ONEWORLD
Gonzaga University’s Journal for Social Justice and Community Action Volume 2: 2008-2009
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Letter from the Editors OneWorld 2008-2009 team: Emily Back Brian Baldwin Katie Beno Angelina Cassaro Andrea Crow Jackie Miller Contributing Authors: Josh Armstrong, PhD Julia Biemann Martha Buttry Edie Hill Michael Ebere Imasua Andy Lundquist Adam Membrey Celina M. Moreno Meg Morris Lauren Panasewicz
The OneWorld team would like to express our graditude to the Gonzaga Student Publications board for believing in our ability to inspire and connect to the Gonzaga community. We would also like to thank Dr. Ellen Maccarone for her help and support as our faculty advisor. A special thanks goes to all of the students and alumni who submitted articles, photos, and poetry...if it were not for your courageous work toward social justice and your willingness to share your stories, we would be unable to begin the conversation. 2
Dear OneWorld Readers, As students, faculty, staff, and community members of Gonzaga University, we are called on a daily basis to look outside of our lives here on campus and recognize that we are members of a global community. We live in an everchanging world that demands of us compassion, commitment, and love. As members of this university community, we are called to follow in our Jesuit tradition in the fight for social justice. The articles, photos, and stories throughout the pages of this magazine emphasize the ways that Gonzaga students and alumnus are committed to living out both the Gonzaga and OneWorld missions. The magazine seeks to call our community to action and service in our Jesuit, humanistic tradition. We are of the opinion that we cannot be productive members of the world community if we have not been educated about the realitites affecting humanity. These authors are actively participating in educating others and being the change that they believe is possible in the world. We hope that their stories will inspire you to action, raise awareness of social injustices, and begin to remove the barriers of ignorance and indifference, reminding us that we are all connected in our brother and sisterhood. Our one world is always in transition. The recent economic situation has affected people across the globe and reminds us just how interconnected our world truly is. The economic conditions in some countries have greatly affected those in other countries, thus leaving some of the world’s most vulnerable people to face even more difficult harships. Now, these most susceptible members of our world community need us more than ever before to act with them in fighting for equality and justice. Those most affected need us to open our eyes to our world and respond to a call to action. We are all part of one, human community and must take the first steps toward making a change together. War continues to rage on, orphanages are overcrowded with children, pollution is destroying our environment, and every day religious conflicts force people from their homes. We must come together to create lasting change in our world. Like our world in transition, this publication is also in transition. Beginning in the 2009-2010 school year, Gonzaga University’s Student Publications Board will oversee the publication of OneWorld. We are excited about this new endeavor and hope that the Gonzaga community will continue to support OneWorld in its mission of educating others while calling them to action in social justice. As each of the contributing authors of this magazine has already realized, every individual has the ability to create real and lasting change in the world. OneWorld is a way of calling our university to action, encouraging Gonzaga community members to start discourse and challenge injustices while promoting social justice. OneWorld exits to rediscover that while we are many in our cultures, religions, and struggles, we are one in our common humanity‌ Be inspired, open your heart, and begin to make a change. Sincerely, The ONEWORLD Team
Table of Contents
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Los Esclavos Voluntarios by Martha Buttry
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Death Equals Living by Michael Ebere Imasua
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Jesuit Volunteer Corps by Anthony DeLorenzo
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Love Knows No Cultural Boundaries by Meg Morris
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Old Tires, Boxes, and Plastic Containers by Josh Armstrong, Ph.D
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Migrant Farm Worker by Edie Hill
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The Gentle Giant and His Rough Lessons by Adam Membry
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Hanford Site: America’s Wasteland by Edie Hill
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The Unrecorded Plight of the Christian Arabs in the West Bank by Julia Biemann
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Life After Genocide by Andy Lundquist
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Bold Hope: A Celebration of the Wild Salmon’s Return by Celina M. Moreno
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“Underneath We’re All The Same” by Amy Maddox
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This Is Africa by Lauren Panasewicz
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Easy Inspiration
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Los Esclavos Voluntarios Martha Buttry
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osé Domingo sat across from me on a chair of twisted metal that tipped precariously on a broken leg. His hair was pulled back in an old weathered baseball cap that looked decades younger than the lines of his face. He wore a sleeveless plaid shirt with the pocket torn out and his work boots were unlaced and caked in mud. He sat there, with his dinner plate in one hand and a Clamato in the other and looked at me squarely. In that moment when our eyes locked, that mountain of a man, bred on machismo and hard work, started to cry. The tightly drawn line of his mouth did not budge as he let the tears fall undisturbed. “Somos esclavos voluntarios,” he said quietly. He looked away and let out a long breath. He repeated those three words again, this time softer, as if he were only speaking to himself. In that moment I experienced an unsurpassable heartbreak that hours later caused me to sob in the safety of my own room. We are voluntary slaves. The following night I returned to the white metal barracks of El Campo, the housing facility erected for some one hundred Mexican migrant workers. For three months they slept in the crowded apartments, some in rooms brimming with bunk beds, others in much smaller four-man apartments. The walls protected them from the brisk cold of the Colorado nights, but were powerless in preventing the dust, rain, and scorpions from heedlessly seeping in.
