Stars in Our Crown

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Stars in our crown

Another one dead
But he’s just one of many
And I didn’t even write about him today
There are so many more to cry about

No guts, no glory
So often the guts aren’t ours
But it’s our job to shout about them
And scramble for the green glory
That comes trickling like a polluted river

War sells
And don’t we have an obligation?
Some are more obligated than us
We call it bravery…or insanity
And their deaths rub off on us
Lending us a sheen of relevance
Experience
The brighter it glows, the more the river flows
That’s what they say

So we place them like stars in our crown
But first we have to pluck them
Out of our bleeding hearts
And stop up the holes with newsprint

The smaller injustices are bullet holes
Tiny pin dots of teargas from police
The boom of the explosions and shots
Abuse from the bystanders, a daily assault
(Because words are weapons, whispered or shouted or written)
The chants of protests in my head while I sleep

I take these out too,
This time from my mind
And pin them like sequins on a diadem
Leaving air rushing through my skull
And through the airwaves

What if there’s too much air?
What if there’s not enough newsprint?
What if I run out of heart, of skull?
What if, next time, it’s me?

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.

Sofiane speaking to a soldier in Tunisia (from his Facebook page)

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. 

Hope's Grave

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: 

• Cloths soaked in vinegar and lemon to hold to my face in case of tear gas
• Water and almonds to keep me going
• My audio recorder, camera, a notebook and extra batteries and pens
• Money stuffed in different pockets in case my change purse was stolen
• 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
• An extra scarf and a baseball cap to protect from the sun

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

The smell got worse, and began to burn my nose and throat. 

“Whatever you do, don’t rub your eyes- even if it hurts,” my friend warned beside me. I nodded.

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.”

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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 unfit to rule, and sympathetic towards Salafist extremists. This article 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.

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. 

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.

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:

“But I have hope. Where there is life, there is hope.”

A sign picturing Chokri Belaid

Walking to the cemetery

Waiting for the funeral to begin

On the roof

Chanting to keep the revolution alive

Smoke over the graves

Two Years After Bouazizi the Revolution Continues

A protest in Tunis

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.

Has anything changed?

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.

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.

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.

One of the controversial Printemps pieces

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.

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”.

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.

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.

Tunisian riot police

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tunisia Two Months On...

A Tunis street

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...

 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.

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.

Blue skies from the roof

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.

Fashion Week Tunis: a look from Narcisco Domingo Machiavelli

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.

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.

Tunis in bloom

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.

A better view (by Rabii Kalboussi)

Tunisia Live

Hello all!
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.
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.
Merci!

Packing for Life Overseas

Whether 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.

Here are some questions to ask yourself before you pack:

1. How much room do I have?
- 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.
2. What will I need while I’m there?
- 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...
3. What will I not be able to get there that I will really miss?
- 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.

So how did I answer the questions?

1.
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. Here 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.
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.

2.
For me, this was mainly clothes, but also some resources for my job.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

3.
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!
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.
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.
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.



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!).