and in ten minutes she and the older reporter appear with their recorder bags and notebooks. My driver explains what the job entails in their language as we walk back through the pitch black streets, mindful of the drunks and the army, the only people who brave the night here.

Peaking their heads cautiously into the dorm room at the lodge, my two reporters size up their task. The women see me and the driver and jump to greet us. They thought we wouldn’t come back. They want to talk they say. They offer me the one chair in the room, and I oblige. I explain who we are, why we are here, and what we want. I throw out the few local words I know, and that, as usual, is a hit. I am essentially warming up the crowd in hopes of hearing their stories. My driver translates, and tells them not to be afraid, we are here to help. I split the room in two, and half the crowd joins the older reporter on the balcony, while the other half stays sitting on the concrete floor as my younger reporter squats down to ask them about their lives.

As in any group, a few members are more than ready to talk, unafraid of the microphone, or where exactly their voice will be broadcast. These are the hardest parts of my job, as the women get animated, and emotional, and begin to conjure adventures with their hands, I desperately want to understand and know every detail. My driver translates on the fly, but its never enough. There is crying, and shouting, and nodding from the audience. It turns out these women are all from the North, all from rebel controlled areas, all risking their lives and the lives of family members left behind to come to the other side. These phone calls they are getting from the hotel are from relatives, long since escaped to the West. Many are waiting for money transfers from the relatively wealthy sons and daughters in Norway, Canada, and London, they say jobs are scarce in the North and almost everyone missed the planting season because of the war. One has to assume that the rebels will tax (take) a portion of whatever these women bring back, a common move from a system that stays afloat through exploitation. Most of these women say they received permission to travel South because of medical conditions, although most of them seem quite strong. They are desperate now to return to the North, many talk of sons or daughters being held as collateral to ensure they go back. Every morning they get up at 4 a..m, pool what is left of their money, and hire a vehicle to take them to the last outpost between South and North. The say that every morning, for the last few weeks, they have been turned away.

What is amazing about all of this is that public perception, supported by government propaganda, characterizes those trapped in the North as wanting desperately to flee to the South. That if the other side was more humane hundreds of thousands would be allowed to walk out of danger and into the government held area, to safety. But safety is relative in a country where one side forces people to fight and the other side forces people to register, treating them as outsiders in their own country. It will never get out, but if it did, the thought that a group of middle aged women trying desperately to go back to the warzone, to floods, ramshackle housing, and food shortages, now that would be something. That would blow the lid off the “reality” created by so many government owned newspapers. Like the Bush government before it, this one has called the public’s bluff, and created “reality.” What it says is true…well, that becomes truth.

The PA system booms another name, and a slightly younger woman in a beautiful red floral batik rushes away from her interview, there is more important business at hand. We wrap up our stories, thank our new friends and wish them luck. They tell us that we must get their voices out, that they want peace, and most importantly they want to see their families again. One young girl, only 9 years old, fled the North with her uncle. She sleeps with the older women who have temporarily adopted her. My older reporter asks her if she has anything to share. She looks down at the ground, shy at first, and then looks up to let us know that she just wants the road open, can we please open the road so she can go see her mother again. She misses her mom. My reporter fights back her own tears. Digesting these stories is often overwhelming, and carrying around the voices of the dispossessed is heavy baggage. Exhausted, we head home, silent. I search for objectivity in my mind, but it is hard to not want to just let these stories and voices stand alone. They are the missing pieces in a coverage that has all but forgotten those caught, against their will, fleeing their farms and homes.