them, and help them file complaints and claims when necessary. But more important than this, they embraced me as a friend. While I informed them of their rights, they reciprocated with stories of México and lessons on farming. They taught me about the colorful variations of potato flowers and the perfect technique for cutting and coring lettuce with rapid precision. They described the grueling work they completed in the dry, blistering heat, pushed by the mechanical giants that lumbered behind them. These machines, part of the lettuce process, served an additional purpose of maintaining the workers at a consistent pace, whose bodies remained stooped over the rows of lettuce as they walked blindly backwards. The workers described each day’s work, each product, with a humble eloquence. They spoke of cherries, melons, carrots, and broccoli. They painted pictures of early mornings and of watching the sunrise over countless rows of spinach and cabbage. They were poets. I absorbed their words with voracity, and with each story we grew closer. I began to view them as a family. They washed my car when it was egged by an angry foreman, watched the Perseid meteor shower with me on the steps of their barracks, and threw a fiesta on my last night. I learned how to make ceviche, how to dance duranguense, and how to read my fortune with Mexican playing cards. I learned about the beauty and tragedy of each worker’s life.
“Es como si fuéramos animales,” Ramón Luis said slowly. “O fantasmas.” It is as if we were animals. Or ghosts. Once, they showed me one of these visitors, pressed firmly between the pages of a worn magazine. They laughed at my fright; “Así es la vida,” one said. That’s life. Upon returning to José Domingo’s apartment, I found him and his companions sprawled out on their cots, their fingers brushing against the cement floor as they stretched their arms. The warm smell of chorizo sizzled in the electric frying pan nestled between their beds. It had been a long day. As I entered they extracted themselves from the comfort of their thin mattresses and offered me a plate crowded with chorizo, tortillas, and a mouth-watering pico de gallo, the spiciest I had ever tasted. Between bites I asked questions, and they answered without restraint.
As the term of my job came to a close, I struggled with the thought of leaving such wonderful people. I had been given a taste of the conditions these workers have experienced each day and every year of their adult lives. I had seen the tragic injuries they suffer, such as the worker who became blind due to the careless demands of his foreman. I witnessed the pain each man endures from being separated from a family that remains far away in México – the family that receives nearly ever penny he earns. At times a worker skips a meal just so that his children will not. Or he foregoes a new pair of work boots just so that he can call his wife and tell her he loves her.
The workers had ceased to wonder why I visited them every night. They understood my role as an assistant with a statewide program providing legal services for migrant farm workers. It was my responsibility to teach them about the limited legislation that existed to protect 4
These men have next to nothing, yet they love more deeply and more powerfully than any other person that I have ever met. They may feel nameless, homeless, and forgotten, but they showed me an indescribable courage that I will always remember. One night, as I sat with
the workers on the wooden benches outside the barracks, one of the older men, Ramón Luis, came up to me. “Cuando te vayas, no nos olvida.” When you leave, don’t forget us. He moved to sit beside me and enveloped my hand with his. “Porque nadie sabe quien somos,” he told me. Because nobody knows who we are. “Y los que saben,” added another, “no les importa.” And those who know, don’t care. He said this not as a judgment, but as a simple fact. “Es como si fuéramos animales,” Ramón Luis said slowly. “O fantasmas.” It is as if we were animals. Or ghosts. In returning to the routine of life at Gonzaga University, I have been unable to tear myself away from the connec-
tion I found with the migrant workers of the San Luis Valley. I cannot forget the words of José Domingo that reduced us both to tears. I cannot make a salad or bite into a perfect peach without wondering whose hands it passed through. Who is he? Where is he from? What does he earn? How is he treated? Does he believe that change is possible? As César Chavez once said, “When the man who feeds the world by toiling in the fields is himself deprived of the basic rights of feeding, sheltering and caring for his own family, the whole community of man is sick.” And to cure this sickness there must be change. So it is about time we pay attention.
