tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26847496995946773582024-02-20T02:26:49.972-08:00Girl in a Global VillageMegan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-27807320651647956822017-11-11T08:41:00.003-08:002017-11-11T17:43:56.269-08:00Striving for peace on Remembrance Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Growing up in Senegal, I went to school with kids from all over the world.
In that environment, surrounded by the economic poverty of our host country, my parents
taught me to value the cultures and traditions of people from all walks of
life, to practice compassion for all, and to celebrate the things that made
each of us unique. For me, that meant being fiercely proud of my Canadian
citizenship.</div>
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So it came as no surprise to me when my brother Jesse, ten years my junior,
grew up with that same sense of patriotism. While I had thrown myself into
social justice work, his Canadian pride manifested in a passion for the history
of the World Wars. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>My
brother and I in Senegal</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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When I was home with Jesse, he would sit with me for hours explaining the
merits of different 1940s tanks and warships. I once edited an essay from him
that I’m sure showed a greater understanding for tactical battles than most
army officials (although I am slightly biased).<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still, I didn’t expect his love of history to lead to a military career.
When my brother decided to enlist in the armed forces right after high school,
I was initially perplexed. How had the same upbringing that led me to work for
nonprofits and journalism inspired him to join the forces?<o:p></o:p></div>
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But as I thought about it, I realized that his sense of justice, honour and
duty are the same driving force behind my work with World Vision. Our different
paths point to the same goal: to make the world a safer, fairer, better place. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Canada, as a country, has always had that dream as well. From our
involvement in the World Wars, to the creation of peacekeepers by Prime
Minister Lester B. Pearson, to our efforts to build schools in Afghanistan,
Canada has always worked to make the world more peaceful for all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That work has taken immense sacrifice. “Lest we forget” is a reminder most
of us get just once a year. My brother remembers it every day, because he has
it tattooed on his inner forearm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With all the pain the world is enduring, today my brother reminds me that
hate has always existed in the world, and that it always, always loses. At
11:11, as I observe our moment of silence for the sacrifices of those who came
before us, that’s what I’m holding onto. And, in our own ways, that’s what my
brother and I will continue to strive for. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>CVR
Jesse E.S. Radford</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>This article was originally published on </i></span><i><a href="http://www.worldvision.ca/stories" target="_blank">worldvision.ca/stories </a></i></div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-24872898762214121792016-11-01T08:04:00.000-07:002016-11-01T08:21:00.485-07:00When One is All You've Got- #1Dress1Month<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Growing up in Senegal, I knew that many of my friends only had one nice outfit...or one outfit at all. As a fashion lover since the age of about three, I would spend days or weeks planning what to wear to a party (a habit I haven't grown out of), and my Christmas and Birthday wish lists always included that one item I felt would complete my sartorial bliss. Meanwhile, some of my friends would wear the same shirt and pants to every party, and every Sunday at church.<br />
<br />
I'm well aware of this disconnect between the life I have lived and that of so many of my friends. Some of those dearest to me have recounted memories of being picked on at school because they wore the same shirt every day. I remember that very thing happening in my Canadian public school to the children of families on social assistance.<br />
<br />
As hurtful as being bullied for your appearance is, not having enough clothes gets even more painful when the weather changes, as it is changing now. It's this season that makes the difference between those who have, and those who don't, a fatal gap.<br />
<br />
That's why, this month, I'm putting things into perspective for myself. For the entire month of November, I will wear one thrifted, little black dress. This dress:<br />
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BAU_pUZCG00/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Megan Radford de Barrientos (@megradford)</a> on <time datetime="2016-01-09T18:17:12+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jan 9, 2016 at 10:17am PST</time></div>
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As I go through the month, I'll be <a href="https://www.instagram.com/megradford/" target="_blank">posting pictures of my black dress ensembles on social media</a>, and raising awareness about how important warm clothes is for children in winter. Through my project, I hope to inspire those of use who are blessed with more than enough, to give the gift of warm clothes to kids in places where winter is bitterly cold, like Romania, <a href="https://catalogue.worldvision.ca/products/1511" target="_blank">through World Vision's gift catalogue.</a><br />
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For someone who loves the creativity and self-expression of getting dressed in the morning, you might think this is a sacrifice. But it's not. I get to choose from a myriad of accessories, sweaters, shoes, tights, and outerwear as the temperature drops. And, in choosing what piece I would wear for the month, I picked from about a dozen (mostly thrifted) dresses, including no less than four black dresses. This is an adventure- living without winter clothing in places like Romania isn't.<br />
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When I was 17, I visited Romania on a high school music tour. One day we drove through a little village on our way to a local tourist attraction. As we passed the houses, I caught a glimpse of a little girl standing in a doorway, very close to the road. She was bundled against the March chill, and on her head was a warm hat in the design of a strawberry.<br />
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The image of that little girl has stuck with me. As I go through the month, I'll be keeping her and her winter hat in mind as a symbol of what I want to achieve- that every little child we work with will have proper winter clothing this year. I'm hoping that's a dream that will catch on.<br />
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PS- See some of the looks I'll be taking inspiration from on <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/megradford/one-month-one-dress/" target="_blank">my Pinterest board!</a> To learn more about why I shop ethically (including the thrift store, where I bought my black dress), check out <a href="https://thisisgracesway.wordpress.com/2016/04/24/three-things-ive-learned-from-two-years-of-ethical-living/" target="_blank">this post.</a><br />
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-36995061941795087742016-07-03T09:55:00.001-07:002016-07-03T09:55:47.402-07:00The comfort of "stuff" (why I think minimalism goes too far)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have a confession to make. As a Christian, I know that I am to store up “treasures in heaven”. As a social justice and environmental advocate, I try not to accumulate more than is necessary or good for myself, the earth, and others. And yet, sometimes there is such comfort in so much of my “stuff”. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s not the stuff itself that is comforting, but the meaning it holds, the story behind it, the joy that it brings me. In this era of “minimalism”, I find myself shirking from both the consumerism that drove me in my college days, and the stark list of rules set out by hardcore minimalists. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are countless books, blogs and videos these days that shout the merits of getting rid of things, of clearing your home so you can clear your mental energies. And while I do think that making regular edits to pass on the things that I don’t need or use anymore is healthy, I don’t believe militant minimalism is inherently good. When stuff holds meaning for us, then we should hold onto it if we so choose.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It might be just “stuff”, but when I brew a pot of tea, just like my dad taught me and like my ancestors have done for generations before me, the vintage teacups I pour the amber liquid into make me smile. The one bequeathed to me by my grandmother, especially, brings an inexplicable peace and comfort to my heart. She isn’t with me anymore, but I can enjoy the things she enjoyed, and I cherish holding a tangible memory of her in my hands. </span></div>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BGNDJeMCG5G/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Megan Radford de Barrientos (@megradford)</a> on <time datetime="2016-06-03T19:22:15+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jun 3, 2016 at 12:22pm PDT</time></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It might be just “stuff”, but the vintage pair of jeans I bought last weekend at the thrift store remind me of ones I used to wear as a kid. It has been a difficult few days, and the embroidered beading and 90s fit have brought a bit of childlike whimsy and a smile when I needed one so much.</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BGkkFtHCG08/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Megan Radford de Barrientos (@megradford)</a> on <time datetime="2016-06-12T22:32:37+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Jun 12, 2016 at 3:32pm PDT</time></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It might be just “stuff”, but my engagement ring from my husband still dazzles me when it catches the light (and my eye) on the bus ride to work. It reminds me how carefully he planned it with the jewelry maker. It reminds me that all the difficulty of paperwork and 6000-km flights will be worth it to build a life together. </span></div>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BE_YPzjCG16/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Megan Radford de Barrientos (@megradford)</a> on <time datetime="2016-05-04T15:25:51+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">May 4, 2016 at 8:25am PDT</time></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It might be just “stuff”, but the reclaimed wood table I eat and type on every day was built especially for me by dear uncle. It is the most beautiful piece of furniture I have ever seen, let alone owned, and losing it would be a great loss. </span></div>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/3H--WFCGxH/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Megan Radford de Barrientos (@megradford)</a> on <time datetime="2015-05-26T00:18:39+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">May 25, 2015 at 5:18pm PDT</time></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It might be just “stuff”, but hunting for new and vintage t shirts of the bands my husband loves is a way to process how much I miss him, and show him my love. </span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We can have joy without stuff- I know this to be true, having grown up in Senegal, West Africa amidst friends who own very little and still emanate a light and life that is breathtaking and infectious. But Senegal also taught me that “stuff” can be something that you can cling to as you work towards a better life. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was ten years old, my friends down the road lived in a structure made of corrugated metal and scrap wood. Despite the humble exterior, inside their parents kept a beautifully elaborate wooden bed and dresser set. The family would gather on the bed with pride, as they shared a beverage with a guest. They took good care of it, careful to preserve it so they would enjoy it for many years to come. A bed might be just “stuff”, but it was a point of pride and a beacon of what they were working towards. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It case be easy for those of us who can afford to rent or replace our furniture, our clothes, or even our homes with ease to preach on the evils of owning “stuff”. And yes, if I ever become a hoarder, build a den of couponed products I will never use, or shop far and above my means you can come and tell me about the evil of “stuff”. Until then, I will try to ensure that my purchases are meaningful, ethical, and under control. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I will also hold onto the leather bound copy of my favourite book from my parents, the thrifted white cotton dress I wore when I got married, and the vintage couch in my favourite colour that I consider one of my first adult purchases. They may be just “stuff”, but the memories and comfort they hold are worth more to me than a tidied up Instagram account or the coveted title of “minimalist”. My “stuff” holds a story I’d like to keep. </span><br />
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BB0ExV9iG1i/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A photo posted by Megan Radford de Barrientos (@megradford)</a> on <time datetime="2016-02-15T16:29:50+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Feb 15, 2016 at 8:29am PST</time></div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-70678416231888494182015-09-09T18:04:00.000-07:002015-09-09T18:06:26.060-07:00A Parable<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A man was living in his parents’ house. His parents had died several years ago, leaving the man everything- a prosperous farm, a beautiful house with a wide porch, and a pristine river in the backyard. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While his parents had toiled first as labourers in another’s field, and then as young landowners with only the bare earth and their hands, the man had never wanted for anything. He had vague memories of his mother and father rising early to work the fields when he was very young, but since the age of five his family had been quite wealthy. His parents made wise investments, were honest people, and managed to operate a healthy business with several dozen employees.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man was in charge of his parents’ company, but left most of the day to day business to his trusted executives to handle. He lived a life of relative ease with his wife and two children. During the summer he took his canoe out on the river, went fishing, and swam with his family. In the winter he enjoyed snowmobiling on the newest machines, and looked with pride on the snowmen his children made out front. He was glad to be able to provide a safe home for them. He and his family lacked for nothing, and seldom was there something they wanted that he refused.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One evening in late summer, as the cicadas were humming their last songs, the man and his family were just sitting down to dinner when there was a knock on the door. The man asked his son to say grace and rose to answer the call. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Who could it be?” he wondered. “My employees and friends know that I don’t like to be disturbed at meal-time.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When he opened the door, he was surprised to find his cousin standing on the doorstep with his wife and child. The trio looked quite bedraggled, and the wife was even bleeding from a gash on her head. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“My goodness!” said the man, “Whatever happened here?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’ve been robbed,” said his cousin wearily. “A group of armed thieves came to my house pretending to be selling something. When I opened the door they pulled out guns and stormed inside. They locked us in a closet, took everything we owned of value, and then set fire to our house.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man was shocked that such a thing could happen in his area. “How did you escape?” he asked in wonder.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Luckily I had a spare key on my keychain. When I heard the door close the last time, we escaped out the back and ran. But my wife tripped and hit her head on the way. I think she needs medical attention.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m truly sorry,” said the man.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We feel terrible imposing,” said his cousin, his eyes cast down, “but could we stay with you a while? We have nowhere else to go.” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man thought for a time. Having another family there imposing on his resources would be a nuisance. Not that he couldn’t afford it, but as the owner of the house, didn’t he have a right to all he had? Didn’t he deserve his peace and quiet?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He reached in his wallet and took out several bills, then handed them to his cousin. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m afraid we’re full at the moment,” he said. “There just isn’t room. I’m sorry. I’m sure that will be enough to pay for an inn somewhere, or at least so you can stay with another neighbour.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">His cousin looked at him sadly. “Are you sure there isn’t space for us? We’ll work hard for you as soon as we’re able. Please, cousin. We are so tired, and my child has suffered so much fear. He needs a place to sleep tonight.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m sorry, I just can’t at the moment. But I truly wish you the best,” the man said with a cheerful air of finality. “Stay well.” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And he closed the door.</span></div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-42888300632510258732015-06-03T19:06:00.000-07:002015-06-04T15:38:05.124-07:00My Personal Best<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes ideas get under my skin, and they itch there until I puzzle them out.<br />