The next day I stop by a government sponsored human rights office. I take the younger reporter with me, she doesn’t speak English very well, but she seems to understand me fine, and she likes a little danger. Our target is a man who keeps track of disappearances and extra judicial killings. He’s from the majority, but speaks all three languages, and has lived much of his professional life in the land of the minority. I explain that we are not interested in interviewing him or putting him into trouble, we just want to understand a few things better. He agrees, but fidgets non-stop in his chair. He prefaces his nervousness with a story about a day when he lived in the North, returning to his office he found an envelop on his desk with single bullet in it. He has continued his work despite many such threats. He says he can’t give me exact numbers, but that disappearances and kidnappings have gone up as of late, dozens in the last two months. One of the problems this town faces is that in addition to being on the border of the war, it is also home to six or seven paramilitary groups, all with their own agendas, fighting, like gangs, for influence, political clout, turf, and who knows what else. Many insist the government helps support these groups, as destabilization benefits the state agenda. Families of the disappeared come to this office to register a complaint, the man says almost all the stories begin the same, a knock at the door, masked men, a white van, and then, deep loss and sadness. Few are found alive, if at all.

My reporter turns to me and gives me a look. She asks a few questions, but none of this is new to her. I’m working hard at chipping away at an apparent bias, hoping she learns to be more objective. It’s hard, though, to tell her that what she personally experiences should not affect her reporting. She’s pissed off, and traveling around the North and East, seeing how her people are treated, seems to only inform her feelings more. We thank our host, who makes a nervous request for us to be careful with his words. Walking back to the road we cross paths with an army outpost, the guards seem to take note of a white man and a minority girl walking out of the human rights office. I wonder how many lists our names must be on.

My colleague and I spend the rest of the day making our rounds as our reporters split up to cover stories they have researched about humanitarian issues. Part of our goal is to get a feeling at the administrative level of what, really, is happening with the war and the humanitarian collateral. We spend hours with the largest international monitor (The Organization), the local Government Representative(GR), local NGO leaders and all of the international NGOs that were asked by the government two months ago, for their own safety, to leave the conflict zone. At the very basic level all of these different pieces to the puzzle are out of place, and increasingly FRUSTRATED, as they struggle to fulfill their mandates, proposing to take care of the populations in need.

We stop by our favorite section of The Organization, there are many branches, and there is a good reason why we focus our efforts, not all these arms function in a useful or intelligent manner. At our chosen destination the two ex-pats in charge are happy to see us. Both are capable, intelligent, hard workers, who have tried to find solutions where there have been few. More than anything they are honest with us, showing us the information they have, and explaining their predicament, something we rarely get from their supervisors in the big city. The Organization is seemingly handcuffed by its stated role as support to the local government. It is justifiably afraid to lose the little access it has to the Northern displaced, but simultaneously disjointed in its seeming lack of willingness to push further for better access and a more meaningful response. Many, including its own, wonder why The Organization is here if it has no intention of standing up to a hopelessly derailed train. Basically The Organization has been demoted from protection and defense of human rights to a more meals on wheels like operation, sending lorries to the North every week or so with government authorized supplies, mostly rice, daal, sugar and flour. The only non food related supplies to go up included school items. Somehow The Organization saw it fit to send, amongst notebooks and pencils, cricket bats to those in need. My colleague and I laugh upon hearing this, we are not surprised, but we are depressed by this news. I secretly hope those in the North use the bats as firewood.

What people really need, according to the few voices coming from the inside, are shelter materials for the tens of thousands of houses destroyed in recent floods. They need tarpaulins and kerosene, items they can’t afford, and often can’t get. In fact, if one ever needed a tarpaulin, The Organization would be the safest bet, as they have a Wall Mart sized stock, but that would be too easy in this growing heart of darkness. The government issued an edict that all materials sent to the North, including tarpaulins, cannot feature logos, something The Organization has plastered on every vehicle, pencil, and latrine from Somalia to Peru. Masterful.