Photo by Martha Buttry
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Death Equals Living Michael Ebere Imasua
Oh Darfur, Sweet Darfurians… now a region of murk and palaeolithic It breaks my heart to see us disgorging What have we done to the World that they turned their back on us? Why can’t anyone hear us cry…? It breaks my heart to offer the devastated… Only a prayer and a glance of compassion Why has the World not felt our pain or see us bleed? Our pictures are out there for the world to see Yet billions of people walk away Our dry bones serving the world as a frieze Portraying our lost citizens as countless victims of a vicious war Yet the world can’t see the picture
Men of our generation castrated and left to bleed to death, The ears of guiltless cut off and their eyes plucked out Yet the world talks about a glitch in Beauty pageant Women and children chew the greatest burden… Raped victims ostracized and the faces of our children smashed in the walls Yet Americans Rely on Oprah Winfrey show for support Our country does maintains its economy on sex tourism Yet this crime is indistinguishable from prostitute
The Lakes and Rivers are full with dead bodies Yet the World has not realized it
Our air has been polluted with the smell of charred flesh Yet the world feels so lethargic in hearing our call
The land is so white and covered with the bones of the dead Yet the World hasn’t seen the color
The machetes and axes of the brutal soldiers now… …performs lobotomy on the old and young …without proper surgical procedures Huts set on fire with people locked inside
The flesh of the living is the food of the vultures and wild animals. Yet the World doesn’t know it The blood of human has become a source for the waterfalls Yet the World keeps her eyes away from it We cried, we scream, we lament in thorns of rusted bones Yet the World has not heard our Voices The womanhood of the women and young girls has become a hole of mooch Yet we complain about the spread of diseases and overpopulation The females have been abducted, trampled, raped, and hunched Yet there is no one to fight for them A living soul returns to dust every four minute in a little town Yet the world haven’t notice Homo-extinction
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Maggots scavenging the remains of the living Yet these maggots has become food for the starving children Flies swarming over the dead and the living Creating a buzz that sounded like a high-voltage power line Yet the world haven’t heard the music
Our beautiful land with good health and surplus Now indexed with emaciation Our children nestled in their mother’s lap Wheezing in a valiant effort to breathe If we have white skin and some oil fields Would it have gone this far…? The world shuffles their emotions and spit to the earth for what they see… What can one person do anyway? We need to be free like the rest of the World We need the dry red tears to be wiped from our eyes Someone should be here soon Before the rain comes down to erase us all One thing I know: the World has forgotten us but God has not forgotten or abandoned us. The time for action in Darfur is now…
Jesuit Volunteer Corps “A Year of Service, A World of Difference” Anthony DeLorenzo The Selfless Fundraiser: A man in Spokane fundraising this summer for 2nd Harvest Foodbank by playing his guitar on the streetcorner. You’ll notice he’s wearing both a leg and some kind of elbow brace in the picture. Throw in the fact that he’s sitting on a wood box.
Melissa from Burundi: Before we met her she had no clothes her own size. She wore boy’s clothes. In this picture, Melissa is wearing her first dress. About a week after this event her whole family was featured as the cover story in the Inlander.
The Urban Garden: Not everyone has their own garden space. Those who live in an apartment find starting home gardens especially difficult. This is just proof that you can start a garden from anything. It’s not uncommon to see planters made from shoes, football helmets, toilets, tires, bathtubs, or shopping carts.
You’d be surprised how many people are afraid of dirt: Part of our environmental outreach program with the JVC is to educate urban children about home gardens. We start by helping them start a garden at school.