<br />
There's one particular itch that I've been puzzling since high school. And I just can't seem to satisfy it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/business/bangladesh-to-lay-murder-charges-in-2013-garment-factory-collapse-1.3094924">The Rana Plaza factory collapse in Bangladesh</a> was a shock to the system of consumers, but the story itself wasn't new. This fight to bring safer, more equitable working conditions to overseas employees of our consumer goods has been raging off and on since the 90s. As far as we know, other than leading to the creation of more ethical brands, not much has been achieved.<br />
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When I learned of the human rights abuses in Nike factories, I swore off Nike products at 14 years old. Gradually, more and more companies got added to the list. With the Rana collapse last year, that list made shopping at the mall (<a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/business/loblaw-will-vigorously-defend-lawsuit-over-rana-plaza-factory-collapse-1.3055872">or Joe Fresh</a>) basically impossible.<br />
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Instead, as much as I can, I try to shop ethically. It makes me smile when I can meet my needs while knowing that my money is being well spent. Whether it's buying used (which keeps the products out of the landfill and supports charity), fair trade (which offers higher wages for workers) or hand-made (which directly profits the creator), I try to make choices that help rather than harm.<br />
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But there are times when it's almost impossible to find an ethical option for a need. I try not to get bogged down by those. At other times the options are not ideal, and it's then that the itch starts to burn. I am forced to make a choice between the possibility that my purchase is funding questionable corporate activities, or going with the less desirable option, and supporting something good. For me, the conundrum usually leads to weeks or months of inaction before I can make a decision.<br />
<br />
I'm in such a conundrum right now, over a pair of tennis shoes. The choice in this case is a questionable manufacturing process vs. a less appealing style with a higher price tag.<br />
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I was talking to my mom about the situation, and explaining how I hate that I feel guilty about so much of what I buy.<br />
<br />
"You can't feel guilty about everything Meg," she said.<br />
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"I know...and I know I'm only one person, but if everyone continues to fund these companies, then they will never change."<br />
<br />
"That's true. But everyone has to just do their best," she replied.<br />
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Right now, financially I'm not sure what my best is. The reality is that sometimes buying ethically costs- and I can't always afford it. Student loans for degrees in Social Justice and Peace are just the same as the ones for business degrees.<br />
<br />
For my tennis shoes, this leads to other questions, like why is that style of sneaker so important to me? What does this say about my own personal, but also our cultural vanity? What does it say about me as a follower of Christ that I esteem such importance to the style and make of my footwear, when he commanded his disciples to spread his love with just one pair of sandals? Why can't I just be like <a href="http://www.thesimpleway.org/shane/">Shane Claiborne</a> and wear hemp and live communally?<br />
<br />
I'm committed to doing my personal best, for the health of the planet and the people who live here. I just have to figure out what that is.<br />
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-53879350519078516632015-05-10T18:22:00.002-07:002015-05-10T18:27:02.682-07:0021 years ago<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">I have always considered myself incredibly blessed. I have a family who loves me, friends around the world, a university education. But technically, until this year, I’ve lived under the poverty line for my entire adult life- all ten years of it. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Realizing that shocks me. It shocks me because I’ve been living my dreams. Getting to love and tell the stories of people in other cultures has been such a privilege. Yes, it has cost me, but doesn’t everything of value? </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Only in the past two years have I realized how different my thinking is from most people’s. In Egypt, my friends were constantly shocked at the way I would turn down work that wasn’t meaningful, instead taking lower paying jobs I could believe in. They couldn’t understand my faith that if God led me on a path, He would sustain me. But He did. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Now I earn a good salary working for an international charity. I have health benefits, a pension, and am actually being taxed for possibly the first time. Many of my coworkers take great comfort in the security of those benefits. When we’ve discussed missionaries, aid workers, and those who live in deliberate poverty for the sake of community, I’ve heard them say, “But how do they do that? What about their RRSPs?!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am free from the paralyzing fear of life without an RRSP (although it’s nice to have one now that I do) because of my parents. It’s Mother’s Day. Tomorrow, I turn 28, the same age my mom was when she moved to Senegal, West Africa.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">She was 28. My mother was 28 when she and my father sold our house and almost everything in it to go serve a people she had only heard about. She was 28 when she took myself, at seven, and my little five-year-old sister by the hand and boarded a plane to the complete unknown. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When they left, my mother had only travelled to the UK, and my father had never been outside North America. There were no internet travel guides, or Skype calls with people in the field. My parents believed that Senegal was where they needed to go, so they went. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I always knew there was a difference between what I had and what my friends’ had- even some of the other missionary kids. But, mostly, those differences slipped off me like water across our cool tiled floor. With books, coloured pencils and imagination I could create any world I wanted to. Later, as a teenager at a private school in Toronto, those differences became pretty glaring. Even still, when I saw what went on behind the walls of my friends’ houses, I was glad for the family I had. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">We always had enough, because my parents believed that their primary mission was their family. But we were also never rich, because God had a calling on us that went beyond anything you could attach monetary value to. My parents’ love for the children of Senegal informed everything they did- from my mom’s organization of child sponsorship files, to my dad’s training of Senegalese teachers, to our family’s support for a single mother and her ailing child. It was infectious- so infectious, that I still have the disease, 21 years later. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Living overseas changes you. The shiny trappings of wealth begin to look a little tainted, when you know the bleeding hands they came from. You can see the tinges of rust lurking in the corners of fancy cars, brand-new gilded mirrors. And the empty echo of a marble hall becomes a poor substitute for the hard-packed dirt floor of a Senegalese village church, trembling with the music, dancing and laughter of new friends who have always been your brothers and sisters.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I know that I am blessed, because I have caught the joy of those with much less than me. I owe that joy entirely to my parents. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Happy Mother’s Day. </span></div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-69674635907541825612015-04-15T15:12:00.000-07:002015-04-16T07:55:54.056-07:00Forget-me-not...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>"Dear Lord, don't let Billy's memories remain anchors that he has to drag along. Turn them to treasures he can carry with him."</i><br>
<br>
This prayer by a friend of Billy Sprague is one of the most profound things I have ever read in my life. It resonated with me when I read it as a teenager in <u>Ragamuffin Prayers</u>. I remembered moving back to Canada from Senegal at age 12, giving up my friends and my dreams of growing up on the edge of the Sahara, and I realized that I needed those memories to be treasures, not anchors that made me bitter.<br>
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Now I've moved back to Canada again, from the other edge of the Sahara. These days, it is becoming something of a mantra, and I pray it every single day. "God let my memories become treasures I can carry with me." Right now they feel like stones on my heart, crushing me with their weight. At other times they just remind me of the holes in my life where all the things and people I lost used to be. <br>
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I remember a day when I was 13, almost a year after we had moved back to Canada the first time. I was behind our rented house when I spotted a patch of delicate blue forget-me-nots. They seemed like a reminder to me to keep those I had left behind in my heart, but to make room for new relationships, no matter what the future held.<br>
<br>
Since then, I've never tried to keep my distance from the people I write about, live among, and love. I've never been good at NOT becoming a part of the culture I'm in, at staying away from seeking out the beating heart of a city, even for my own emotional good. That's just not who I am.<br>
<br>
I think that's why I burned out so fast. I had the privilege of speaking to Western University's International Reporting class for the third (fourth?) time last month. One of the things I talked about was the toll that being a journalist in a foreign country can take on you. I wrote about this in my last post, and it's one of the reasons why I am now back in Canada.<br>
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But being back in Canada brings its own challenges. I get really confused sometimes over basic everyday interactions, because they are so unlike what I've been used to for the past three years. Small stresses can overwhelm me because of the things hovering just below the surface.<br>
<br>
Not many people talk about moving as a loss, but it very much is one. When a person dies, you take the time and space to mourn them. It's expected. But what about when what has died is your way of life, your connection to a community, and your relationships in the ways that you have known them? To me that is a different kind of loss than losing someone to death, but it goes just as deep. Life will never be the same, and that is something to mourn and heal from.<br>
<br>
And those people I couldn't keep my distance from? I miss their smiles, their warmth, their presence so much that it is a constant ache. In the part of the Greater Toronto Area where I live, there is a large community of Egyptians. Every time I hear Arabic, I feel it pulling me like a magnet. The other day I finally got up the courage to ask a mother in Tim Horton's, "Are you from Egypt?" Of course, she was, and we spent a few moments talking about the areas of Cairo where we both had spent most of our time. She was utterly gracious and kind, and called me "dear", just like so many other Egyptian moms I've known. After she left, I felt like the veneer I had built up between myself and Egypt had shattered, and it left me broken too. My heart remembered, and I cried, right there in Canada's favourite coffee shop.<br>
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Someday, I know that I will be able to feel all the ways that the people and culture of North Africa enriched my being without breaking down. I'll be able to talk to the ones I love there without tears. There will always be that ache, but it will be the beautiful kind. I picture my treasure like a pearl- layers of wisdom, strength and grace built over the pain until it truly is a thing of beauty that I can take with me everywhere, because it is a part of me. But for now...<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>forget-me-not...</i></td></tr>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-15066402955209988652015-01-23T04:33:00.000-08:002015-01-23T04:33:25.757-08:00Stars in Our Crown<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's been a few months since I have posted anything. Part of that is my hectic schedule. Since September I have been working two jobs- teaching high school literature and editing for a local news website- and that has taken up most of my time. </div>
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But the other reason is one I want to address in this post. For some time now I've been doing a lot of self-care, dealing with the aftereffects of being a foreign correspondent and living in a foreign culture. It's not often talked about, but journalists, aid workers and counsellors sometimes deal with what in some cases is called compassion fatigue...and in more serious cases "secondary post-traumatic stress disorder", or SPTSD. After hearing story after story of violence, abuse, and chaos, we can start to feel the effects of those stories in our own minds and bodies. Secondary post-traumatic stress disorder mimics many of the serious symptoms that regular PTSD brings- nightmares, depression, overreaction to situations that should not be deemed dangerous, trouble sleeping, and problems with relationships. If this is coupled with other stressful circumstances or personal trauma, the symptoms can be exacerbated. </div>
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Part of my self care means that at certain points, I try not to read news about violence or human rights abuses other than those issues that I am currently writing on or editing. Of course, it often reaches me anyway, and if it is an issue of particular interest, I can't help tweeting or writing about it. Another outlet involves releasing stress through creative means. I write poetry, paint, and journal. Most of those things don't show up here, but today I wanted to share the most recent poem I wrote. </div>
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A few weeks ago I got the news that a former colleague of mine at the Institute for War and Peace Reporting in Tunis was reported to have been killed by the Islamic State in Libya. He was captured months back, and a news report on one of the terrorist websites had photos of him and another journalist, claiming they had been executed. </div>
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Though I am far away in Egypt, the shockwaves of this hit me hard. Though I didn't know Sofiane Chourabi well, I saw him every week for the months I worked at IWPR, and the possibility that he was dead was difficult to handle. My best friend, who also worked at IWPR and is now with Human Rights Watch, has been able to give me the scattered updates she's received. The journalism community in Tunis was in a state of shock and sorrow, which quickly turned to anger when the Tunisian government failed to react quickly enough to ascertain the two journalists' wellbeing. </div>
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When I heard the news, I immediately reached out to friends and family for their prayers and support. This is not the first time something like this has happened. My mother told me that news like this, "Makes your resume scary, in retrospect." To me, it means I was, and am, doing something that matters. But the conversation got me to thinking of how, as journalists, we often have the unhealthy practice of measuring our value in litres of blood, numbers of bullets and protests, and even, scarily enough, how many colleagues we've lost. Leonard Cohen once said that, "Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." These are the ashes of this experience so far. </div>
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<b><u>Stars in our crown</u></b></div>
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Another one dead<br />But he’s just one of many<br />And I didn’t even write about him today<br />There are so many more to cry about</div>
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No guts, no glory<br />So often the guts aren’t ours<br />But it’s our job to shout about them<br />And scramble for the green glory<br />That comes trickling like a polluted river</div>
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War sells<br />And don’t we have an obligation?<br />Some are more obligated than us<br />We call it bravery…or insanity<br />And their deaths rub off on us<br />Lending us a sheen of relevance<br />Experience<br />The brighter it glows, the more the river flows<br />That’s what they say</div>
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So we place them like stars in our crown<br />But first we have to pluck them<br />Out of our bleeding hearts<br />And stop up the holes with newsprint</div>
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The smaller injustices are bullet holes<br />Tiny pin dots of teargas from police<br />The boom of the explosions and shots<br />Abuse from the bystanders, a daily assault<br />(Because words are weapons, whispered or shouted or written)<br />The chants of protests in my head while I sleep</div>
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I take these out too,<br />This time from my mind<br />And pin them like sequins on a diadem<br />Leaving air rushing through my skull<br />And through the airwaves</div>
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What if there’s too much air?<br />What if there’s not enough newsprint?<br />What if I run out of heart, of skull?<br />What if, next time, it’s me?</div>