The Government Agent(GR), the legal face of the government in this region, is fighting her own battles on a late morning. We wait a few meters from her desk as she sends emails. Sporting her own computer, she is a contrast in modernity to the rest of her office where typewriters and nicely stacked paper files are more the norm. Our wait is extended by an impromptu visit by two army personnel, who feign respect by tucking their hats under their arms, but immediately try to bully the lady in charge. She is firm, and speaks back to them in their own language, then switching to English she explains that they cannot just barge in and order her to do things without an authorized letter. Everyone in the room knows ultimately the military will get what it wants, but it is heartening to see her put up a fight. Our conversation is a short one. She likes us, and what we are trying to accomplish, and she usually gives us what information or access to visit local sites we need, but that is getting more complicated. When pressed on the progress of sending important resources to the North, she pauses, sits back in her chair, and gives us a “that’s complicated.” She’s from the North, and the anguished look on her face lets us know that she is worried about her people. But, like The Organization, she knows she cannot help those trapped without maintaining the little access she has now.

The GR writes us a short note on her official stationary, signs it, and grants us permission to visit a small, but controversial group of refugees from the North who have made their way to her region, immediately escorted into a restricted army controlled camp. We drive an hour for the visit, presenting our letter, knowing the army will likely dismiss it and our interest in talking to the displaced inside the camp. We have been turned around enough times to know the routine, yet we try, out of obligation and journalistic curiosity. The army commander is cordial, reads our short permission slip, and in a show of PR, calls his supervisor, but we already know the answer. We say thanks, and head off, but not before we take stock of the hundreds of Northerners sitting idly in the hot sun, living in makeshift classrooms and partitioned quarters, staring at the world outside. The official story so far goes that they risked their lives for some freedom. But despite their relative isolation in the North, they must have known the fliers dropped from government planes, advertising a better life in the South, were not such an easy proposition. There is more to their decision to come, we know it, we just aren’t allowed to ask it. Why would they come if they knew the “freedom” waiting for them was going to involve barbed wire. Damned if you do I guess.

Our questions lead us to a local friend who runs an NGO that seeks to empower local communities. He is known as a real grass roots crusader, something that wins him many fans and enemies. After a long time in Europe trying to avoid the perils of being part of the minority in his country, he came back and returned to his home region to start a family and see what he could do to help out. His staff buzzes around the office, answering phones, faxing documents meeting with locals who have come for consultation, and racing off on motorcycles to visit local projects. At the center of this sea of activity our friend calmly sits, barefoot, drinking tea. We ask him about the camp we have just seen, and the story of the people in it. He says he wants nothing to do with that place, that the government is basically running an open prison on the grounds of a local school, something he despises on many levels. He’s worried for the people, but today, he says, he’s got bigger concerns.

Our friend explains that he has had some “visitors” in the morning that came both to his office and house while he was busy with meetings. A local paramilitary group wants to ask him some questions apparently. He is used to this, as there are at least 6 armed groups in town, but that does not mean he is immune to the threat. He is a target, essentially, because he is offering an alternative to the violence, a choice to push forward and create something shared, something tangible for local people. Fear is a blanket of uncertainty, and all the guns and white vans and checkpoints in town are used to maintain this chaos that benefits those in charge, and undermines those just trying to get by. Our friend fights this fear with civic projects. He brings them together in newly built housing communities where they can grow vegetables, organize their efforts with neighbors, begin to make better incomes, and rise out of poverty and isolation.

On this afternoon there is noticeable strain on his face, worry has taken its toll. And our faces reflect his pain, we worry about our friend, but he cannot just up and leave and stop what he started, and we certainly cannot tell him to do so. Sometimes our fates are more clearly out of our hands. I wonder if that is a freeing, albeit daunting feeling. Maybe waking up and knowing today may be your last becomes a calming notion after awhile.
We wish our friend safety, and invite him for some pizza next time he makes it to the big city. We are off to our final destination, another friend who is manning what is left of an international NGO.