Photos by Anthony DeLorenzo
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LOVE KNOWS NO CULTURAL BOUNDARIES Meg Morris
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ase 1: His father is in prison for stealing, assault with a deadly weapon, and dealing drugs. His mother is a junkie who uses the family’s food money they receive from the government to pay for her habit. His grandparents are too old, too run down, and too poor to take care of him. He was taken away from his mother two years ago. He is eight years old. Case 2: Her father is an alcoholic who disappears for days on end. Her mother left her father a long time ago, but not before she had two more little girls. She raised her sisters with little help from her father until all three girls were removed from the house. She is 10 years old. Her sisters are five and two. Case 3: His origins and background are unknown. He suffers from severe physical defects and mental retardation. He has speech and vision impairments and the mental capacity of an eight year old. He was left in the dumpster of an alley just weeks after he was born. It is presumed that his mother dumped him when she realized his physical deformities were permanent. He is 16 years old. All three of these cases have one common thread. They explain the tragic backgrounds of social orphans that live in a part of the world that most believe to be stable and in no need of help: Europe. Traditionally, European countries are revered as well established and much ahead of the curve. European society and status has been built on a foundation made up of centuries of history as being classified as the superpower of the world. However,
there are places, even in Europe, that need our care, help, and assistance. Zmiaca, an orphanage in Poland, is one such place. This summer, seven Gonzaga classmates and I were given the opportunity to help out in a Polish Orphanage called Zmiaca for two weeks. Zmiaca is nestled on a large hill in the Polish countryside, about two hours southeast of Krakow, and 45 minutes from the nearest city. The four-story “house” overlooks acres and acres of farmland, fruit orchards, and rolling green hills stretching as far as the eye can see. It has been running for about 25 years, and houses around 35 orphans, ages two-thirteen, year-round. Zmiaca is different from other orphanages in that it is a home for social orphans. Social orphans are children whose parents are still alive but are deemed to be unfit parents or incapable of raising them. Some parents are in jail, others are alcohol or drug addicts of some kind, and the rest have abandoned their children. The kids that live in Zmiaca, therefore, come from rough backgrounds and have experienced more hardship in their short lives than most of us can say we’ve experienced in a lifetime. In the summer, Zmiaca hosts a summer camp where 70 additional orphans and children from broken homes retreat to the countryside and join the 35 that live there year-round for a fun, action-packed three weeks. The summer camp is meant to bring the orphans and children together and let them escape from their problems for awhile.
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days he had been suffering from a really bad earache and seemed to be in a lot of pain. I didn’t know any Polish to allow me to comfort him with words, nor did he know any English, so I turned to the only other form of comfort I could think of: cuddling. I crawled into bed next to Mateusz and nestled him into the crook of my arm while he cried into my t-shirt. We laid there for what seemed like hours until he finally fell asleep. Regardless of the solid language and cultural barrier that lay between us, we were able to connect as human beings and cope with the situation together.
They have fun activities planned throughout the course of the three weeks including a soccer tournament, horseback riding, a scavenger hunt, pool time, an Olympic Games event, and evening skits that take place each night. Also, at the very end of the camp, the children had the opportunity to turn in fake money they had earned for good deeds or behavior and buy clothes, toys, and candy in an open-market filled with donations and gifts from benefactors. It was amazing to the see the little faces of the children light up with each activity they participated in. While watching the kids play soccer or ride horses I was able to witness them experiencing and enjoying their childhood. Their laughter, their smiles, and their hugs could always be observed in large amounts whenever they were having a good time. However, there were times at Zmiaca when laughter, smiles, and hugs were few, far, and in between. The worst were nights when we were putting them all down to sleep. For many of the orphans, nights were the most upsetting because that was when their parents would come home drunk, their fathers would abuse their mothers, or they would be forced to lay awake alone and afraid in the dark. Some children would throw tantrums or fits, anything to prevent them from having to go to sleep right away. Others would cry softly in their beds, trying to choke back their tears. A couple would even take you by the hand, direct you to their bunk, and plead with you to lay with them, rub their back, or stroke their heads until they fell asleep. Although nights could sometimes be the roughest of the day, they were also my favorite. It was the only time when all of the kids would let their guard down and let you into their hearts. It was such a close, intimate bonding time with many of the kids and truly showed me how a little bit of love and affection can go a long way. I remember one night I found myself alone with all 11 of the kids that were in my group, or “family” as Zmiaca called it, and it was time to sleep. Oddly enough, all the kids went down without a struggle and only a few called out to me to massage their backs. After about an hour I crept into bed and began to fall asleep when I heard a muffled sob. I quietly searched for the bed it was coming from and found Mateusz curled up crying. The past few
The best lesson I can say that I took away from my experience at Zmiaca, is the power, universality, and necessity of love in people’s lives. All the orphans looked for, wanted, and needed was to be loved. All the times they acted out, misbehaved, or pretended not to care, they were really calling out for help and affection. The
absence of love in their lives caused them to have a thick shell that each of us volunteers had to slowly chip away, but once we did, we were able to give them the greatest gift of all. It wasn’t a new pair of shoes, a bookcase full of toys and stories, or a hot meal. We gave them love; the unconditional love that they had never received from their parents but so rightly deserved. Everyday I sit down at my desk and see the photographs of “my kids” sitting next to my laptop and I get a little sad and miss them, but can’t help but smile for all the times we shared together filled with love and the lessons that Photos by Meg Morris they taught me. 9
Old Tires, boxes and plastic containers Josh Armstrong, Ph.D.