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My friend informed me that sources are now saying Sofiane is safe, "but we don't know yet." If you're the praying type, please continue to keep Sofiane and his family and friends in your prayers. You can also spread awareness of his captivity, in hopes that the Tunisian government will act to verify his whereabouts, on Twitter using the hashtag #FreeSofiane.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpPE2fBxRnBVP5cMas2jUOzkdIPnMyV6S6HWrWZEiaLft2u_pkpMq9exmQJkamyCBNs2KoQ0ty6rzapzUaxo4oQbHU9bFbyCwk3BNx-8CfGvO_bbaKcf989FgkdQ4OcfV9doefFcTWB4/s1600/1500842_347201468755611_1752806730_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpPE2fBxRnBVP5cMas2jUOzkdIPnMyV6S6HWrWZEiaLft2u_pkpMq9exmQJkamyCBNs2KoQ0ty6rzapzUaxo4oQbHU9bFbyCwk3BNx-8CfGvO_bbaKcf989FgkdQ4OcfV9doefFcTWB4/s1600/1500842_347201468755611_1752806730_o.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sofiane speaking to a soldier in Tunisia (from his <a href="https://www.facebook.com/sofinos/">Facebook page</a>)</td></tr>
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If you are a journalist, aid worker or counsellor who is dealing with SPTSD (or PTSD for that matter), I encourage you to reach out for support. Find people you can talk to, and ways that you can express your pain, sorrow, guilt and anger. Without your mental and physical health, you can't help anyone. Take care of yourselves. </div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-15931329741347163622014-08-26T11:54:00.000-07:002014-08-26T11:54:04.902-07:00Exporters of an ancient faith...and modern peace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">“Every time I smell tear gas, it reminds me of my happy childhood.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Jenny Baboun, a 26-year-old Palestinian, did not have the peaceful childhood every parent hopes for. Some of her other childhood memories include the sound of missiles going over her house, taking photos with Palestinian police, and playing in the streets at night despite a state-ordered curfew.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When she was four years old, Jenny’s father was handcuffed in front of her and taken away in an Israeli military jeep. He was released the same day, but the incident is engrained in Jenny’s memory. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Despite the circumstances, Jenny said that her community and family helped make her growing up years special, and even happy, despite constant violence and fear. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“When the situation was bad, as a child I used to look up to my parents who used to make me feel everything was normal by their steadfastness and their strength in keeping us safe. Living in Palestine, especially Bethlehem, may not be ideal compared to living in other places. However, I would say that I would never want to live anywhere else.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The conflict between the Palestinians and the Israelis has raged for over 60 years, with heavy losses on both sides, especially in underprivileged areas of the Palestinian territories. Recently, the conflict has gained new notoriety as Hamas and Israel exchange rockets and death tolls. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Stories like Jenny’s are not uncommon- but there is a part of the picture that remains largely untold by the Western media. Jenny’s father was not arrested for illegal acts, but simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He is not a jihadist, a terrorist, or a Hamas supporter. In fact, he isn’t even a Muslim. Jenny, her father, and her family are Christians, members of the oldest community of Jesus followers in the world. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I come from a Catholic family and was raised to love the Lord,” Jenny told me. “I may have not been so religious, but I have faith and trust in Jesus! I'm currently reading through the whole Bible and I go to church almost every Sunday.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">In the West, Jenny’s community may be relatively unknown, but there are those working to change this. Philip Farah is one of them. As a Palestinian Christian living in the United States, he is part of the Palestinian diaspora working to shift the West’s understanding of Palestinians and their conflict with Israel. He is involved in two organizations- the Palestinian Christian Alliance and the Washington Interfaith Alliance for Middle East Peace- that push for peace in Palestine. Every year at Christmas, Philip and his colleagues organize a joint service broadcast over the internet between that National Cathedral in Washington D.C. and a church in Bethlehem, Palestine. They also run interfaith (Jewish, Muslim, Christian) services advocating peace and understanding between Israel, Palestine and the West. Through these activities, Farah says, he hopes to educate people about Palestinian rights, as well as promote justice between Israelis and Palestinians living together. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Philip is based in the United States, but he is intimately aware of the daily struggle of his family and friends in Palestine. One of his friends, Daoud Nassar, a Christian farmer, owns a plot of land completely surrounded by Jewish settlers. He is not allowed to build structures on his property and is constantly harassed to give up his land. Over the years he has paid a fortune in legal fees to save his farm over and over again. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">But Nassar has turned that struggle into a fight for peace and understanding. On his farm he hosts the “Tent of Nations”, a project that uses the farm to build bridges between people, and between people to the land”. A stone on the property proclaims “We refuse to be enemies”. People from every country, including Israel, are welcome to come to the farm and bond together in awareness campaigns and work camps. Despite the constant threat that the land will be confiscated by the Israeli military, the camp continues to attract attention and support from all over the world, especially with the youth who attend the workshops.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Palestinians of both Muslim and Christian faith are working together to build peace and solidarity in their community. Many famous Arab political leaders have been Christians, and have inspired Arabs of both faiths to fight for their cultural survival. Some of these include renowned Middle Eastern scholar Edward Said, Constantine Zreik, one of the fathers of Arab nationalism, and George Habash, the founder of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Such heroes of the Arab culture are looked up to and emulated by both Muslims and Christians. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Still, tensions between citizens of different faiths do exist. Local Christian and Muslim Palestinian communities react harshly to members converting to the other religion. Baboun mentioned an incident where a young Christian converted to Islam, leading Palestinian Christians to “accuse Hamas of abducting him.” Tradition and loyalty to faith and family run deep in the Arab community, and any breech of these values is dealt with harshly. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Hazem Farraj knows the pain and fear of converting first-hand. When he was 12 years old, his father moved their family from Brooklyn, New York, to a suburb of Jerusalem “with the intention to become better Muslims”. Farraj studied the Quran, went to the Mosque, and did everything on his “checklist”, as he calls it, to get deeper into Islam. But he wasn’t satisfied, and had a deep “crisis of the heart.” He explains, “Because the crisis was so deep and so devastating, I ended up getting mad at God. And I said, ‘If Jesus is God, then I am going to find him’”. Through the support of local Christians, Hazem made the decision to convert in secret in January of 2000 at 15 years-old. His decision was risky, for him and his friends. “They (the Christian Palestinians) told me ‘We will answer your questions if you keep your mouth shut.’” For three years, he kept his faith under wraps till, almost three years after becoming a Christian, he left home and went into hiding. Soon after that he got the courage to tell his father that he was a Christian. He was rejected by his family and has not been able to reconcile with them for eleven years. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The heartache of losing his family pushed Farraj away from his roots towards the modern American evangelical community. “I wanted to run from everything Palestinian and Arabic because of the trauma of leaving Islam.” But God spoke to Farraj through a pastor and told him, “Stop running from your culture.” Now, Farraj hosts a popular television talk show where he speaks in English and Arabic about God’s love to “400 million viewers” (according to his website) in North America, Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. He shares as a member of the “minority, minority”, the small, and usually secret group of Palestinian believers that did not grow up in the Orthodox or Catholic church. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Though his TV program speaks about faith, not politics, Farraj is deeply aware of the daily struggle of the Palestinian church, who are often caught between both the oppression of the Israeli government, and the radical Islamists who give his people a bad name in the West. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“The reputation Palestinians have is not great,” he admits. “But God has told me that is going to change.” Farraj said that his hope is in this younger generation of Christian and Muslim Palestinians, who are “tired of war and...tired of killing each other.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">One of the ways that reputation is changing is through the leadership of Palestinian Arab Christians around the world. Like Farraj, many Palestinians have emigrated to Europe and North America, taking up positions in churches, Bible colleges, and ministries. According to Jack Sara, the President of Bethlehem Bible College in the West Bank, “God is using Palestinian Christians in a way that they are becoming, really, leaders for the Arab church worldwide.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Sara says that Palestinian Christians are a paradox to many Western believers, because there is a lack of understanding about the Middle East and the diversity of the people who live there. Many Western evangelical communities, he says, hold to the idea that the state of Israel is a fulfillment of prophesy, and that they must oppose anyone who is opposing the “people of God.” This idea, he says, is a stumbling block to the Christian message in Arab cultures, because many Muslim communities see Christians as “haters of the Arabs” for opposing Israel. “They equate evangelicals as Zionists,” he claimed. And to most Arabs, Zionists are responsible for the worst kind of atrocities committed against Palestinian children. When such political connotations are attached to the Protestant faith, is it any wonder, then, that the Orthodox, Catholic, and Muslim communities in Palestine are wary of converts?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">To combat the negative aspects of Christian zionism on the Arab church, Sara is involved in a program called Christ at the Checkpoint, which seeks to offer an alternative vision of the Israeli-Palestine conflict. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“It’s about time that they see Israelis and Palestinians through an equal lens,” Sara said.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Another challenge facing the Palestinian church is migration. During the beginning years of the war with Israel, some accounts say that up to 30% of the population of Palestinian Christians fled to safer ground in Europe and North America. Muslim Palestinians escaped too, but since Christians were already a minority, their community feels the losses to a greater degree. Sara says that now only around 2% of the Palestinian population within Palestine/Israel consider themselves Christians. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Palestinian Christians are, in Biblical terms, “hard pressed on every side.” The Christian community, according to Sarah, has been present in Palestine since the first century. Farraj, in speaking about his brothers and sisters in Christ, said, “The Palestinian Christians have kept the faith. It is a miracle that there are even churches and believers in Gaza, Jerusalem and Bethlehem. The minority has kept the faith.” Philip told me, chuckling, at the beginning of his interview, “Palestinians can claim Christianity as their most successful export!” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">These original Christians, who face challenges in every aspect of their lives, embody not only the beginning of 2 Corinthians 4:8-10, but especially the end: “...but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.” </span></div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-91868729481841399072014-06-30T06:48:00.001-07:002015-04-16T07:58:17.996-07:00Whim Magazine- A whimsical dream come true!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifHZwVY-n33nC55Qt0-98Rhn9Uxbqyb9WT_shWpCCrhrDZuHDlkh6bYlLIIXDCZPT7VWDDibu5ViS8kf0IKRY22-YphlZjzviwIPhTdURUD7O8YG3Mwaa1SNResc4HvrtqDO7GKFReUSU/s1600/PCOH+paperchain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifHZwVY-n33nC55Qt0-98Rhn9Uxbqyb9WT_shWpCCrhrDZuHDlkh6bYlLIIXDCZPT7VWDDibu5ViS8kf0IKRY22-YphlZjzviwIPhTdURUD7O8YG3Mwaa1SNResc4HvrtqDO7GKFReUSU/s1600/PCOH+paperchain.jpg" height="93" width="320"></a></div>
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Sometimes Instagram is my best friend. At least it was this month, when I saw Whim Magazine advertise for creative writing contributors for their new issue. I set right to work on a 500 word short story that fit their dreamy, inspirational vibe. I could hardly believe it when Melanie Doncas- the founder and editor of the magazine- wrote me to say they wanted to include it!<br>
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My sister, an accomplished artist, and I have talked about collaborating on children's stories for years, but we've never fully put that dream into action. But I had a brain wave when Melanie accepted my work- what if Emma did some sketches for the story? They wouldn't have to be complicated, and her beautiful, delicate artwork would be a perfect fit for the magazine. Melanie agreed, and Emma set to work.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA5yEjs7YIB734KFAslNTUeyNmVNI7_tjz2U3mnfEP6CVzEvVbU5PnJVJR-YnBEeXbn7elI5ehyphenhyphen5HjD9M3iuzkOh_F2SYjVfWyBdpNwOkmNap35yTh0eYMcH_5nx-ETPVo38kS2Bv-YM/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA5yEjs7YIB734KFAslNTUeyNmVNI7_tjz2U3mnfEP6CVzEvVbU5PnJVJR-YnBEeXbn7elI5ehyphenhyphen5HjD9M3iuzkOh_F2SYjVfWyBdpNwOkmNap35yTh0eYMcH_5nx-ETPVo38kS2Bv-YM/s1600/image.jpeg" height="320" width="234"></a></div>
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The finished product is our first published sister collaboration, and my first published short story! The magazine itself is exquisite, with 215 pages of beautiful photography, fashion, creative writing, DIY, and more. I am so pleased with the layout and look of the story. Emma's illustrations add just the right touch of whimsy to the tale. We had so much fun doing this project that we are now working on a series of short stories, which we hope to self-publish digitally through CreateSpace and Kindle.<br>
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Please take a look at <a href="http://issuu.com/whimonlinemagazine/docs/whim_issue_6">Issue 6 of Whim Magazine</a>. "A Paper Chain of Hearts" is on page 176. You can connect with Emma through her<a href="https://www.facebook.com/emmajradfordart"> Facebook page</a>.<br>
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<br>For those of you who have not had a chance to check out my <a href="http://thisisgracesway.com/">sustainable living site</a>, please do. There is a fantastic personal story by the buyer of the Go Exchange- which provides a livelihood to families in Haiti, and supports orphans through the sale of beautifully crafted fashion and accessories. Grace's Way has been a great way for me to be involved in eco-friendly, natural, and ethical fashion, beauty and lifestyle movements, an area I am very passionate about!<br>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-42031321643653241362014-03-15T06:18:00.001-07:002014-03-15T10:04:47.909-07:00Looking at age with a different lens<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> This morning I decided to work in front of my open window, letting the breeze, sunshine, and birdsong inspire me as I write. But midway through the morning, I began to be disturbed by some of the grounds workers, lying on the grass about 50 metres from my garden. They were wrestling, yelling, and taking photos of each others, lying on the grass. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I started getting annoyed. I live in this particular area of the city because it’s quiet, and here in Cairo that is something precious. I pay good money to stay here, and these workers are hanging around like they own the place, disturbing the peace.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But before you go agreeing with my initial reaction, here’s something you should know. Most of these workers are teenagers, kids really. The economic climate here in Egypt means that even young people need to work to support themselves and their families. If these kids are playing around on the grass instead of working, it’s because they probably got up at 4 or 5 am, rode here in the back of a truck, huddled in a blanket, and have been working for hours while I slept in my comfortable bed. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At the school where I worked, the first thing I noticed when I arrived for my interview were two young boys, about the same age as grade 10 students, in blue worker’s uniforms, moving furniture from one room to another. At first I was appalled that these teenagers should be working in a school with kids the same age and older than them. But as I looked around, no one else seemed to be uncomfortable with this arrangement. As I began to work there, I realized that even the foreign teachers accepted the situation. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I saw the cleaning ladies, I was again struck by how young they were. How do they feel coming to work every day, getting there before everyone else, and leaving after all the students had gone home- the same ones who complain when they have too much homework to do to hang out with friends at Starbucks that night? How does it feel to be patted down and searched each time they leave to make sure they haven’t stolen any markers, notebooks, or other small school supplies?