As my colleague and I enter the Western sponsored NGO office, we are struck by a sound we are not used to hearing. A land phone line is ringing, a distinct tone to the indoctrinated personal audio statements we are used to with cell phones. But cell phone coverage is blocked out from sunrise to sunset here, a military decision to try and hamper communication in the North. So people have had to go back a decade and get real phones again. Our contact sits at his desk, pouring over a spreadsheet. He swears about ten times, and explains that two months ago he was doing important, life saving work, and now he is managing a warehouse. He was asked to leave the North, along with twenty or so other International agencies, by the government. He wanted to stay and defy the request, but bombs were dropping and his main protection, The Organization, was pulling out too. He says it was hard to leave behind his local staff, praying that they would not be recruited into the ranks of the battle by the Northern regime. Many of them have organized in the North he says, and begun to use their skills to continue helping the hundreds of thousands of displaced families. He is desperate to find a way to get back into the North, otherwise, why stay here?

The stress of sitting idly while your mandate, people in need, run for their lives is palpable. He feels pain, and sitting just on the other side of the border from where he wants to be is unbearable. He might as well be halfway around the world he says. His biggest frustration is that the humanitarian big shots are not coming together and forcing the government to give access back into the North. To allow for real aid and assistance. The energy bottled up by his idleness is released at meetings where he yells at those who seem comfortable to wait and see. He has even put together some numbers and mathematical equations showing just how poorly the agencies are doing their jobs. The problem is nobody seems to care. He runs down a list of what this means.
The government doesn’t care because it has one goal, crush the North, and anything that deviates from that plan is irrelevant. The Organization wants to stay in the country, according to our friend so it can in part collect nice salaries and life in paradise, so it does not dare upset the government. Other countries are not interested because this is a small country, and its fate is seemingly minimal in the larger picture. The international media occasionally sends out short dispatches, but ultimately seems to acknowledge that this is a small country, and nobody cares. And most disconcerting is that the people of this country, the majority population, they do not care. They go about their daily routines as if nothing is happening, as if their own countrymen were not dying.
But he cares, more than words.
He finishes a half pack of cigarettes he started an hour ago when we arrived, and looks down at his feet. I am exhausted. I mentally cannot fit any more information in my head.
We give our friend a hug, and wish him luck, its time to leave.

An hour later we are back in the van, heading towards home. 170 kilometers seems like a nice quick trip. Here…on a narrow highway full of colorful lorries, ox carts, and old diesel cars, and a series of three deliberately slow and tedious checkpoints, that distance can take 10 hours.

The first checkpoint is the worst, a mere 5 kilometers out of town, the vehicle is forced to enter an old football ground, the pitch now hardened mud, lined with a few camouflaged bunkers. This checkpoint is parallel universe, and we have been here enough to know that once you enter, your life is no longer your own. Phase one is a painstaking police registration process full of passports copies, state id registrations, interrogations and lots of yes sirs and yes madams. My colleague and I, the token foreigners, are not allowed to engage in this parade of nonsense, and in fact if we intervene, it will most certainly take longer. So, as a subtle protest against this dour place, we bring a Frisbee, and turn the checkpoint into a playground, to the delight of the neighbors separated by barbed wire, and some of the police and army soldiers themselves. We race around the ground jumping high to catch the disc, and bouncing it off bunkers, lorries, and any other surfaces we can find.

Phase two is an army cadre searching through all of our bags. We pose a unique problem as we are traveling with tape recorders, laptops, cameras and more. Journalists from the big city don’t venture up here anymore, and being that we are an NGO makes us a double curiosity. More than anything I am amazed that we do not cause more of a problem with all of our technology. I’m still waiting for a bored army sergeant to put an end to all of this. Every we time we make it through another checkpoint I exhale, feeling a little sheepish that we’ve duped them again, even though we have every right to do what we are doing. That’s another triumph of this government system, it makes you feel the criminal for doing things that are perfectly normal.