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ne doesn’t travel to Africa and expect that it will be the same as our lives in the states. We consistently and pleasantly encounter new experiences on this trip that we try to “make sense of” given our daily world back home. I love this Zambia study abroad program for the amazing growth that I experience in regards to the culture and people that we are able to call as friends in Zambezi. I also greatly enjoy the slower pace of life here which allows me to spend more time to think about my life in Spokane. We really have so much in our world back home. But being here challenges me to think about the real costs of this life. Many of us live “crisis-to-crisis” and carry a lot of stress from our work life. We have many things, but many people are a slave to these things. Through our work and play, we encounter many people who don’t seem happy or content with their lives. As I walked through Zambezi today, I was thinking about the happiness and joy in most of the people here, despite their obvious hardships. I am reminded at each turn of the simple life in Zambezi. I am particularly amazed at the children and their creativity. Today I saw children happily playing with a cardboard box (they were tossing it around a circle of children), an old tire (using it as a trampoline--see Graham fly in these pictures), and old drink containers (which are transformed into cars and trucks for kids to play with). Surrounded by family and friends, these children were playing with “throw-aways” and enjoying each moment to the fullest. Now, I’m not suggesting that I am going to go home, throw out the Wii and buy my three boys an old tire, but I am challenged again to think about my priorities and what really matters in our busy lives. How can I live a more simple life that connects me to family and friends? What are the lessons that these Zambia children are teaching me through old tires, boxes, and plastic containers?
Photo by Josh Armstrong, Ph.D
How can I live a more simple life that connects me to family and friends? 10
The Migrant Farm Worker Edie Hill
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Many migrant farm workers in the Yakima Valley are newly arrived immigrants from Mexico and Latin America. Higher wages and a better quality of life draw them to Central Washington in growing numbers. “High quality of life” is a relative term that many Americans would attribute to mini-vans and suburban neighborhoods. Yet to the many farm workers of Yakima Valley, whose annual incomes average below the poverty line, it simply means food on the table. The nature of their work keeps many migrant farm workers on the move throughout the year, preventing them from receiving services such as food stamps or Medicaid. Many do not have health insurance and the families they work hard to support often go without medical and dental care. Ironically, farm work is considered to be one of the most hazardous occupations, with frequent exposure to pesticides, unsanitary conditions, and harsh elements.
Photo by http://drcoffee.wordpress.com/
f you’ve ever taken a drive through Washington’s Yakima Valley, you’ve probably seen them. Their weathered faces shaded beneath wide-brimmed hats, stained from sweat and soil. With neatly packed crates and dusty ladders perch between rows of orchard trees, they work meticulously till dusk. In a matter of days, the fruits of their labor can be found in produce departments all over the country. The Yakima Valley boasts some of the world’s best agriculture, yet the heart of this rich land rests the diligent and underserved farm worker.
Clinics, like those of the Yakima Valley Farm Workers organization, are open in the evenings to provide such care. There are community health organizations all over the United States and their services are invaluable.