</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After school ended and the students had gone home, I would often hear the cleaners laughing and running up and down the halls and stairs, chasing each other. I wondered if they would get in trouble for being unprofessional. But they’re not professional. They’re kids doing the work of adults. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The injustices done to these workers, and to others at the school, was one of the many reasons that I decided I could no longer continue to work there. But I’ve come to realize that my very existence here in Egypt is built upon the backs of these very young people, whether it’s the gardens I enjoy on my daily walks, or the local restaurant where I eat Egyptian delicacies. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For a former Social Justice and Peace Major, this is a hard pill to swallow. I’m torn between rationalizing it as cultural, and railing against a system that makes it impossible for kids to be kids. On the one hand. until not so long ago, children in the West also had to work with their parents. My own father did work on a farm before and after school. But on the other, the economic situation that has caused these young people to seek employment is one that is entirely modern. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This is one of my few posts where I have no conclusion to leave you with. I have no lesson I’ve learned, or profound answer to my questions. It’s just one of those many dilemmas you encounter when you live overseas: coming up against situations where you don’t know which side is right- or if any is.</span></div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-87481451717168918052013-12-24T04:34:00.001-08:002013-12-26T05:55:48.863-08:00When you don't know why you're here...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Sometimes you end up in places and you’re not sure how or why. Coming to Egypt was like that for me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Egypt has always intrigued me, but for some reason I never thought about moving here. That is, until, almost by accident, I travelled here for a little over a week in May. I had been living in Tunis and working as a journalist for over a year, and was supposed to be traveling to Egypt with my Tunisian friend. Plans fell through, as they often do, and suddenly I was going there alone, completely dependent on the hospitality and kindness of new Egyptian friends.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It turned out that Egypt was the perfect place to be when I needed to rely on others. With the help of my friends, I fell completely in love with the people, culture, history, and tempo of Egypt. While Tunisia is one of North Africa and the Middle East’s hidden oases, Egypt is the pulsing core. They are connected to everything: in history, trade and foreign relations. And Egyptians know it. I’ve never met a people so proud of their heritage and ready to share it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I went back to Tunisia to do a freelance project and continue searching for a full time job. When the “Rebel” movement happened in June, overthrowing Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood from office, I was itching to be in Cairo, waiting by my phone to hear if everyone was safe. I couldn’t wait to get back, and in July I travelled there again, this time for a month. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The month was a whirlwind. In Cairo there were curfew parties, late-night checkpoints, and long nights spent watching movies and playing games with friends, who kept me far away from danger. In Alexandria, I saw a different side of Egyptian life. At a local NGO, Christians and Muslims worked together at a mother and child daycare and training centre, offering up love into the lives of less fortunate. Then my friends and I escaped to another world in Sahel, the North Coast, which reminded me more of a Florida resort and beach party than Egypt. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I got back to Tunis, most of the people I loved there were gone- on holiday, or working somewhere else. The city felt empty and lifeless. I had been without full-time work for months, and I was getting desperate...and bored. It was time for me to move on. Within ten days, I had two job interviews scheduled, packed up my life, and got back on a plane headed to Cairo for the third time in four months, this time for good. Even now, almost four months later, my head is still spinning from how fast my life turned completely upside-down. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m a journalist. At least, I thought I was until I found myself applying, interviewing for, and then accepting a job as an English teacher at an American Egyptian school. You see, it turns out that where I live became more important than how I make a living. Loving people and making a difference in the world became more important than my chosen method of doing so. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’ll be honest- I am often frustrated that I am not moving in the direction I wanted to in my career. By now I hoped to be heading up a field branch of an NGO communications team. I’ve worked long and hard to achieve this dream, and I am not sure why it always seems to be just beyond my reach. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is also the fact that living in North Africa has taken its toll. Life here happens on a different level than it does in Canada. In Canada I was never afraid that my friends would be killed or injured when they went to a protest. In Canada I didn’t work in a place where the cleaners could die if they got sick because they don’t make enough money for the doctor. In Canada life, joy, and sorrow happen much more quietly than here- and so relationships happen on a higher frequency in Egypt too. The arguments are tenser, the love is stronger, the feelings are deeper...and it can be exhausting. I’ve learned more about myself, about God, and about real love and sacrifice in the past four months than I have in four years. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnJrAyz2BtJ-e8_WGIqMhH8Z05lFBDkK3LJswTlmHUgqQBzKN64f6yrXzouTv3cewOzLmx1iuGquLxxtEcdALwC-WxJyQ0A_Rrj8vYyfmJtIbO6WvRLoZSp7BttOBM5GBnwxlVktDuY4/s1600/IMG_6676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnJrAyz2BtJ-e8_WGIqMhH8Z05lFBDkK3LJswTlmHUgqQBzKN64f6yrXzouTv3cewOzLmx1iuGquLxxtEcdALwC-WxJyQ0A_Rrj8vYyfmJtIbO6WvRLoZSp7BttOBM5GBnwxlVktDuY4/s320/IMG_6676.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying the view over the Nile<br />
Photo by Ahmed Badawi</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I still don’t know why God led me to be a teacher in Egypt...or not led so much and pushed me over the ledge headfirst. But when a mother tells me that her little boy framed the birthday card I gave him, and told her, “Look Mom, a teacher finally likes me!”, the why becomes a lot less important. And when a father who has been frustrated with his son’s love of football...and not of school, watches his child perform in the winter play, then looks me in the eye and says, “Today, I was proud of him,” I forget to question whether I should be here or not. On days or nights I am the only who is there to listen to a friend, to show them love, and to tell them I am praying for them, I don’t care about my career goals. Because I know there is purpose in what I am doing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Maybe I am not saving the world like I dreamed of. Not yet anyway. But I am saving a few kids who the world has already bashed around a bit- the ones whose fathers are leaving, who are new to school and can’t make friends, who have lost parents or friends or siblings. I am trying hard to make a difference in a country whose people will not be defeated. They are teaching me a little something about persistence, about loving even when you think you are too broken and have nothing left to give. And you don’t need God to tell you the whys, the hows, and the whens to know that that is a good thing. </span></div>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-11184305077021014162013-06-25T05:17:00.002-07:002013-06-25T05:17:47.886-07:00Real Treasures<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I have a dear friend who sits on the side of the road just behind my house in downtown Tunis. I wish I had the words in Arabic to tell her how she lights up my day each time I see her. She makes me feel as though I’ve given her the world, when all I really do is smile, say hello, and sometimes bring her a banana or a juice-box. Every time I meet her, she reminds me to be cheerful in all circumstances, and grateful for each little blessing the Lord chooses to give me. Like when she blows me a kiss or calls me “my daughter”- those are treasures that will last long after any material blessings I have go to ruin. May God be with her.</span><br />
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-39254289992643205812013-04-15T09:14:00.003-07:002013-04-15T11:21:46.693-07:00Global Fashion Nomads at the World Social Forum in Tunis 2013<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;">We know it's a little late, but <a href="https://twitter.com/hendhassassi">Hend Hassassi</a> and I promised we would do a fashion recap of the incredibly diverse, colourful and creative ensembles we saw at the World Social Forum (FSM) in Tunis last month (March 2013). So here it is!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_-La2A_MEiy6fhBGUPJw8_iLn0One_23izlJjs_muWZV3tBlg-39H3sVsWojqS9tbumd3qQSJst7OG3X2S3LE-NSsfMQm-FaDaEUGIu_-xX8M9hYX2gg9AGu_bo_3uM4DvTjfWKqXTs/s1600/IMG_0884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_-La2A_MEiy6fhBGUPJw8_iLn0One_23izlJjs_muWZV3tBlg-39H3sVsWojqS9tbumd3qQSJst7OG3X2S3LE-NSsfMQm-FaDaEUGIu_-xX8M9hYX2gg9AGu_bo_3uM4DvTjfWKqXTs/s320/IMG_0884.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: The African women at this conference won the fashion contest, hands down. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: No one said you can’t be an activist while being fashion forward.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYu0Bv4MPYRhiSP2HvddaRsn46tR46Wg0yWBIXNAocfXt2SfcOjbiOTcWvIIujiRshPKPjNfQGW9dE5ZIYtgPZLP_D-RF7o_b37ta_-xapwufzQe-2oNzrifcO8m7A1DlbxF7ZPQocG8/s1600/IMG_0882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYu0Bv4MPYRhiSP2HvddaRsn46tR46Wg0yWBIXNAocfXt2SfcOjbiOTcWvIIujiRshPKPjNfQGW9dE5ZIYtgPZLP_D-RF7o_b37ta_-xapwufzQe-2oNzrifcO8m7A1DlbxF7ZPQocG8/s320/IMG_0882.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hend: Hamza's pants are off the hook. I also love the Amazigh flag- so beautiful. (The Amazigh are the native people of Tunisia) Meg: Please note he was also wearing grey converse- that's what I call mixing it up. And I love the rainbow band in his dreads. It's so happy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27Yvirb2AI0XlF9Ompnr95vCRWfxT7pFI4ju1D_lR9oMf74SZsUN3ZKX0-mUa6cfIKhqtsyJQdqAndfryJclgmMPqsufR-ix1c2UkdhQDs6k4vDYo4iuDeCyyeQv3WQdz7F-ceqW25bQ/s1600/IMG_0894.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27Yvirb2AI0XlF9Ompnr95vCRWfxT7pFI4ju1D_lR9oMf74SZsUN3ZKX0-mUa6cfIKhqtsyJQdqAndfryJclgmMPqsufR-ix1c2UkdhQDs6k4vDYo4iuDeCyyeQv3WQdz7F-ceqW25bQ/s320/IMG_0894.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Meg. Please note the epic jam session happening in the background. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfscKHDj7QWwvMgxI98TS3rFzPQc3zTGjgFO46uHuWbeL9x7ofDgNkqEfIVbjIRgZqnvRE_LwBp8kp_oy6cBTV-xOxBur5WLNmb67fYhvg9cq8wUhTH05muTq_eZEzdeF5ZIGoNyC8tvU/s1600/IMG_0897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfscKHDj7QWwvMgxI98TS3rFzPQc3zTGjgFO46uHuWbeL9x7ofDgNkqEfIVbjIRgZqnvRE_LwBp8kp_oy6cBTV-xOxBur5WLNmb67fYhvg9cq8wUhTH05muTq_eZEzdeF5ZIGoNyC8tvU/s320/IMG_0897.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Hend. She's reppin' the FSM canvas bag. Thanks for those by the way, organizers! :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaYQKkcoLGbi3lwEMACTdpQsN-wqZoaZpcPl3wwpOnpuUI7khOgMZb-3NIhAgS7QV9wkvkHoIPvXtYTOnBqXSUDcgO2xFLrGb4LVGI8f9ZJIZ3lZkNI0LDKGOpqC5fi0N8LT4jSk9BTs/s1600/IMG_0913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaYQKkcoLGbi3lwEMACTdpQsN-wqZoaZpcPl3wwpOnpuUI7khOgMZb-3NIhAgS7QV9wkvkHoIPvXtYTOnBqXSUDcgO2xFLrGb4LVGI8f9ZJIZ3lZkNI0LDKGOpqC5fi0N8LT4jSk9BTs/s320/IMG_0913.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg: Another Amazigh flag. We can't get enough. Hend: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">This screams awesome. Loving the headband. And she’s rocking the Amazigh colours.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMSq3VHxZEPEYA_tAVjxEESMP1s9YcrdQV0cgrgNMq1DR03-MyjbGWi8Avvmznz8gONN3VAAKz8LbVxXdZlem49m3ZbgvS5XsHHgiFyuAURr6MJdd6uOVjTQfWNQadX851EAkVlpO4ng/s1600/IMG_0915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMSq3VHxZEPEYA_tAVjxEESMP1s9YcrdQV0cgrgNMq1DR03-MyjbGWi8Avvmznz8gONN3VAAKz8LbVxXdZlem49m3ZbgvS5XsHHgiFyuAURr6MJdd6uOVjTQfWNQadX851EAkVlpO4ng/s320/IMG_0915.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">We hope we will be as stylish as him when we grown up. Hend: Is it John Lennon?!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApv-zzQB01IZ2OHYvP7NV_Z_SKXZHSKYWy6uI0f7MHAO6vQMi22yiy8UbWBeVTwzfVxLB3LfuAjNbrP0c65yY1pZDob8brNGaecwfNI4dCOQoQ9P9SnDJU6pGwEbWgQWvelFpMgsDpi0/s1600/IMG_0917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApv-zzQB01IZ2OHYvP7NV_Z_SKXZHSKYWy6uI0f7MHAO6vQMi22yiy8UbWBeVTwzfVxLB3LfuAjNbrP0c65yY1pZDob8brNGaecwfNI4dCOQoQ9P9SnDJU6pGwEbWgQWvelFpMgsDpi0/s320/IMG_0917.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Words fail me. Beard, camera, cargo pants...</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: He’s got that journalist thing going on. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjy5HjCUZnZmY3T5bOE1o_RS3PEigWSqYHD6CCODNMqtBKDPZtIDpdA12FDTTcGzYe5JMU4DU6BAqN6Wn6TKZXqIqmLkJENm_i4MZzQpv7wRWEZI9OpthRxtkE4v4osAQBqg35gk1uY0/s1600/IMG_0922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjy5HjCUZnZmY3T5bOE1o_RS3PEigWSqYHD6CCODNMqtBKDPZtIDpdA12FDTTcGzYe5JMU4DU6BAqN6Wn6TKZXqIqmLkJENm_i4MZzQpv7wRWEZI9OpthRxtkE4v4osAQBqg35gk1uY0/s320/IMG_0922.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I love this. This is right from every angle. Happy hippy. Both of them.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: This is why we love the Tunis frippe! Because this happens. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJ5q6ihfAK7QrYsHVlBCPPvRE7XGCmeHgH-Bpn3asZTIqJK2-f0qd5SE6r_IEQuH53JcRgkTZY-LKBhDG9fWl684bISJrT2izSHtdQfdGLajsPohDRTcGwSgdS3ZKcs4fx53z8ZXRc7Q/s1600/IMG_0926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJ5q6ihfAK7QrYsHVlBCPPvRE7XGCmeHgH-Bpn3asZTIqJK2-f0qd5SE6r_IEQuH53JcRgkTZY-LKBhDG9fWl684bISJrT2izSHtdQfdGLajsPohDRTcGwSgdS3ZKcs4fx53z8ZXRc7Q/s320/IMG_0926.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Explanation- This guy was juggling during one of the concerts. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Pants, top, scarf, hair...all of it is very good. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9PCkw2DMomZwzRFyanrW_pXO2d85lWeEBz5CJjCitgWorpbnII4gkiNkoYrUkDyz-NhYjAemS1COEOsd-gpdybU-yn-a8Wt_g6xL5sF_KcK2pvaZWy1UjmjVDl9dD7RQltR0X_pgQaA/s1600/IMG_0931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9PCkw2DMomZwzRFyanrW_pXO2d85lWeEBz5CJjCitgWorpbnII4gkiNkoYrUkDyz-NhYjAemS1COEOsd-gpdybU-yn-a8Wt_g6xL5sF_KcK2pvaZWy1UjmjVDl9dD7RQltR0X_pgQaA/s320/IMG_0931.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This lady was from Egypt and so sweet. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Her necklace was a clock. I loved it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: I really liked that her hair scarf matched her sandals. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjax_q0V_V8yCFYgwzCtIhVleced0VCe5nfYFiob_rKc9vu9XQxUMFjWjAsC13XNN1VAQF7g7X20k4tL149NpypNIqD0aEImnwSCmQ3bKgiEVpMGxy_ps3NfkNppqwLfUtrKGjbstLb0v8/s1600/IMG_0929.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjax_q0V_V8yCFYgwzCtIhVleced0VCe5nfYFiob_rKc9vu9XQxUMFjWjAsC13XNN1VAQF7g7X20k4tL149NpypNIqD0aEImnwSCmQ3bKgiEVpMGxy_ps3NfkNppqwLfUtrKGjbstLb0v8/s320/IMG_0929.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: These girls were so cute! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: They rocked the maxi skirts like no other FSM attendees could. There is a fashion lesson to be learned from this picture. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: These hijabis put our outfits to shame. Check out Ons' <a href="http://ons-hm.tumblr.com/">Tumblr page</a>. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPfVOnP0sQNMkeqcMYHkFIOohicjAU2E5R1-_fOIRfVr-207Sft1f7fwCxkhSk1FSuuUIMHgIJJaGiE3fdA6DggTBtr3brA9iu8RzG4Pe0mGc2jL3UPA8itQQnL3PR7uPH8FulDJUhvx0/s1600/IMG_0937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPfVOnP0sQNMkeqcMYHkFIOohicjAU2E5R1-_fOIRfVr-207Sft1f7fwCxkhSk1FSuuUIMHgIJJaGiE3fdA6DggTBtr3brA9iu8RzG4Pe0mGc2jL3UPA8itQQnL3PR7uPH8FulDJUhvx0/s320/IMG_0937.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: I had to capture his tweed coat. It was amazing.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: This guy is hipster without being too hipster.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">(Our friend Oumayma, on hearing this, said “WHERE IS THE HIPSTER?!” Yeah...we may be a little obsessed.)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qDsnjRm9MyNlyQ4uVdnw1kmoGDy4goUqEORSkdqRNkDkd2I2yKuKdXpTuVoM9VAJMtTE-gFB-6RQgLQ8QfbafC0jHQemwd_8i_cEA-Om9d9Gox01qDtmjybYVGbwadIHJaUT8hyXg-A/s1600/IMG_0941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qDsnjRm9MyNlyQ4uVdnw1kmoGDy4goUqEORSkdqRNkDkd2I2yKuKdXpTuVoM9VAJMtTE-gFB-6RQgLQ8QfbafC0jHQemwd_8i_cEA-Om9d9Gox01qDtmjybYVGbwadIHJaUT8hyXg-A/s320/IMG_0941.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: This woman’s painted t-shirts were exquisite. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I love her earrings. SO TALENTED! Eeek.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjM2CEsiWPXZdGu2sPsmeneiwsZY5yurFHurcD2sbdQXdUEvZ4cYnnVgaJo-TiurahR3qMS17nH3gwWhvFmgB-CmVFzMbnuFFsrSsZZhIFIePbxtwCkltfwd20le7Y0eXz_YQd60Zf0F4/s1600/IMG_0949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjM2CEsiWPXZdGu2sPsmeneiwsZY5yurFHurcD2sbdQXdUEvZ4cYnnVgaJo-TiurahR3qMS17nH3gwWhvFmgB-CmVFzMbnuFFsrSsZZhIFIePbxtwCkltfwd20le7Y0eXz_YQd60Zf0F4/s320/IMG_0949.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: THE SWEATER!</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I think this is a blend of hipster meets reggae/rastafarae. And my bag is in the corner of the picture!