Forty five minutes into our stay at the checkpoint we finally enter phase three, when the army tears apart the vehicle, lifting the engine, removing the spare tire, looking for any sort of hiding place. My colleague and I are now putting on a Frisbee throwing clinic for local children and our employees. In a couple of more visits we’re fairly certain we will have a solid local team to work with. The check ends and we pile back into the van, waiting for one final paperwork check before we drive off. Fifteen kilometers later we are stopped at checkpoint number 2, we all pile out of the van again, and my staff trudge off to join a line of bus travelers and others passing towards the South. I eat saltines and drink a coke while they are asked the same questions, and have their bags checked again. Twenty minutes later the last employee makes it through the checkpoint, and we regroup. A few of the reporters have run into friends in line they haven’ seen for a while. A unique spot for a reunion, but not a surprising one. I am reminded that this is an extremely small country, geographically and otherwise, which is an easy thing to forget when you are lost in the jungles of its backroads.

Checkpoint 3 is the largest and most complex. We have taken to leaving our own van on the South side and hiring a driver to pick us up on the North side, as it can add anywhere from 1 to 3 hours to the trip to have the military check the entire vehicle a second time, complete with bomb sniffing dogs. We pass through a long cue, my colleague and I sit behind and make sure the two girls and one of the male reporters make it through. One time the girls were stopped in their tracks, and I had to cross back over the line to help them out. This time there are no problems, and we all exhale again, finally on our way back home. We left our original destination at 12:30 pm, it’s now 3:30 and we have traveled around 30 kilometers. We won’t be back home until late.

The final 6 hours is usually an uneventful stretch of winding roads, a test of endurance after a long week. The reporters in the back have decided to lighten the mood today. One of them begins singing a Bollywood song, popular on the radio, another starts playing a beat on the roof of the van, and the girls chime in with the bridge. Next thing I know the driver is singing along and we are all stomping our feet and singing, even though I don’t know the words. The last year of my life has been one, long, exhausting road trip, and while I have my frustrations, ultimately I feel very fortunate for this strange, amazing adventure. Together we have braved language barriers, cultural misunderstandings, professional disagreements, stolen radios, jail, police raids, heart attacks, and the death of friends and acquaintances. I am not the same, that is an easy leap of faith…but more importantly, my hope is that they are not the same. I pray for this.

It’s a slow pilgrimage, but an important one, as the train carries a Muslim family heading to an Eid Ul Adha celebration.

They are dressed to the nines. Two older women in new matching turquoise saris, and a young daughter in a sari colored like a birthday cake, with white cloth and a kind of pink laced frosting.

The patriarch sits next to his young son, both wearing a shalwar-kameez, the matching shirt and pant suit favored by Pakistanis. The elder, a portly man, is draped in forest green, and is wearing a big wool Russian style hat complete with ear flaps. Its the kind of hat that has a story under it, that seems like it might have been acquired on the Afghan border in the 80s along with a kalashnikov rifle. But knowing New York it was probably just picked up for a few dollars in Queens.

Junior wears beige, and is already getting pudgy, growing into his dad at an early age.  His father trusts him with a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, which he passed down the line of his clan. Everyone seems excited for the sweet treat, and to be out on an adventure for this joyous occasion.

And their special night seems to inspire even the non-Muslims aboard the N train. A family of Gypsies hop on at Canal Street. The husband plays an up tempo number on his accordian, while his wife dances along the aisle with a young ginger maned son in tow. The boy’s milk bottle is full of orange juice, and he dances to his father’s beat as his mother collects change, spraying the nectar around the car.

The Muslim family members smile and move their heads and shoulders a little to the music. It all seems natural, as if they had ordered some songs to keep them company on this happy night. The father hands everyone a few coins to share with the Gypsies. His young son is nervous to hand it over, so he grabs him by the hand and they approach their dancing counterparts and he finally lets go of the quarter.

At 14th Street a young African American man with a guitar trades places with the Gypsies, who hop off to catch the R train. He sings and strums the Beatles song “Blackbird” at a whisper. As he prepares to hop off at 29th Street, he notices a beautiful tall brunette, and without speaking, he kisses her on the cheek. “Oh my god,” she says, “how are you?” He smiles, the doors close.