“Migrant workers across the United States... are often invisible in the complex system of the agricultural industry, yet their work is fundamental.” On September 25, 1962, President John F. Kennedy signed into law the Migrant Health Act to provide health services, including primary care, to migrant workers. The Yakima Valley Farm Workers Clinic, founded in 1978, is the largest community health organization in the northwest and provides low-cost care to the underserved populations in our region. They have facilities throughout Oregon and Washington, including one in Spokane. According to their annual report, the organization’s 15 medical clinics, 9 dental facilities, and 2 mental health facilities served approximately 125,000 patients in 2006. Among these patients, 65% were at or below the national poverty line and 42% were migrant workers. The organization also provides mobile health services where patients can receive medical screenings and free health education. One of the main reasons many agricultural workers delay seeking medical attention for illness or injury is that they cannot afford to lose a day’s wage.
Although there are many organizations in our local area that strive to provide services to migrant workers, it is still a difficult way of life. Migrant workers across the United States deserve our appreciation and respect. They are often invisible in the complex system of the agricultural industry, yet their work is fundamental. The next time you shop in your local produce department, remember the men and women who make it all possible. Remember the hard work and sacrifice that is the life of the migrant worker. For more information please visit: www.yvfwc.com www.ncfh.org www.friendsfw.org www.fwjustice.org www.harvestingjustice.org 11
The Gentle Giant and His Rough Lessons W
Adam Membrey
hen people look for places to study conflict-resolution, they often look towards distant, exotic lands where drama runs high and the blood may flow as much as the wine. They look for places that would normally be considered dangerous. They’re chasing a life-changing journey. But when I learned about conflict-resolution this summer, it wasn’t in some African country or in Middle America. It wasn’t in a place of foreign languages and little gun control. It was in a bedroom full of stuffed animals. This past summer I worked with SL Start, an organization that works to provide quality residential and occupational services to those in need. I remember my very first day working in the tiny 3-bedroom home. Sitting at the table with some far-more-experienced co-workers, they gave me all the information I needed for the day and described each of the three kids that were living in the home. The first two seemed like they wouldn’t be an issue. But then they started to talk about Aaron. Aaron was the big kid, a fourteen-year-old boy with Autism and moderate mental retardation. No matter how much they tried to remind me of how sweet and fun Aaron could be when he was in a good mood, they knew they had to give the truth. They told me, in as gentle of terms as possible, that when Aaron was aggressive, he was a monster to be around. There was concern that Aaron was becoming too big, too physical, and too chaotic for the home. His roommates often complained about his aggressive behavior. And to make matters worse, Aaron had severe attachment issues due to staff always coming and going through the home like a revolving door.
“I learned with Aaron that, no matter how bad things get, you have to trust that someone or something will eventually break. You have to trust that the conflict will die down at some point, even if it looks like it never will.” I decided I wanted to hang out with Aaron. I wanted to see how bad it could get. And there was a part of me that, jealous of my friends who were on much more exciting and dangerous adventures in other far-off countries, wanted a little bit of excitement. I wanted to see if I could take the worst. But Aaron disappointed. Everything started off a little too well. He went to bed on time. He loved to play basketball. He resigned to his room to watch movies after dinner, all the way until he was about to fall asleep. We bonded so quickly and so well. I quickly became one of Aaron’s favorite staff and he always wanted to do something with me. Really, everything was just a little too perfect. Had my coworkers worked Aaron’s image up a little too much? They hadn’t. Only a few weeks later, Aaron’s behavior took a turn for the worse. Sure, there were a few outbursts every once in a while that involved restraining him to the floor or making sure he didn’t through a chair across the room. But nothing could really prepare us for what was to come. The new medicine that Aaron was given had managed to level out his moods, but at the expense of him being unable to sleep. Suddenly he was up watching movies hours past his bedtime, and we were running out of options on how to get him back to his routine. But the worst was yet to come. One night I was left to watch Aaron on my own while the other co-workers and roommates went out to see a movie. I thought everything would be fine. But Aaron threw a fit just as they all left. And then it just went downhill from there. Over the course of that evening, I had to physically restrain Aaron to the floor four separate times. Restraining him was something that was never fun to really do, but it was necessary to keep him from hurting others and from caus12