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTasdF3mXx_nycFvL1HG2E0dJDy9ada2IKi6wefRVO5OX0qXNu5kOs6mWdzIJ7Nyyx7RG6sfDphmiwIdguANmhSZ8ENjaEfj5birCnZoVqR_p7LgjTGKLVmdBxE22PCaUJtsbifjszczg/s1600/IMG_0954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTasdF3mXx_nycFvL1HG2E0dJDy9ada2IKi6wefRVO5OX0qXNu5kOs6mWdzIJ7Nyyx7RG6sfDphmiwIdguANmhSZ8ENjaEfj5birCnZoVqR_p7LgjTGKLVmdBxE22PCaUJtsbifjszczg/s320/IMG_0954.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tunisia-live.net/">Tunisia Live</a>, present and accounted for!<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Effortless.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: I like their scarves :)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhUrIH2Uh72nx6CLHSxqpzg1blSU4F6yBDRTSIyRFWbON2LRKCqaHojybuEZ7Ujp-DjnlXZBDPD-Y3dZK9hSvMLK-BMR1mJa88bAvz6juc4lyRtvSzndBWjel8AdQUZ-JdDjuQ9NalKE/s1600/IMG_0990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhUrIH2Uh72nx6CLHSxqpzg1blSU4F6yBDRTSIyRFWbON2LRKCqaHojybuEZ7Ujp-DjnlXZBDPD-Y3dZK9hSvMLK-BMR1mJa88bAvz6juc4lyRtvSzndBWjel8AdQUZ-JdDjuQ9NalKE/s320/IMG_0990.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Can I get a “hey-a” for that skirt?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: Yes you can.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcNaGonyEV0F9UAFdT5aZo60B8xTdYPH6iEXM856QqRlVFebBxkZ44pdwSHzZNqdw7hmUP3bDJw3hRyqaibsq2IDfnN6qAHm7KUSoc4je_T2Ezwt9K3mMRWJUCANjzHqnVWRrWGr9MmM/s1600/IMG_0993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcNaGonyEV0F9UAFdT5aZo60B8xTdYPH6iEXM856QqRlVFebBxkZ44pdwSHzZNqdw7hmUP3bDJw3hRyqaibsq2IDfnN6qAHm7KUSoc4je_T2Ezwt9K3mMRWJUCANjzHqnVWRrWGr9MmM/s320/IMG_0993.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: These pants would be the sister of Hamza’a pants. They would be the cool siblings who love each other. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: (Is laughing too hard to comment)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO95Ge1N9pOizBLWeZ8t4b0SwhFHOJN9YhM19TM04pfYtofDIPsQ77WQd02dGQaDZA3Way6DmqlJMaqmfZQZGkBjdaeoVRooAy153NTBZ0JY1sxpiR2uS3G5d-0b2a5GH_KdqJJ_2v4u4/s1600/IMG_0991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO95Ge1N9pOizBLWeZ8t4b0SwhFHOJN9YhM19TM04pfYtofDIPsQ77WQd02dGQaDZA3Way6DmqlJMaqmfZQZGkBjdaeoVRooAy153NTBZ0JY1sxpiR2uS3G5d-0b2a5GH_KdqJJ_2v4u4/s320/IMG_0991.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: She deserves a prize for the perfect outfit. Bohemian, perfect. Even her shades. She had to be so perfect she made us all feel bad!</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: She looks like she’s at Coachella. And her friend’s pants are so cool. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiP8Z2ZlmAEwtiYcOoQzcTQevSYxOmpZ13i_tUKi3fp3kUZgRH15W__LUzhKG8V75X-Peo3l7Q-wTaQA1J7PWKCGmcs81PlLrXmouCisk88Q_4e7nKQwfBJ0noNlYT8vAYVQUcVZH-b8/s1600/IMG_1005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiP8Z2ZlmAEwtiYcOoQzcTQevSYxOmpZ13i_tUKi3fp3kUZgRH15W__LUzhKG8V75X-Peo3l7Q-wTaQA1J7PWKCGmcs81PlLrXmouCisk88Q_4e7nKQwfBJ0noNlYT8vAYVQUcVZH-b8/s320/IMG_1005.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I dedicate the song “Something” by the Beatles to this guy. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: Sometimes simplicity is best.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHDF0kFNWr3QCoFv7NpxhkZQZWYYufqpadt3WZE4PrBp200_Gu8C7UFf1Ytczo5WggAFgLzHrc_kNbz9syjp4SMLK5SFUia0pCHmTBQRNQy-KM1sCYE-_C3VWgsWqMJmIB0OyZFFpsM4/s1600/IMG_1019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHDF0kFNWr3QCoFv7NpxhkZQZWYYufqpadt3WZE4PrBp200_Gu8C7UFf1Ytczo5WggAFgLzHrc_kNbz9syjp4SMLK5SFUia0pCHmTBQRNQy-KM1sCYE-_C3VWgsWqMJmIB0OyZFFpsM4/s320/IMG_1019.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: I had to add this for the culture in the stiches.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I love the traditional Palestinian embroidery.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: And their dancing in the background! :)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEpXroGl8asu6hhtpdRoGO8Dw_M2QhhVG12ZGM18ys5rNQePvsEsKfz33YDAcHp7QK6N7eRpmncHlWjT-PvtEZBuUkdTNp_BbQIqDDsMejsovPf4s0jNIm81BW2IqEpC7DD3ImH9q8Gk/s1600/IMG_1001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEpXroGl8asu6hhtpdRoGO8Dw_M2QhhVG12ZGM18ys5rNQePvsEsKfz33YDAcHp7QK6N7eRpmncHlWjT-PvtEZBuUkdTNp_BbQIqDDsMejsovPf4s0jNIm81BW2IqEpC7DD3ImH9q8Gk/s320/IMG_1001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg by a fountain. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbs7mscebon5ao6JN5u_ad_6KS__ZNCU2-gF4n8i7GVAHpgXD6AW-vLPJECGfnXI9O7ViP47D6yiFqveHmzZUZx68mq6NL5obSnX5HSPqEHgsnKhMIePwB-5KN_IhWpa6D-I5NlcOXx6E/s1600/IMG_1031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbs7mscebon5ao6JN5u_ad_6KS__ZNCU2-gF4n8i7GVAHpgXD6AW-vLPJECGfnXI9O7ViP47D6yiFqveHmzZUZx68mq6NL5obSnX5HSPqEHgsnKhMIePwB-5KN_IhWpa6D-I5NlcOXx6E/s320/IMG_1031.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg, trying to control her hair on a windy day. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7ceDqnykEml_EhXbyZSj_UwRSEVvzFu68DaMCMhxdfUAhB7ynY8MGtw4NF-d6ElcGcamK_32SIU0hHyCUot4qP5RK4gFQJuj556BOGrbeyRaH2Kwi78-EbbAa0fyajml1F_s7SF-rmM/s1600/IMG_1035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7ceDqnykEml_EhXbyZSj_UwRSEVvzFu68DaMCMhxdfUAhB7ynY8MGtw4NF-d6ElcGcamK_32SIU0hHyCUot4qP5RK4gFQJuj556BOGrbeyRaH2Kwi78-EbbAa0fyajml1F_s7SF-rmM/s320/IMG_1035.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hend in the sun's rays.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN0WbgIv507xrv_NljloPbEJcy7uWZc4c6bdra5y0EoOKdBcQLXAptRJmSwsgE5lxsh6JEUGLqnowAqtDIRqEUueHiQhiZvssQeeneqD1z1jQTWAjLOlfj6nuaCxC_mIwOBjmrsbT0glM/s1600/Hend+details.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN0WbgIv507xrv_NljloPbEJcy7uWZc4c6bdra5y0EoOKdBcQLXAptRJmSwsgE5lxsh6JEUGLqnowAqtDIRqEUueHiQhiZvssQeeneqD1z1jQTWAjLOlfj6nuaCxC_mIwOBjmrsbT0glM/s320/Hend+details.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg: Your necklace is amazing! We were both wearing Senegalese necklaces that day :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfXR1daa4CxwSYgoPtZyIC1_1WSq3HV-UlkvefY9MhxbNOLG5kFQHcsT2rrLpG-SjwXl40d3JiMj846auX8kvD4XDdohHFbPx3uP6k13VrTUsqyUp5DVod3jDB9r6xF0wP5HPjE7cbHc/s1600/IMG_1038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfXR1daa4CxwSYgoPtZyIC1_1WSq3HV-UlkvefY9MhxbNOLG5kFQHcsT2rrLpG-SjwXl40d3JiMj846auX8kvD4XDdohHFbPx3uP6k13VrTUsqyUp5DVod3jDB9r6xF0wP5HPjE7cbHc/s320/IMG_1038.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: She looks like she’s straight from the 60s. And I don’t know where they guys behind her are from, but they are hilarious. The whole thing is very Brady Bunch.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Yeah, definitely 60s vibe. And the guys- matchy-matchy at your age? You should be ashamed. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4eBRVP0wFMdreMQUocQxQOIerQzSaK4KePuqg5bMTvkbEQKqXmFLIEgbbMfgz5gz3NNFw0U68gpKWy78Q1uFcTGP8lRWil9o5gK9LmkHokoF36DbPtQIb7QO64xgYIf_GPcv5bXMbp8/s1600/IMG_1061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4eBRVP0wFMdreMQUocQxQOIerQzSaK4KePuqg5bMTvkbEQKqXmFLIEgbbMfgz5gz3NNFw0U68gpKWy78Q1uFcTGP8lRWil9o5gK9LmkHokoF36DbPtQIb7QO64xgYIf_GPcv5bXMbp8/s320/IMG_1061.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: I took this picture for Hend.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Those shoes! I’m already in love with the Oxford trend, but what I like about these is the mixture of tan and brown. They’re unique.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVr-RJTmiUHwp9bzuq6mwU36ECfS-_ZTQxVHZtvWswj8LZL2fRH0et5gAkpI56hwALBIpo830H0JwIi1-ZKQLAVWsrunJWd3hQHGBZoR45aYfkkfUSELzep1sr_EAXdqjMTazV70G8z0/s1600/IMG_1069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVr-RJTmiUHwp9bzuq6mwU36ECfS-_ZTQxVHZtvWswj8LZL2fRH0et5gAkpI56hwALBIpo830H0JwIi1-ZKQLAVWsrunJWd3hQHGBZoR45aYfkkfUSELzep1sr_EAXdqjMTazV70G8z0/s320/IMG_1069.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: This one, seriously. It’s beyond being effortless. It reminds me of Rachel Bilson. Or a model. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: This is what I want to look like every day. The end. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2lecEOu2WqnG5JpKK5QacfAyKJX6fUQtWcIrVW8gB4pTzMOPTQ5wMYojKV4CciJyfd3C-BWOSkEgJearKvLKvtOECJU8-QQz-mx-W38JoEW3_MT-LgNhZjuscwe3wqakN1QUkx5LjyQ/s1600/IMG_1056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2lecEOu2WqnG5JpKK5QacfAyKJX6fUQtWcIrVW8gB4pTzMOPTQ5wMYojKV4CciJyfd3C-BWOSkEgJearKvLKvtOECJU8-QQz-mx-W38JoEW3_MT-LgNhZjuscwe3wqakN1QUkx5LjyQ/s320/IMG_1056.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Her pants! The sandals, the scarf, everything. It’s like the perfect outfit to sport this time of year.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: I loved how comfortable she looked. And the colours were so pretty and spring-like. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Yeah, it’s effortless. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQTe15kTZGw7b2Vcp11JncyyIO_1KBtaTylT2ZTkj1mrBwCmn4pMeUTSYQeEJprYTvCyYsqDgPwBfZkt8tSQFP27pbRbJIVwLvmWi_id81SnTN3hrXbWgHy4BAIqtezOz3SXCb9RAw_U/s1600/IMG_1071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQTe15kTZGw7b2Vcp11JncyyIO_1KBtaTylT2ZTkj1mrBwCmn4pMeUTSYQeEJprYTvCyYsqDgPwBfZkt8tSQFP27pbRbJIVwLvmWi_id81SnTN3hrXbWgHy4BAIqtezOz3SXCb9RAw_U/s320/IMG_1071.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Beautiful.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: She was wearing a hair feather! :)</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I really like the two colours- red and navy. And both of those girls, really good. It has hipster/street chic influence but not too much. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: Again, effortless. Sensing a theme here?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwN76ClxzSTjPBb9X51-PWv-vdOx6TwLus1yd4v3FQIoMuRJyhCiVByET2v6C70VOWvOEM9Z_zjIorZhCYHcarkalh-0-GSKL1tN6YQG4351FgS5u8TQ8hZRH05ikHF8j8nE08LXPja8/s1600/IMG_1081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwN76ClxzSTjPBb9X51-PWv-vdOx6TwLus1yd4v3FQIoMuRJyhCiVByET2v6C70VOWvOEM9Z_zjIorZhCYHcarkalh-0-GSKL1tN6YQG4351FgS5u8TQ8hZRH05ikHF8j8nE08LXPja8/s320/IMG_1081.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I don’t know what to say. This is what FSM is all about. People hanging out.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: And if your clothes don’t let you do that, you’re not wearing the right ones. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gv0lfE1JBwTDz5jrTIrI1JkdBJ3mM35hN-nvG6tAkKJWJnoyTaLXGiZ01AhmeW1ddtpisGd2QYEWdLe7nhDLJ4djUowe8Ea652hEh1APvgixqkNFfkbZYkVkSTkwq1z6UI-_YfN82FI/s1600/IMG_1079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gv0lfE1JBwTDz5jrTIrI1JkdBJ3mM35hN-nvG6tAkKJWJnoyTaLXGiZ01AhmeW1ddtpisGd2QYEWdLe7nhDLJ4djUowe8Ea652hEh1APvgixqkNFfkbZYkVkSTkwq1z6UI-_YfN82FI/s320/IMG_1079.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: This woman was not afraid of colour. And her hair is so cool. As someone with pin-straight locks, can I just say I am jealous?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I am such a fan of cobalt blue. It’s the perfect spring transition colour. Not pastel, not a dark winter colour. </span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And the pants- awesoooooooome! </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_z6TQiUiCQSQNc7xdbW_8SCIgCaK6h87jbbeynobYNvmvCOHtJplg64XdTk1Dp0ghuD2wI-a7WbnkqoUaU35NqUxXSSsKi2HD1UKQfXh0Otes7CTnj_gtqLDeuAguICz9o3EE-AIUNqQ/s1600/IMG_1090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_z6TQiUiCQSQNc7xdbW_8SCIgCaK6h87jbbeynobYNvmvCOHtJplg64XdTk1Dp0ghuD2wI-a7WbnkqoUaU35NqUxXSSsKi2HD1UKQfXh0Otes7CTnj_gtqLDeuAguICz9o3EE-AIUNqQ/s320/IMG_1090.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Her sweater is beautiful. Printed and colourful, which is what spring should be all about. And I love that she paired it with a twist- a skirt and tights. Hats off.</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: You definitely needed to pack a sweater for this event. The days were hot, but the nights were surprisingly cold. Always be prepared! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: They were so cool, we wanted to be their friends. It almost happened, but sadly they are back in Italy now.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: I just want to be a part of their clique. They are the kind of people you want to hang out with around a bonfire, talking about life, music, all the good things.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: Green pants, satchels, scarves...world traveller style at its best! Come back and visit soon!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s us! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hend: Beanie, pants, jean jacket, right on. Also, I love your sandals! Those are the sandals you should wear with those kind of pants.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Meg: Thanks, they’re by iPanema. And I really loved your layers. Again, the frippe is our fashion haven. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">We hope these pictures give you a glimpse, however small, of the culture, creativity and passion of the participants of FSM 2013. We were so inspired by the panels we went to, the people we talked to and saw, and the impromptu musical jam sessions, volleyball games, dance parties, and friendships that occurred along the way. Here's hoping we can make it to FSM 2014 in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Port Allegro, Brazil</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span">. Another world is possible!</span><br />
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PS- If you missed it, check out my (Meg) multimedia reportage on the Palestinian presence at the forum <a href="http://www.forumsocial.info/spip.php?article436">here</a>!<br />
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-91506353841234850462013-02-13T12:38:00.002-08:002013-02-13T12:38:50.380-08:00Hope's Grave<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTquV7bjqG82-80mjpg2eviu_Jv3ab-_aAmX3lI9Pv440MqnY2MUYCXBTVJr5WffO_vPGrwqGc4XemqEcEGEYwrq-o11q2drA5xYcsqxaSqqqnPtqwjjgjTKTqARsTpo5ESsUvW3tfRkA/s1600/The+funeral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTquV7bjqG82-80mjpg2eviu_Jv3ab-_aAmX3lI9Pv440MqnY2MUYCXBTVJr5WffO_vPGrwqGc4XemqEcEGEYwrq-o11q2drA5xYcsqxaSqqqnPtqwjjgjTKTqARsTpo5ESsUvW3tfRkA/s320/The+funeral.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I woke feeling like there was a rock in my stomach, and adrenalin rushing through my veins. Today was the day. I had watched the street battles between police and protesters from my window over the past couple days, and knew things might get bad. So I packed carefully, for the dangers and possibilities I did know, and trying to anticipate those I didn’t: </span></div>
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<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My passport- I don’t usually carry it, but today I wanted to be certain that if I was stopped, it was clear I was Canadian</span></li>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I visited my friend in an office building on Bourguiba, and we ran across the street to get crepes at the only place that was open on the whole avenue. The shops looked like eyes with their lids squeezed tight. I had seen the broken windows of days before- so it was no wonder the metals grates stayed shut. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Another friend was waiting for me at the bookstore with her Mom. We started walking towards the cemetery, past barbed wire and police, down quiet sidestreets. We were walking behind two young men, one of them clutching a large Tunisian flag in his hand. The sun had broken through the clouds, driving away the chill air, and under our warm layers we were beginning to perspire.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we turned the corner I saw a straggling line of people in front of me, coming from every direction and headed towards the cemetery. We crested a rise in the road, and there on the bridge, in the graveyard, on the other side of the wall, on the hill, were thousands of Tunisians. Their black coats and black hair made the red Tunisian flags stand out like bright drops of blood. I stood on a concrete slab and looked over the crowd- there were people of every age, of every economic class, and we were all waiting. One man had died with revolutionary dreams on his lips, and the pulsing life of these tens of thousands was here to prove that it was not in vain. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We waited for a long time. First we tried to find a place to watch outside the cemetery. But, realizing that this was futile, we hopped down a wall into the rows of stones and began picking our way towards the buildings in the center. The mud squished up over our shoes, and the sky suddenly became cloudy and grey. The wind blew into the cracks in our coats as we reached the edge of a huge crowd that had gathered, and were chanting revolutionary slogans off and on. Young men, the kind you see on all the street corners of downtown Tunis, clad in tracksuits, jeans and leather jackets, were climbing the walls of the buildings, grabbing each others arms and heaving themselves up bars on the windows to stand on the roof and yell from above us. Beside me was a circular stone structure, and the students at the top stood, illuminated by the sun, waving a flag back and forth. The light made the hope on their faces shine bright as they called back and forth to the men on the roofs. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It began to rain, and my friend and I sat underneath a bougainvillea bush. The flowers were curled up tight, as if they knew what was coming and were trying to protect themselves. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The crowd chanted off and on for what must have been an hour. When rumours of tear gas shifted our way, my companions and I made a swift getaway to higher, more open ground at the edge of the crowd. We stood on a low wall with some mothers and daughters, and continued waiting. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We weren’t waiting long before panic struck. We watched trickles of people making their way down the path towards the exit. The trickle became a flood, and along with it, the first whiffs of acrid tear gas. We didn’t join the crush of people on the path, but started in the opposite direction as the gas, stepping over graves and around tombstones. Beside me I heard a young girl whine in panic, “Maman...MAMAN!!!” I stepped aside to let the family keep together. I wondered how the two little girls who had been to my left were making out, but there was no time to check. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The smell got worse, and began to burn my nose and throat. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Whatever you do, don’t rub your eyes- even if it hurts,” my friend warned beside me. I nodded.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Her mother was having a hard time, coughing and tripping over stones. I dug in my bag for one of the cloths and handed it to her, then took her hand. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The graves were no longer the last resting place of the dead, but only obstacles keeping us from fresh air. Reaching it, we breathed deeply. This side of the cemetery was almost deserted. There were no police, and no bands of thugs- yet. We found another exit and stood there, waiting again. I got a call from a radio station I freelance for, for an interview later in the day. We watched people go, and then watched some of those same people come back. A group of foreigners, who my friend and I dubbed, “hipster journalists” for their bright colours, headbands and expensive cameras, passed by us twice.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Finally, judging that it was safe, we walked cautiously back towards the centre of the cemetery where Belaid’s coffin would be taken. Black smoke rose on the other side of the area, dark against the grey rain clouds. Young men had taken advantage of the chaos the past couple days to burn cars and rob mourners, some said at knifepoint. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We climbed higher up the hill to get a view. The crowd was smaller, but still substantial. A cheer went up, and we assumed that Belaid’s procession had reached the cemetery. Down below, an opposition party leader passed and we hurried to catch a word with him. Then another group of friends met us, and we decided to leave the site together. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we got to the gate, a group of teenage boys with bandanas covering their faces walked in. Out of instinct, I put my recorder down by my side where they couldn't see it, and averted my eyes. Maybe I shouldn't have worn the red raincoat- between that and my pale skin and hair I was a moving target. One of the boys hit a girl in the face. She started to cry and a couple people rushed to her aid. Another tried to grab my friend’s phone out of her hand as they passed. She shrugged off our concern, her face hard when she said, “It’s normal.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The thieves had shaken me a bit, and we were careful as we walked back. I’ve been robbed before, and didn’t want to repeat the experience, so I kept a tight grip on my keychain with the whistle attached to it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When we reached Bourguiba, it was a changed place. Barbed wire completely enclosed one side, and the pedestrian walkway in the middle. Police and journalists were lined up at the clock tower at the top of the street, waiting for people to come back from the funeral. I waited there for another friend who was leaving her office, and we made our way down a side-street, thinking it would be safer. But at the end, we saw the tell-tale smoke of tear gas and men hurling rocks. I pushed my friend towards Passage, where she would find a cab, and said, “Go home.” Then I started running back to Bourguiba. I slowed when I reached it but walked as fast as I could, trying to outdistance the fear that was gripping my stomach again, and praying staccato sentences in my head. I passed two American women, obviously journalists, who appeared completely unconcerned. I shot them a look that said, “You’re crazy,” and kept walking. Getting mugged by the roving bands of thugs I knew were coming didn’t seem worth it to me, even to get the story. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I could see the rock-throwers at the end of my street, and I rushed to get my key in the lock and open the thick metal door. It was such a relief to get inside that I felt like crying- but someone had closed the wooden door within, and I didn’t have a key. I was safe between the doors, but still gripped with a kind of panic, and I called the nun who takes care of the house to get someone to come down and open it. Just as they did, the radio studio called. With my voice still shaking, I gave them a quick update that may or may not have been incomprehensible. When it was over, I sat there for a minute on the couch in the vestibule, just trying to breathe.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Once in my room, I shot off a message to my parents that I was safe. I couldn’t handle more than that. The other people who live in my building, a group of Italian students, were gathered on the floor below me, drinking tea and checking online updates of what was happening outside. They watched a live feed of chanting from the funeral. I sat with them for a few minutes, but felt myself fading, so said goodbye. I went to my apartment and got in bed, the echo of chanting and the pop of tear gas still ringing in my ears. I slept until it was dark. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One of my friends here says that Chokri Belaid’s death was like a loss of innocence for Tunisia. And when I think back to the day he died, standing on Bourguiba Avenue while my friend cried on my shoulder and sobbed, “What is happening to my country?”, I’m inclined to believe he is right. There was a normalcy to the stagnation and delay of the government. There was a balance, however unsteady, between all the different political and social factions. And there was hope in that fact that people were free to express their opinions in a way that was impossible before the revolution. There was hope that Tunisia could gradually get back on its feet. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But with Belaid’s murder, days after he accused the government of not squashing political violence, a fear rose up in people that all they had sacrificed for would be pushed aside. In their anger, fear and sorrow, and without knowing who actually killed Belaid, or why, people are blaming each other. Belaid’s widow blames the government. Certain secular liberals blame Salafists and the League for the Protection of the Revolution. Then, in the aftermath, conservatives blamed France, and some blamed Belaid’s own party for the disruption to the peace. The Western media was quick to point a finger at the “Islamists”, with experts accusing them of being <a href="http://english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/2/8/64501/World/Region/Islamists-lack-savvy-to-rule-in-Tunisia,-Egypt-Exp.aspx">unfit to rule</a>, and sympathetic towards Salafist extremists. <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2013/feb/09/violent-salafists-threaten-arab-spring-democracies?CMP=twt_gu">This article</a> even tried to tie Belaid’s death with a “violent tide of Salafism” that threatens the entire Arab Spring, an utterly ludicrous connection that those of us who live here know has no basis in facts. There are very few voices of reason, and very few who will talk to each other to try and work out a solution. Belaid's death has widened the social, political, economic and religious cracks that separate Tunisians from one another, and the media are doing their part to highlight these divisions.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You could say that on February 8, 2013, a lot of the hope that Tunisia had held on to after the revolution was buried deep in the ground with Chokri Belaid. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But at the same time, many took his example of courage to heart. I spoke with an engineer at the funeral who told me that he never supported Belaid’s politics, indeed, that he didn’t support any party at all, but that he was inspired by Belaid’s speaking his mind and criticizing the government.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And then there was the young Tunisian woman at the funeral who had just returned from London to a country she no longer recognized. Her eyes and her words were beautifully melancholy, and she spoke into my recorder like it was a poetry recitation. At the end, she summed up how she felt like this:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“But I have hope. Where there is life, there is hope.”</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZVCMOGX_ZFU8eo_2RiNLZ0kuUSuQOzx6oD85yLCCtov-kNzbvfWSW_hK8z6Gs0I2SzSvW_j6xNZ80L0U6BbbuWpZZdl_I_10_QTVrgnd1-2mSFtf8Jh0YAFMIn4U-O2Wah25GOkiKwA/s1600/IMG_0251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZVCMOGX_ZFU8eo_2RiNLZ0kuUSuQOzx6oD85yLCCtov-kNzbvfWSW_hK8z6Gs0I2SzSvW_j6xNZ80L0U6BbbuWpZZdl_I_10_QTVrgnd1-2mSFtf8Jh0YAFMIn4U-O2Wah25GOkiKwA/s320/IMG_0251.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sign picturing Chokri Belaid<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO6y3YCmUXN3JYy8AQ9RfnxVTy-FIrpLu5zHs6KiSyzQ0gU9VeooBVYQLGNkmtIfQjHEaUSYX9-qGnl936eiSw25Ga683r8P3cc-V6Tn4Lsf2O7eq1QcWCVL583RiokDWy13UZzieijlU/s1600/Man+with+a+flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO6y3YCmUXN3JYy8AQ9RfnxVTy-FIrpLu5zHs6KiSyzQ0gU9VeooBVYQLGNkmtIfQjHEaUSYX9-qGnl936eiSw25Ga683r8P3cc-V6Tn4Lsf2O7eq1QcWCVL583RiokDWy13UZzieijlU/s320/Man+with+a+flag.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking to the cemetery</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZo_ine6UyvuyWV8fUoTJAoGYWAOytREh9WZgObLLlUqGcikTEomWihmOWBsFUniPkZ4mG8IBG3bpLwqrOduNZCkeLVgvOqZykm-mqjEHV906NAqp8mutkXxi10gav3E8_2uNWVnAnyKc/s1600/Waiting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZo_ine6UyvuyWV8fUoTJAoGYWAOytREh9WZgObLLlUqGcikTEomWihmOWBsFUniPkZ4mG8IBG3bpLwqrOduNZCkeLVgvOqZykm-mqjEHV906NAqp8mutkXxi10gav3E8_2uNWVnAnyKc/s320/Waiting.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for the funeral to begin</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4aiXSVQ0y2rOgkd_a0idsWnw2BS6fF1oRGbNKAn4JechM63qYSRj2jPXR4i4l2Vzull6CoQWqpj02MNS_kiP9QNIGvXgpbi9kU_Oq4kC3MrByqxMUODyfb12h0P_YYxUIK18Xe_1Tck/s1600/On+the+roof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC4aiXSVQ0y2rOgkd_a0idsWnw2BS6fF1oRGbNKAn4JechM63qYSRj2jPXR4i4l2Vzull6CoQWqpj02MNS_kiP9QNIGvXgpbi9kU_Oq4kC3MrByqxMUODyfb12h0P_YYxUIK18Xe_1Tck/s320/On+the+roof.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the roof</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSo9zRTpC6DCSS-OfdlojjfvfNLy8tpdn7OMwJa0Zd7VD91TuKLthzg8-yHYmGU8r78eka2E2j6hNV8nRo_5yXyScv1R45oWPQKPNNATvX1ppsgdIA7hQF8Pn4FSodOKnzVshwwnwLA0/s1600/The+Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSo9zRTpC6DCSS-OfdlojjfvfNLy8tpdn7OMwJa0Zd7VD91TuKLthzg8-yHYmGU8r78eka2E2j6hNV8nRo_5yXyScv1R45oWPQKPNNATvX1ppsgdIA7hQF8Pn4FSodOKnzVshwwnwLA0/s320/The+Tower.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chanting to keep the revolution alive<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixk3BGoWpmPFKURGeRNDe_HuChQ37EJgHCO3bE0sstwYT9f-cCFArX3Nrq80whl763ENYscTOAzJDxjMSsK8l_AgdZTCj6WNKVqtVB7NORmX9bRg64pm7zcgI8osDofD9z7miUCfvCZsA/s1600/Smoke+over+the+graves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixk3BGoWpmPFKURGeRNDe_HuChQ37EJgHCO3bE0sstwYT9f-cCFArX3Nrq80whl763ENYscTOAzJDxjMSsK8l_AgdZTCj6WNKVqtVB7NORmX9bRg64pm7zcgI8osDofD9z7miUCfvCZsA/s320/Smoke+over+the+graves.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Smoke over the graves<br /></td></tr>
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</div>
</div>
Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-19989085209650252562012-12-17T09:09:00.003-08:002012-12-17T09:16:04.785-08:00Two Years After Bouazizi the Revolution Continues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJpepMB1L0oX82I7aLfzR8Ud0LkKG8ohpTHd7CrrvGPl9DmPZsyMuB8eVjAHNPMrp40_6c-HNrLWbgGugBTlxnwV128sGIVHnIKiqQHFSW3zSi0W-DCaL-2WfL7f7GrnyYdUe9tV6-Qc/s1600/IMG_7400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A protest in Tunis</td></tr>
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Two years ago today, Mohammed Bouazizi set himself on fire in front of the government building in the town of Sidi Bouzid, Tunisia. His act of desperation set off a domino effect of protests against unemployment and the abuse of power that toppled dictator Zine El Abidine Ben Ali and started the Arab Spring.<br />
<br />
Has anything changed?<br />
<br />
In short, yes. During Ben Ali’s era, religious citizens were looked on with suspicion. If you were a bearded man, or a veiled woman, you could expect trouble if you ran into the police. And to speak against the dictator was out of the question if you wished to avoid jail. <br />
<br />
Those things have changed now. Politics are discussed in restaurants, cafés, and right on the main downtown street of Habib Bourguiba, where people often stand in circles debating current affairs. Men with beards and veiled women are seen in almost every neighbourhood, and even niquabs are not uncommon. But there are those who would argue that the pendulum has swung too far the other way, and that now it is liberal secularists who get the heat for their opinions.<br />
<br />
During the Printemps des Arts exhibit, I interviewed Melek, a young rapper who participated in “Enti Essout”, a collaboration song that encouraged voters to participate in the October 2011 elections. He told me that he wished his group hadn’t taken part in the song. His disappointment in the government was palpable, but he was there to support his friend, graffitti artist Meen-One Calligraffiti, and so the conversation moved to other things.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUaJ4zF8jGNS1za-bW7bQ0jW0IviAabF6-afDRg7yMFd1bqzU5GQO2Kr8MnpTGfgdm2xXITLVdB6zaZTrRWrQ2-wQ8M1mAqjghXtITzl01zQUeZg7cyKskVcL78SDkuTyXLckZoKsto2s/s1600/IMG_2879.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUaJ4zF8jGNS1za-bW7bQ0jW0IviAabF6-afDRg7yMFd1bqzU5GQO2Kr8MnpTGfgdm2xXITLVdB6zaZTrRWrQ2-wQ8M1mAqjghXtITzl01zQUeZg7cyKskVcL78SDkuTyXLckZoKsto2s/s320/IMG_2879.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the controversial Printemps pieces</td></tr>
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A week later, the exhibit was attacked after a religious zealot claimed that some of the pieces insulted Islam and the Prophet Mohamed. Facebook posts threatened the participating artists with death. Meen-One was one of those artists. Instead of supporting the artists, the Minister of Culture was quoted as saying that some of the art was blasphemous, and was under investigation. <br />
<br />
I have spoken with bloggers and activists who claim to have been targeted by the police for their opinions. And of course, only a couple weeks ago, government supporters attacked the main labour union (the UGTT) on the anniversary of their founder’s death. At a protest soon after the attacks, I spoke to a young woman who is a UGTT supporter. She was shy, and I could barely hear her voice over the chanting, but she said quite firmly that Ennahdha “are terrorists”. <br />
<br />
This week a friend and I went out for lunch. She has worked in the Constituent Assembly, and I was interested to get her take on the current situation. “None of the politicians care about the Tunisian people,” she said. “They say they do, but they’re lying. I know. I was there in the sessions. I met them. I listened.” In June, my friend will not be voting. For someone as politically active as she, it is a powerful choice not to act. But she believes that none of the current political parties deserve her vote. <br />
<br />
And she is not alone. The youth who fought to change their country are underrepresented in government and the Constituent Assembly. Instead, the country is ruled by an older generation, many of whom were in exile for years and are believed to have lost touch with what Tunisia needs. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7xy9Uwg0hQaby-XwU30CTpThS5-3l4XebZZh8Ha9JPncZWnQ45xwA_7R0XHFCuuJ0fwNw74PeiqrdcPbYUL2V9thZa202kEe1PxQnciSTHPvMH3qo6HnN7UdEMAVpsGJ2yQEIAfhyVM/s1600/IMG_7103.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7xy9Uwg0hQaby-XwU30CTpThS5-3l4XebZZh8Ha9JPncZWnQ45xwA_7R0XHFCuuJ0fwNw74PeiqrdcPbYUL2V9thZa202kEe1PxQnciSTHPvMH3qo6HnN7UdEMAVpsGJ2yQEIAfhyVM/s320/IMG_7103.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tunisian riot police</td></tr>
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And what about people like Bouazizi? Unemployment continues to rise, along with food prices and the cost of living. The towns in central Tunisia, including Sidi Bouzid, have experienced unrest this month as a result of the lack of change. Joblessness affects the educated and uneducated alike, and young people are the hardest hit. <br />
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When I worked in an office on a busy downtown Tunis street, we watched police officers drive street vendors off the sidewalks on a weekly basis. And police brutality during protests has made it evident that the security forces are still in sore need of reform. <br />
<br />
I once had the great privilege of interviewing an Egyptian activist, who told me, “A revolution takes ten years.” He viewed the revolutions in his country and in Tunisia as a process, not the end goal. Citizens cannot simply sit back now that Ben Ali is gone and think that politicians will make things all better, no more than those who live in countries that have been democratic for decades can. They must continue to participate in government, in civil society, in making their voices heard and in making their country a better place.<br />
<br />
So no, perhaps Bouazizi would not be pleased with how little has changed for struggling Tunisians. But change takes time, and another eight years might be enough to make Tunisia a country he could be proud of.</div>
Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-66798352033276102452012-09-24T08:27:00.000-07:002012-09-24T09:06:15.123-07:00Colour and Smiles, Not Smoke and Screams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h5 class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}" style="font-weight: normal;">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent">I
love the Tunis market. It's a place of colour and warmth: The cheese
seller who greets me as a friend now, the spice vendor who walked past,
recognized me and gave me a solemn nod, the man quietly reading the
Koran at his vegetable stand, another cheese seller (the one with the kind eyes) who
gave me a sample even though he saw I had already bought from someone
else, the bread guy who was joking with us and snatched the bread from
me, then grinned, the vegetable seller who called my friend and me
"daughter" the other day, and the man who gave us presents (straw fans)
worth much more than the couple dollars we spent on eggs and raisins.