The woman nervously looks around the train car to see if anyone noticed the kiss. Her grin is so enormous that her big white teeth blind like a halogen lamp. She can’t hide the overwhelming emotion inside her.

The Muslim family gets up for the next stop, Times Square. They smile big knowing smiles at each other as they chew their Juicy Fruit.

They may be the only Muslims on the train, but they have no doubt brought Eid Mubarak to everyone lucky enough to join them for the ride.

N ٹرین احتیاط سے برکلن سے مین ہٹن تک اس کا راستہ ہے بنا.

یہ ایک سست حج اور عمرہ ہے ، لیکن ایک اہم ہے ، کے طور پر ٹرین ایک مسلمان عید الاضحی کے جشن کی سرخی خاندان اٹھانے ہے.

انہوں نے nines کرنے کے لئے تیار ہیں. نئے الفاظ کے ملاپ کے فیروزی ساڑیوں میں دو بڑی عمر کی عورتوں ، اور ایک سفید کپڑے اور گلابی laced frosting کی ایک قسم کے ساتھ سالگرہ کا کیک کی طرح رنگ کی ساڑی میں ایک نوجوان بیٹی.

پیٹرآرک اپنے نوجوان بیٹے کو ساتھ بیٹھ کر ، دونوں ایک شلوار kameez ، الفاظ کے ملاپ کے قمیض اور پنت پاکستانیوں کی جانب سے اختیار کیا سوٹ پہنے ہوئے. بڑے ، ایک ستول آدمی ، جنگل سبز میں لپٹی ہے ، اور ایک بڑی اون روسی سٹائل کان flaps کے ساتھ مکمل کی ٹوپی پہنے ہوئے. ٹوپی کی طرح کی ہے کہ اس کے تحت ایک داستان ہے ، لگتا ہے کہ کی طرح ہو سکتا 80s میں افغان سرحد پر ایک کلاشنکوف رائفل کے ساتھ حاصل کی. لیکن یہ نیویارک يہ علم ميں رہے شاید صرف کویںس میں چند ایک ڈالر کے لئے اٹھایا ہے.

جونیئر بیج رنگ پہنتے ہیں ، ہے اور پہلے ہی pudgy ہو رہی ہے ، ایک ابتدائی عمر میں اس کے والد میں بڑھتی ہوئی ہے. اس کے والد اسے رسیلی پھل گم ، جس میں انہوں نے ان کی کلان کے مطابق منظور کے ایک پیکٹ کے ساتھ اعتماد کرتا ہے. سب مٹھائی کے علاج کے لئے حوصلہ افزائی لگتا ہے ، اور اس خوشی کے موقع کے لیے ایک جرات پر باہر جائے.

اور ان کی خصوصی رات N ٹرین پر سوار ہوکر بھی غیر مسلموں کے لئے حوصلہ افزائی ہے. خانہ بدوش کے ایک خاندان نہر سٹریٹ پر ہاپ. شوہر اپنی accordian پر ایک نئے ، اپ ٹیمپو نمبر ادا کرتا ہے ، جبکہ ایک نوجوان ادرک کے ساتھ گلیارے کے ساتھ ان کی بیوی رقص کو رسی میں بیٹے maned. لڑکے کی دودھ کی بوتل سنتری کا رس کا بھرا ہوا ہے ، اور وہ اپنے والد کے مارنے کے لیے رقص کے طور پر اس کی ماں تبدیلی جمع ہے ، گاڑی کے ارد گرد امرت چھڑکاو.