ing severe property damage. To make matters worse, Aaron would fight through the restraints with all his strength and, regardless of my strength, I found myself quickly becoming fatigued after only a few minutes. Each outburst only got increasingly aggressive as the night wore on until the final one that night that nearly broke me. The staff and roommates had just returned and, despite the late hour, Aaron was still unable to sleep. He refused to go to bed or watch movies in his room. Instead, he walked up and down the kitchen hall and made inappropriate comments. Finally, after getting him to stand still and stop, he shoved me back against the stove (that was thankfully not on) and ran away. What ensued was fifteen minutes of aggression and me doing my best to restrain him (with the occasional help from the staff). No matter what I did, it was simply not working. Sweat was dripping from my forehead, my glasses were bent, and my t-shirt was all stretched out of shape. But then something strange happened. Aaron finally broke. He stopped. He calmed down. He sat on the floor of his bedroom with his legs crossed. I sat down the very same way, right in front of him. “Aaron, we can’t have this happen,” I said. “I’m sorry,” he said, in the softest, sweetest voice you could ever expect from someone who had been so violent only minutes earlier. “Can you promise me you’ll try not to do this again?” I asked. “Yeah,” he replied, in that same soft voice. It certainly happened again. It happened more than a few times the rest of the summer. But what I learned from that one turbulent night with Aaron is an experience in conflict-resolution I’ll never forget. I learned with Aaron that, no matter how bad things get, you have to trust that someone or something will eventually break. You have to trust that the conflict will die down at some point, even if it looks like it never will. I knew that Aaron would have to break at some point. There would be no way for him to continue such intense behavior over a long period of time without having something resembling a heart attack. All I could do was deal with his frustrations, his tantrums, his aggressive behaviors – and trust that he would eventually calm down. So much of that experience with Aaron informed conflicts I later addressed after that night. Whenever a friend or family member went off on me about something that may or may not have been my fault, I simply absorbed it and took comfort in the fact the conflict would end at some point. Because Aaron has autism and other behavioral issues, many of his aggressive behaviors are beyond his control. He does not attack people with the full on intention of really hurting someone, even if it looks that way. And when our best friends and family attack us about something, we have to trust the fact that everyone has an outburst at some point and that it will all be okay. I learned so much about conflict-resolution this past summer in a room full of stuffed animals. It was by far one of the best journeys I’ve ever been a part of.
“I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love.” -Mother Teresa 13
Hanford Site: America’s Wasteland Edie Hill
A
long the banks of the Columbia River in southeastern Washington State lies Hanford, the most contaminated piece of real estate in the world outside of Russia. The Hanford Site is owned by the U.S. Department of Energy (DOE) and is located near Richland, Washington. This 586-square mile site currently maintains programs in waste management, environmental recovery, science, energy, and technology. During its peak production years, however, Hanford operations generated large amounts of radioactive and hazardous chemical wastes. Today it is the site of the world’s largest environmental cleanup project. Long before the town of Hanford was founded, it was home to Native Americans. The Cayuse and Shahaptian speaking Indians lived on the land for generations. Their descendents are the Cayuse, Palouse, Nez Perce, Umatilla, Walla Walla, Yakama, and Wanapum people. The Cayuse and other tribes joined together in 1855 to sign a treaty with the U.S government establishing rights to the Yakama, Nez Perce, and Umatilla reservations. They maintained the right to fish, hunt, gather food, and graze livestock. However, when miners discovered gold near and on the Nez Perce Reservation, white settlers stampeded across Indian lands. When Agent Andrew Bolon was killed, the official conflict began. The Yakima War lasted from 1855-1858. Eventually, the Indians lost and submitted to the white leaders. Traditions and customs were destroyed, as the Indians endured forced acculturation. Debates and negotiations still occur today between the government and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The native tribes believe that the Columbia River and its surrounding land are sacred. The town of Hanford was established in 1907. The town began to flourish with the completion of the railroad from Chicago in 1913. The new transcontinental connection allowed farmers to transport large quantities of produce. The area citizens relied on agriculture and farming. At the same time, WWI increased produce prices resulting in a major boom for the area in the early 20th century. However, in 1943 Hanford saw its end. The federal government purchased the land and additional townships including Richland and White Bluffs. By the spring of 1943, almost a half-million acres were purchased for more than $5.1 million. The new facility was named Hanford Engineer Works. The town was condemned and every building, except for the local high school, was destroyed. Few people knew why Hanford was built, due to wartime secrecy. It wasn’t until after the bombing of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 that area residents learned that Hanford made plutonium. 14