Each time I go there I am reminded of how lovely the people of Tunisia
are, how vibrant and joyful and generous.<br /> For friends overseas,
these are the people you should think of when you think of the Arab
world, not the outspoken, violent few who manage to make international
news.</span></span></h5>
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Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-78715130207374105302012-05-21T07:35:00.000-07:002012-09-26T01:24:34.920-07:00Tunisia Two Months On...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbHUzz4BoYheCO0OZ5WVl2FG9yP4w_vHktixte74A1HlEEDaAW-me9fKTiESz-TrmUyQzqJNeFWgMIeinnvBqMObQx9FcJMilMwHb_vzAMArNXgFA_jpbU1dQf66mbauo1szIPva6Fv6E/s1600/Tunis+street.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbHUzz4BoYheCO0OZ5WVl2FG9yP4w_vHktixte74A1HlEEDaAW-me9fKTiESz-TrmUyQzqJNeFWgMIeinnvBqMObQx9FcJMilMwHb_vzAMArNXgFA_jpbU1dQf66mbauo1szIPva6Fv6E/s320/Tunis+street.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Tunis street</td></tr>
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Tunisia caught me by surprise. This confusing,
frustrating and beautiful place is taking more time to get to know than
most countries I’ve lived in. But, as I am starting to see, it is worth the effort...<br />
<br />
For the first few weeks here, I was miserable.
To be honest, to me Tunisia was lacking the vibrant colour and warmth of
Senegal. The cold bit into me at night and as I sat working during the
day. People seemed so aggressive- pushing each other on the sidewalks,
men catcalling me every other minute, yelling from all sides, all the
time. They spoke to me in Arabic and then laughed when I couldn’t answer
back. I saw things in shades of grey- the sky, the dark clothes, my
mood when I was constantly harassed by men. I’ve been a world traveller
since I was a kid, and for the most part I don’t experience much culture
shock anymore. But this place was different. I couldn’t wrap my head
around it. I couldn’t get used to it. I would get home tired and
discouraged. I didn’t want to read, or write, or think, I just wanted
quiet from the cacophony of noise I was bombarded with each day.<br />
<br />
One of the only things that made me smile was working at Tunisia Live.
The stories I wrote were exciting, exhausting, and fulfilling. They made
me think, and a couple times, cry.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTinIPFzxzktuiDcAU4ZsCWUGYjb-iOlJW7LOlgGsTaaGxLLxmoYILNZTm9s7Ji7OUmHzPUaF33aERDwn_Q1EV1_CS1cjq6JocZff99lJ5zvChI48qhIKFVqmjkGMDndKGroaMVW3jgys/s1600/blue+skies.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTinIPFzxzktuiDcAU4ZsCWUGYjb-iOlJW7LOlgGsTaaGxLLxmoYILNZTm9s7Ji7OUmHzPUaF33aERDwn_Q1EV1_CS1cjq6JocZff99lJ5zvChI48qhIKFVqmjkGMDndKGroaMVW3jgys/s320/blue+skies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue skies from the roof</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got to know some of the Tunisian writers as I
edited their stories and asked for their help with my own. I made
mistakes (some of them big), and their kindness and patience in teaching
me about their country started to slowly change my view of my new home.
I went to the market at lunch time, taking in the colours and laughter
of fresh produce and the vendors who are colourful characters
themselves. One friend showed me a used bookstore across from our
office, a treasure for someone who loves to read like I do. I bought a
novel by my favourite author, Antoine de Saint Exupery, and sat reading
it in the sunshine by the open balcony, looking up at one of the first
blue skies I’d seen since arriving. Tunisia was starting to look better.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRPS_mPGvfmUENRBvZMGhqtOP4vBbt6J1TVX0xdWC4pG3727mj5Rq2v1gAAODUZLkYR_9kP3ZpPev_iCNRMpTNBCoJgfucLHr4jRrcgRK1YWSB3NhmgEGUQ8uUAjZGqi-meEy17kVA0E/s1600/Seyf+FWT.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRPS_mPGvfmUENRBvZMGhqtOP4vBbt6J1TVX0xdWC4pG3727mj5Rq2v1gAAODUZLkYR_9kP3ZpPev_iCNRMpTNBCoJgfucLHr4jRrcgRK1YWSB3NhmgEGUQ8uUAjZGqi-meEy17kVA0E/s320/Seyf+FWT.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fashion Week Tunis: a look from Narcisco Domingo Machiavelli</td></tr>
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And then Fashion Week Tunis rolled around. Being
immersed in the creativity of a country rebuilding itself was one of the
most exhilarating experiences of my life. I have aways wanted to write
about fashion and social change, but never thought that I would be able
to write about both in one story. I realized then that I am doing
exactly what I dreamed of when I signed up for journalism school.<br />
<br />
It was
also at Fashion Week that something else occurred to me: this is part of
the Revolution too. The beauty, message, passion, joy and youth is all
vital to this new phase in Tunisia’s history. And by writing about it,
and more “serious” topics, I’m a part of all that as well. It’s a
humbling thought. As my friend Seyf said to me one day, why wouldn’t I
want to be here, crafting a country from scratch, whether it’s in
fashion, art, music, politics or journalism? There is a freedom here, a
sense of possibility that I have never experienced before.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8FaqBUc0IuEA9klyhHJIG8D-HmhPynIZswl6CDk1qaoXBgT2_dbUZkvLNbtU9Ya6MKPxt7yqRhQvocchulhCD_ZlshDLrRUQQbEo88UFiBAJXs54dS4_bLtBidwWKW1l2eyqmK8N7FY/s1600/Tunis+in+bloom.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8FaqBUc0IuEA9klyhHJIG8D-HmhPynIZswl6CDk1qaoXBgT2_dbUZkvLNbtU9Ya6MKPxt7yqRhQvocchulhCD_ZlshDLrRUQQbEo88UFiBAJXs54dS4_bLtBidwWKW1l2eyqmK8N7FY/s320/Tunis+in+bloom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tunis in bloom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And that’s why, a little over two months
into living in Tunisia, I can’t imagine being anywhere else. I’ve also had a chance to travel a bit outside Tunis, and the beauty of the
country has left me itching to see more. There is so much left to see,
so many things I want to know. I feel like I am contributing in some
small way, as a part of a team of people I am proud to call my friends.
Every day is its own adventure, and every day I am learning. And for me,
that’s enough to make me stick around.
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSnJ6VSkjbdWmO9FV-nKVO2bI9nuX872bS2BzVww0z0x2MKOgEpyOYNrPBeeWgjfFVg1xVMFXnnk8C7voOR9O3-9B9l2cfn7WUm-SEivtgINwQdo0kWhtxpXl30U4RA7NbS8pn30vcXH0/s1600/home.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSnJ6VSkjbdWmO9FV-nKVO2bI9nuX872bS2BzVww0z0x2MKOgEpyOYNrPBeeWgjfFVg1xVMFXnnk8C7voOR9O3-9B9l2cfn7WUm-SEivtgINwQdo0kWhtxpXl30U4RA7NbS8pn30vcXH0/s320/home.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A better view (by Rabii Kalboussi)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-47008652268561273452012-03-23T07:50:00.005-07:002012-03-23T08:03:44.419-07:00The Malian CoupYesterday I had the great privilege of speaking with a Tuareg man from Mali. He runs community programs for his people in Timbuktu. I was writing a piece about the coup in Mali, and I wanted some background about the Tuareg rebellion- the catalyst that led Mali's army to seize power from the government. <br /><br />I don't know how long the interview lasted, but my pen could not write fast enough. The scope of the Tuareg's history, their migrations and discontent, their history in conflicts from Libya to Niger, was staggering. I felt a deep sympathy for this people without a home, but at the same time I ached for the soldiers being pitted against their superior weapons and tactics. <br /><br />When I hung up the phone, I was exhausted. My colleague across the desk looked at me, quite worried, but I just shook my head. What can someone do in the face of a conflict that has lasted for over a hundred years? <br /><br />My answer was, as it has always been, to write about it. I was overwhelmed, but my fellow editors and journalists at Tunisia Live encouraged me to dig deeper, and to write the article I have linked below. I hope you will read it, because Mali needs the world to understand what has been going on for too long inside their borders. <br /><br />Click the link: <a href="http://www.tunisia-live.net/2012/03/23/the-malian-coup-decades-of-rebellion-and-one-night-of-gunfire">The Malian Coup - Decades of Rebellion and One Night of Gunfire</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24oQHRp_xf8hklqwViuyv_TMpyUtQwahHqqyQ0iQMg2qqSXtCGp6Y7c1h0KIu4wnDRkB94UHrfJowQjux8dZTxM5okigfMD6ACdnH9N1ya2qUN7nraGN1aWHXwKHcT-l1aX3h_1eeJtI/s1600/Tuareg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24oQHRp_xf8hklqwViuyv_TMpyUtQwahHqqyQ0iQMg2qqSXtCGp6Y7c1h0KIu4wnDRkB94UHrfJowQjux8dZTxM5okigfMD6ACdnH9N1ya2qUN7nraGN1aWHXwKHcT-l1aX3h_1eeJtI/s320/Tuareg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723107907767279378" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A Tuareg in Algeria sits in his army fatigues. Photo by Garrondo, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.</span>Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-23111697538780822172012-03-23T04:40:00.003-07:002012-03-23T04:42:51.798-07:00Tunisia LiveHello all!<br />I am now settled in my new job in Tunis, Tunisia. Posts might be sporadic as I learn the ropes of my new home and position as an editor for Tunisia Live. <br />Check out www.tunisia-live.net for articles I write or have collaborated on. And follow me on Twitter for more consistent updates on what I am doing or working on.<br />Merci!Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-69975812886105733332012-01-31T14:14:00.000-08:002012-01-31T15:40:35.441-08:00January 31st ProtestIt was to be expected: I arrived early, like I usually do. The protest started late, as things in Africa usually do. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJlQdnDoIy9cQMgplF2-vlNvcdfyZV5APLVCkvAfa1gPtqLOAs0CP91GaVSyF1RtvJ1fu0P9RA_z_ZoozyKZlTKwaG-b23_m7DDEctVdi1klszdDqEcdMC-xagJrk4YpTDI8MEHYL1f64/s1600/IMG_2005.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJlQdnDoIy9cQMgplF2-vlNvcdfyZV5APLVCkvAfa1gPtqLOAs0CP91GaVSyF1RtvJ1fu0P9RA_z_ZoozyKZlTKwaG-b23_m7DDEctVdi1klszdDqEcdMC-xagJrk4YpTDI8MEHYL1f64/s320/IMG_2005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703929801807176770" /></a><br /><br />I met up with the team from Al Jazeera and let them know that the police were setting up just past the monument. We got some shots of them forming a perimeter around 2:30pm, well before anyone arrived for the demonstration, which was scheduled for 3pm in La Place de L'Obelisque (or, as some old-school Dakar residents will know it as, The Monument).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZivlgbRywPQ67nmitvNBbIViC5JRZQjuteNnIT8TwVSDnpOWcWxYRatHINtWIQ6SYLbA26ypspjh52x8u1URgMfIj16R4hC78aP3-OkcIDa3LiJTZ5u1fXys2P5g5j_tRLav1GxExj0s/s1600/IMG_1990.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZivlgbRywPQ67nmitvNBbIViC5JRZQjuteNnIT8TwVSDnpOWcWxYRatHINtWIQ6SYLbA26ypspjh52x8u1URgMfIj16R4hC78aP3-OkcIDa3LiJTZ5u1fXys2P5g5j_tRLav1GxExj0s/s320/IMG_1990.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703928671691246018" /></a><br /><br />By around 4 pm a crowd of a few hundred had gathered. It was a mixture of mostly men, groups of young women, children and a few older women milling about in the triangle in front of the Obelisque. I stopped one elderly lady and asked her why she was there.<br /><br />"Wade needs to leave," she said. "We are tired of him."<br />"Are you here for your family?" I asked<br />"I am here for myself, I am here for everyone."<br /><br />Another young woman said in an interview with Al Jazeera that she didn't understand why Wade had told Gaddafi to leave office, but now was insisting on his right to run for a third term. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMieKHp3LSoDS2olzkIpPxoKvuyWh1-xL0D4jYWGHLnnvh7v1D-0DAIUO_bZEKTOseKXImyWoumb3vN2h6ys8HlH5b2BfD7503v0WUI0UsHJ3kMDiujzU6nVf7bNDFr3NhjRo96QZ0kH8/s1600/IMG_2032.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMieKHp3LSoDS2olzkIpPxoKvuyWh1-xL0D4jYWGHLnnvh7v1D-0DAIUO_bZEKTOseKXImyWoumb3vN2h6ys8HlH5b2BfD7503v0WUI0UsHJ3kMDiujzU6nVf7bNDFr3NhjRo96QZ0kH8/s320/IMG_2032.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703931067237322866" /></a><br /><br />As the people grew quiet and bored waiting for the M23 leaders to arrive, Y'en a Marre was assembled behind the monument. They held signs, chanting and singing in preparation to march to the open area in front of L'Obelisque. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6r8bngDajo7ZitaDlranOpAo1xTlOqe7S2oMzEKb6dJxKH-gmQB3Dy1KmL8FUtNaWxKP6JSNsW7ld_Ap2KMisXtXlXZeST07mnDQy1qf2OXis5ANn6ohvV71nIq1VpsJ3LqzlXPueIg/s1600/IMG_2052.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6r8bngDajo7ZitaDlranOpAo1xTlOqe7S2oMzEKb6dJxKH-gmQB3Dy1KmL8FUtNaWxKP6JSNsW7ld_Ap2KMisXtXlXZeST07mnDQy1qf2OXis5ANn6ohvV71nIq1VpsJ3LqzlXPueIg/s320/IMG_2052.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703934702304372178" /></a><br /><br />Then opposition leader Macky Sall arrived, waving from an SUV as his supporters walked down the street yelling. This was where things got going. By the time they reached the square there were thousands gathered. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOpOZb6elMiC3wRUushJdCfOcIdvMqpM7Ksn8U_NbxjrpR3nXVtCj340_jkgZC10MGUeyjRA_wBuGEQPtHbWdSH4htk87J2_e2mSOcG_LTLq14Yf5KjNTLCPWGXCCOpPd8oproilBoxw/s1600/IMG_2103.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOpOZb6elMiC3wRUushJdCfOcIdvMqpM7Ksn8U_NbxjrpR3nXVtCj340_jkgZC10MGUeyjRA_wBuGEQPtHbWdSH4htk87J2_e2mSOcG_LTLq14Yf5KjNTLCPWGXCCOpPd8oproilBoxw/s320/IMG_2103.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703936195102422642" /></a><br /><br />As I walked across the sand to the other side of the monument, I stopped to take a picture of three little boys. They were quite fascinated by my audio recorder, and one little boy started talking into it quite loudly in Wolof. One of his friends laughed and told him to speak in French. I managed to piece together that they were Idrissa Seck supporters. <br /><br />"He's going to help us," they said.<br /><br />"And what about Wade?" I asked<br /><br />"We want him to go."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR0EZhMHvqa76qvtPbVyT_Voz5aDG5hrS44Lne9BxRG_iPGjjKeQtFlFjrdh3H_LOVf1ojaLshQLFcrBqPPUDb5IpXo7wkVi_iRfkaA4hoVoZQ1UQmnbVJUlpnLXieaGExl_UiCQcqvU/s1600/IMG_2108.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdR0EZhMHvqa76qvtPbVyT_Voz5aDG5hrS44Lne9BxRG_iPGjjKeQtFlFjrdh3H_LOVf1ojaLshQLFcrBqPPUDb5IpXo7wkVi_iRfkaA4hoVoZQ1UQmnbVJUlpnLXieaGExl_UiCQcqvU/s320/IMG_2108.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703942329831566130" /></a><br /><br />I gave them my orange for their trouble and hoped they would get out of there before things started to heat up. <br /><br />The Al Jazeera team and I headed to the upper floor of a nearby building to watch from the balcony. Y'en a Marre marched on the square, forming a huge mass of people that filled the space in front of the monument and the surrounding street.<br /><br />Then Youssou N'Dour arrived. A huge cheer went up from the crowd. There was a definite air of celebration and hope in the air as people sang the national anthem of Senegal. It was quite moving to see so many people (my estimate would be over 10,000) coming together to stand up for their rights as citizens of this country.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhreUezYh_gnWm2bnqMw4U94wRWp5zplyn1vEtimifnFIIkTB6r6FudwMk9AKc7HjBPd6nu9kBlM39Wl28AV9Pyo8ogNX2s_3wwnYcNIvt-73AFoZwUE8JfdsTy1rXZESgAov_6RPevHY/s1600/IMG_2138.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhreUezYh_gnWm2bnqMw4U94wRWp5zplyn1vEtimifnFIIkTB6r6FudwMk9AKc7HjBPd6nu9kBlM39Wl28AV9Pyo8ogNX2s_3wwnYcNIvt-73AFoZwUE8JfdsTy1rXZESgAov_6RPevHY/s320/IMG_2138.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703938601478522082" /></a><br /><br />When the speeches began I decided it was time to leave and caught a taxi home. Just in time apparently, since people began tweeting that the protesters were burning tires and the police were shooting tear gas soon after I left. Several people have been injured tonight, and reports say that one young person has died after being run over by a police vehicle. After watching a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSbSpyji-KU&feature=youtu.be">video</a> of the attack, I am shocked more people were not killed. The armored police vehicle drove right into a crowd near the Obelisque, as another truck came behind firing shot after shot of tear gas. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.aljazeera.com/news/africa/2012/01/201213118362459859.html">Here</a> is the report by Al Jazeera that I helped with. I'm just a bit tired now, so it might give you the information my muddled brain missed. <br /><br />Good night everyone. Pray for peace in Senegal.Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-2052340612299865722012-01-30T11:37:00.000-08:002012-01-30T11:39:08.371-08:00AJE InterviewMy interview with Al Jazeera English about the current situation in Senegal should air on the 9pm news from London, UK tonight.Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-34659037570743756002012-01-30T06:45:00.001-08:002012-01-30T07:27:06.979-08:00Update: SenegalHere is what has happened since my last post:<br /><br />- Riots on Friday left one police officer dead, and the remnants of burned tires and market tables in the streets<br />- Senegal's Constitutional Court has said that Youssou N'Dour is not eligible to run, as 4000 of his required signatures were deemed invalid<br />- The court denied the appeals of N'Dour (to be able to run), the opposition (to disqualify Wade) and Wade (to disqualify certain opposition candidates)<br />- A youth who was said to be a leader in the M23 protest movement was killed in Podor<br />- 80% of news websites operating out of Senegal are said to be not functioning properly<br />- An M23 protest is scheduled for 3pm tomorrow at Place de l'Obelisque<br />- The opposition and Youssou N'Dour have all been quoted as saying that they will not allow Wade to become president for a third term. Opposition parties say that they will make the country "ungovernable". <br /><br />In all this, the international media is starting to realize that the story is <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> that Youssou N'Dour, international superstar, is getting into politics- it's that 80+-year-old Wade isn't getting out of politics. <br /><br />More updates are posted on my <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/MegRadford">Twitter</a>.Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-62325358582757875692012-01-27T13:06:00.001-08:002012-01-27T14:01:51.677-08:00Evac PackWas it only yesterday that I wrote the post below? <br /><br />All of Senegal is now waiting, bracing itself to find out whether President Wade will be allowed to run for a third term or not. Yes or no, there will likely be violence and protests in the streets tonight. Opposition parties got started early today, protesting at the Obelisque, despite a government ban.<br /><br />The Canadian embassy has advised us to "maintain a high level of vigilance". My family and I made lists tonight of what we would bring in case of evacuation. Instead of my two suitcases and two carry-ons, I may only get one backpack- my Evac Pack. We've been choosy. <br /><br />I don't think I would be so worried or uncertain, if not for our friends here who evacuated from Cote D'Ivoire in 2002. They came with almost nothing, the sounds of gunshots still ringing in their ears. Tonight, we are praying that our country doesn't come to that- and I'm getting my audio recorder and camera ready in case it does.<br /><br />Update 9:45 pm, Jan. 27: Wade can run. Here we go. <br /><br />Great coverage by Rukmini Callimachi of AP <a href="http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5iRLNFlaPNrM44ywR4MXb-HMPWTUg?docId=91f34d4baaac41e493fd4924a02eeaaa">here</a>.Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2684749699594677358.post-28662582018685489112012-01-26T09:11:00.000-08:002012-01-26T09:29:46.286-08:00Packing for Life OverseasWhether you are leaving home for a week, a month, a year, or forever, the most common question that visitors and expats ask when traveling is, “What should I bring?” I asked my own “What should I bring?” questions to friends in Tunisia before I packed up my life. I had the added issue of how to pack for an indefinite amount of time. Will I be back to Canada in the next year or two? I’m not sure, but I’m leaning on the side of no, so I had to think hard before filling my suitcases. <br /><br />Here are some questions to ask yourself before you pack:<br /><br />1. How much room do I have? <br />- DON’T go over the airline weight limits and specifications, unless you want to pay a whole lot extra, or have a whole lot more trouble. Some airports allow you to mail things you had to take out of your suitcases, but some don’t. Personally, I try never to risk it. <br />2. What will I need while I’m there? <br />- These are the practical needs. Clothes, resources for work, medicine that you might not be able to get at your destination. Asking questions of people on the ground will really help you weed out what you really need and what will just take up space. Less is more, especially when it frees up a place for...<br />3. What will I not be able to get there that I will really miss?<br />- These are what you take only if you have room. You might bring favourite food or treats from home, keepsakes, photos of friends and family, pass-times, and things that just make you happy. <br /><br />So how did I answer the questions?<br /><br />1.<br />In this case it was two 50 pound bags, one small backpack (and I mean SMALL if you don’t want to run into trouble. <a href="http://www.mec.ca/AST/ShopMEC/Packs/Daypacks/PRD~4003-256/mec-pika-plus-daypack.jsp">Here</a> is a link the one I carried, with my 13 inch laptop, a small camera, a Zoom audio recorder and my passport inside), and a mini carry-on case. <br />I also brought another suitcase full of Christmas presents for my family, since I stopped in Dakar to be with them over the holidays. The suitcase was made possible by some kind friends in Canada. It allowed me to fit my Dad’s new laptop in my carry-on and bump some of my necessities to the extra suitcase. We don’t always have that luxury, but it’s always nice to be able bring some Christmas cheer from home. <br /><br />2.<br />For me, this was mainly clothes, but also some resources for my job. <br />The first thing to think about is the plane. I always wear comfy clothes and shoes, then put another outfit, a scarf, hoodie and sandals in my carry-on if a quick change is needed (or in case my luggage is lost). An iPod, magazine, lotion and lip balm for the dry plane, and a travel neck pillow are pretty good companions too. Any important or expensive things also travel with me on the plane. <br />For clothes, makeup, jewelry and toiletries, I tried to think about how my routine would change, and pack accordingly. I brought some clothes that would be suitable for fall weather, since Tunisia can get pretty cool. Some of my must-haves were my leather bomber jacket, lace-up ankle boots, warm socks and a couple of hoodies. For the warmer weather I brought Birkenstocks, below-the-knee skirts and lots of tee shirts, with some nicer dresses and tops thrown in. And of course, I included a journalist staple- button down cotton shirts. I tried to keep in mind what would be culturally appropriate and modest, while still focusing on comfort and practicality for my work. <br />In terms of what I need for my job, the electronics in my backpack about summed it up, but I also picked up a copy of the Associated Press Style Guide just before I left. For free-lance work I brought the Canadian Press Caps and Spelling, and for survival purposes a tiny Larousse and my Becherelle. <br />I also packed some medications that I knew I might not get for a while. Many things will be readily available to me in Tunisia, but there were some (like ibuprofen liquid gel-caps) that I just did not want to risk being without.<br />The last real necessity that I brought was my small, well-worn ESV version Bible. It’s better than any compass I know. Without it I’d be lost. <br /><br />3.<br />I’m a big fan of eating whatever is available on my travels, so the only “food” item I packed was Vanilla Earl Grey and Vanilla Rooibos tea. Those two are as much about stress relief as a taste thing for me!<br />There were a few magazines (Outside, Relevant and Lula) that I knew I would be missing and made sure to bring. Then I added Le Petit Prince (my all time favourite book). Luckily I received a Kindle for Christmas, so I was glad I hadn’t lugged half my library with me like I’d wanted to. <br />Before I left I got some photos printed. I picked my favourite people and memories and will have them on display in my new place on a rotating basis. <br />Finally, I brought some mini scented candles from Bath and Body Works and some mini perfume bottles (Pacifica Malibu Lemon Blossom, DKNY Be Delicious, and Very Irresistible Givenchy, in case you were wondering). I also chose a few colours from my embarrassingly large nail polish collection. Everyone has their little indulgences that help them get through the busy times, and these are some of mine. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoP4vdqKAoAZ93BTHj0MsAdFYKURnrhITzw62_Y5DF9CYJzxLwA-rp1OEgDaFIAdAJgaA9kNOL1fNHs6_n-XgtsfcRF_Qg-cBn6VPNtsL7kpHLB2T4vCLk44ARnhgzGJrA3dJBXuw9as/s1600/IMG_0039.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZoP4vdqKAoAZ93BTHj0MsAdFYKURnrhITzw62_Y5DF9CYJzxLwA-rp1OEgDaFIAdAJgaA9kNOL1fNHs6_n-XgtsfcRF_Qg-cBn6VPNtsL7kpHLB2T4vCLk44ARnhgzGJrA3dJBXuw9as/s320/IMG_0039.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701993517018009538" /></a><br /><br />Packing for any length of time can be stressful. but I’ve found that when I remember these three questions, it can actually be a lot fun. I like to imagine the adventures the things I pack will have with me. And, frankly, living with less is never a bad lesson to learn for most of us Westerners, so I don’t sweat the small stuff. Because really, you will live, no matter what you forget or don’t have room for (unless it’s life saving medicine- please don’t forget that!).Megan Cécile Radfordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04921582255927774892noreply@blogger.com1