مسلم خاندان کے ارکان اور ان کے سر اور کمدوں موسیقی کی ایک چھوٹی سی منتقل مسکراہٹ. یہ سب قدرتی لگتا ہے ، کے طور پر اگر وہ کچھ گانے کا حکم دیا ہے اس خوشی کے رات پر کمپنی ان کو رکھنے کو کہا تھا. والد نے سب کچھ سککوں ہاتھوں خانہ بدوش کے ساتھ اشتراک کرنے کے لئے. ان کے جوان بیٹے کو اسے ختم کرنے کے لئے ہاتھ اعصابی ہے ، تو وہ اسے ہاتھ سے grabs اور وہ ان کے رقص کے ہم منصبوں کے نقطہ نظر اور انہوں نے آخر میں سہ ماہی کے جانے کی اجازت دیتا ہے.

14th اسٹریٹ پر ایک گٹار کے ساتھ ایک نوجوان افریقی امریکی آدمی کی خانہ بدوش ، جو بند ہاپ R ٹرین پکڑنے کے لئے جگہ ٹریڈز. وہ گاتا ہے اور ایک فسفسانا میں بیٹلس گانا “Blackbird” strums ہے. جب وہ 29th اسٹریٹ پر اتر ہاپ تیار ہے ، وہ ایک خوبصورت قد brunette نوٹس ، اور بات کئے بغیر ، اس نے اسے گال پر چوببن. “اوہ میرے خدا ،” وہ کہتی ہیں ، “کہ آپ کس طرح ہیں؟” وہ مسکراتا ہے ، قریب دروازے.

عورت nervously ٹرین گاڑی کے ارد گرد لگتا ہے اگر کسی کو چومنے کے دیکھا دیکھنے کے لئے. اس کی مسکراہٹ تو بہت بڑا ہے کہ اس بڑی سفید دانت halogen چراگ کی طرح اندھے ہے. وہ اس کے اندر بھاری اکثریت سے جذبات کو چھپا نہیں سکتے.

مسلم خاندان اگلے سٹاپ ، ٹائمز سکوئر کے لئے ہو جاتا ہے. انہوں نے ایک دوسرے پر بڑے يہ علم ميں رہے مسکراہٹ مسکراہٹ کے طور پر انہوں نے اپنی رسیلی پھل چبانا.

وہ ٹرین پر صرف مسلمانوں ، لیکن ان میں کوئی شک نہیں سواری کے لئے ان میں شامل ہونے کے کافی خوش قسمت سب کو عید مبارک لایا.

Like the moment between a sentencing and the act of reporting to jail, people sigh deeply, preparing for the worst, saying their last goodbyes to birds, warm breezes, and cold drinks. The watercolor landscapes of yellows, reds, and fading greens of fall are about to be white washed with a bleak winter canvas.

That last gasp of fall inspires me to open my window, to invite in a chilled, but fresh breeze that massages my face and fills my lungs with spirit. I put on “Nashville Skyline,” and dream of a Girl from the North Country, Dylan’s melody, and Johnny Cash’s baritone taking me to a bonfire long ago, and a girl I still remember. The kind of moment and spark that can’t be resuscitated through sterile facebook attempts to re-capture the past and ignore the future.

Walking with my father, his hair speeding towards grey as he contemplates a kind of winter, both figuratively, and literally. He’s not passively accepting the fleeting horizon here in the Midwest, he looks me in the eyes and says, “take me with you.” Doesn’t matter if its Kenya, Libya, Bangkok, wherever, his time is ticking and he’s not content to watch the clock from a kind of forced hibernation. “Take me with you,” he repeats, as he wills his balance to keep him moving forward on the path, trying to prove he can keep up with me. That he won’t slow me down.

As I look up at the fleeting light, it gives one last glimmer of life to fanciful clouds that slowly move through my imagination, like migrating whales. The curtain is going down a little earlier today. Time to make big plans for tomorrow. Time to draw up a map, an escape route rather, to the other side, where trees are turning the opposite way, the sun pushing forward not back, and eyes are opening to an early, irrepressible light.

Everyday at noon, a woman comes to play, filling the century old halls of Addis Ababa’s most historic hotel with a haunting soundtrack.

The name Taitu comes from a former Empress. In the 1800s she moved the capital to its current site, and called it “new flower,” Addis Ababa.

The lobby of the Taitu is a living, breathing Graham Green novel.

An older Eastern European man in a ruffled suit, sits alone in the corner, drinking a St. George’s beer. He stares down at the table. His sunken shoulders, and weathered face suggest a tragic tome.

Across from him is an Ethiopian man with an earpiece connected to some kind of mobile device. He sits in a chair facing the action, so he can survey the entire room. His demeanor suggests he’s a spy, not a far-fetched possibility in what is still a police state, despite the return of democracy in the early 90s.

A group of young Sudanese men, dressed in flashy red, purple, and blue suits, discuss intently, but at a whisper.

Scandinavian backpackers with grizzled beards and knotted hair are glued to guidebooks, plotting their next conquest.

Busy hotel staff buzz around the lobby, delivering beers, tibs, injera, and bottles of soda with the word Coke spelled out in the ancient, twisted symbols of the local Amharic language.

The Taitu staff are mostly young women, dressed smartly in green skirts and vests. Some have frizzled afros and others tightly wound braids.

They proudly polish the ancient expresso machine at the bar, a relic from the Italian occupation of Ethiopia in the 40s.  It’s the perfect machine for the self-proclaimed birthplace of coffee. The Italians didn’t last, but their macchiatos did.

The piano player continues, her foot squarely on the damper pedal, giving notes a longer breath as they swirl around the room and out into the courtyard.

Outside Taitu, there is a rainstorm…Ethiopians like to say theirs is the land of 13 months of sun, but at least two are marked by heavy, torrential downpours.

Small rivers form, trickling down pot holed streets towards the city center.

As the rains stop, a group of young boys play soccer at the foot of a tall concrete tower, topped with a communist star. It’s one of the only remaining symbols of an era most want to forget.

These same streets ran red with blood during the 20 years of the Derg military junta. Socialism was mixed with executions and disappearances.

But these boys have thankfully only known Ethiopia’s more long standing scourge, poverty. Few have actual shoes to play soccer in, most wear plastic sandals on the makeshift asphalt field.

One team has matching orange socks, and most players wear pirated Real Madrid jerseys with the last name Van Nistelroy. a Dutch striker who hasn’t played for the team in years.

A goal is scored and the celebration is as jubilant as a World Cup final.

Back up the hill, pilgrims draped in white are filing through the gates of St. George’s Orthodox Cathedral. It’s a feast day at the church, the same one where Haile Selassie was crowned emperor in 1930.

Lining the entrance to the church are the poor, hungry, and physically broken. Arms with no hands, and hands with no fingers are extended for coins from the worshipers.

One side of the church sees an impromptu celebration–jumping, singing, and the crescendos of pure devotion.

Leaving the church, past a statute of Haile Selassie on horseback, there’s a taxi stand of idle Ladas and Fiat’s, lasting reminders of Ethiopia’s dance with Russian communism and Italian colonialism.

Nightfall comes, which in Addis Ababa means a deep quiet.

Although curfews are gone, the culture of silence seems to still cover a city recovering from military rule.

Except, there IS one sound that comes out at night.

A once vibrant jazz scene, whose stars were banned and exiled in the 70s and 80s, is making a comeback.

At Jazzamba lounge, the evening crowd is dressed to the nines, Ethiopian men in suits and ties, women in flowing dresses, their hair picked out into beautiful afros.

They sit, sip cocktails, and listen to a mixture of old timers…even a former member of Haile Selassie’s personal orchestra takes the stage…and youngsters, adding their own improvisation to this jazz revival.

And while the night gets late, there is always the promise of a morning macchiato to look forward to, and another good, long walk around Ethiopia’s “new” “old” flower, to see what lessons Addis Ababa has still to teach, and secrets still to reveal.