www.osti.gov
Hanford began its plutonium production in September 1944. Its plutonium was used in the first atomic test explosion at Alamogordo, New Mexico in 1945. It was also used in the bomb that was dropped on Nagasaki, Japan in August 1945. Hanford Site’s military history actually begins with the Manhattan Project. The Manhattan Project was a wartime effort to build the first nuclear weapons. After scientists discovered fission in 1939, it became clear to the government that it was possible to create a bomb of unprecedented power. President Franklin D. Roosevelt created the Uranium Committee to investigate this possibility. In August 1942, the project was placed in the U.S Army’s control under the supervision of General Leslie R. Groves. He was given almost unlimited power to use military, scientific, and industrial resources of the nation. The government spent $2 billion in an effort to obtain two necessary isotopes: uranium-235 and plutonium-239. Hanford’s responsibility was to change non-fissionable uranium-238 into plutonium-239. In the 1960’s peak productions years were reached when nine production reactors were in operation. It was during this time that Hanford generated amounts of high-level radioactive and hazardous chemical wastes. Hanford released radioactive waste into the environment for more than 40 years. In 1945, the public was told about Hanford’s mission of making plutonium. However, the world did not find out about the releases until 1986. It was only after pressure from the Freedom of Information Act that Hanford released 19,000 pages of documents, many dating back to World War II. The documents proved that Hanford had released radioactive materials that contaminated the air, the soil, the groundwater, and the Columbia River. Many of these releases happened as part of routine operations. Yet Hanford’s largest single release was part of a secret military experiment called “Green Run.” Green Run was a U.S Air Force experiment that released iodine-131 into the air on December 2, 1949. At the time, uranium
fuel was cooled for 90-100 days before processing. This allowed radiation, mostly iodine-131, to reduce to lower levels. However, the Air Force used fuel that had only been cooled for 16 days. The claimed purpose for this experiment was to test equipment used for intelligence activities concerning the Soviet Union’s weapons program. The Green Run was a highly classified operation until the Freedom of Information Act forced its exposure in the 1980s. The Air Force continues to withhold valuable information about the experiment including the names and units that were involved. The facilities that were used in the production effort have now been shut down, and many left standing. Fifty years of waste products are stored in concrete and stainless steel containers at Hanford in sodium nitrate solutions. Over 20 million curies of fuel are submerged under 16ft. of water in two Olympic-sized swimming pools (K East and K West). The water is used to shield workers from the radiation and prevent the fuel from igniting. The pools are 30 years past their lifespan and have already leaked 15 million gallons of contaminated water. The removal of fuel from these pools is a top priority in the clean-up project. Many worry that a terrorist attack or an accident could spell a catastrophe. Workers are concentrating on packing the fuel into metal baskets, which are then placed into canisters to be stored in 40-foot-deep vaults. These vaults will then be moved to a national waste repository. The government is considering using Yucca Mountain in Nevada for this purpose. Another part of the clean-up project is removing 10 million tons of contaminated soil away from the Columbia River. During production years, the contaminated water, which was used to cool the cores of the reactors, was dumped into the soil near the facilities or straight into the river. Any solid waste was buried in shallow trenches. Currently, over 3.3 million tons of soil has been moved to the center of the reservation, away from the river. The soil is kept in a giant trench lined with clay and plastic to prevent toxins from leaking out. The Columbia River is not out of danger yet. Some of the 53 million gallons of radioactive liquid waste that was stored in underground tanks have leaked into the groundwater. The waste is so deadly that a small dose of it could kill over 100 people in a matter of minutes. The groundwater is seeping towards the Columbia. Scientists are working frantically to stop the water from reaching the river, a life source to the Pacific Northwest. It is a complicated process that has yet to be resolved. There are more than 177 tanks holding wate at the site. Of these tanks, 149 of them are single-shell tanks (SSTs) and 28 are newer double shell designs (DSTs). Sixty-seven of the SSTs have supposedly leaked into the surrounding area. The largest accident occurred in 1973 when 115,000 gallons of high-level radioactive waste leaked into the ground. Currently, Hanford is transferring waste from the older SSTs to the newer DSTs. The long-term solution is to stabilize the waste into a solid
form, which does not have the potential to leak. The government plans to turn the waste into glass logs, which will then be stored in a secure area. Yet, the start date for making these logs won’t begin until 2018. The project has hit many bumps in the road. It is uncertain how much longer Congress will be willing to pay the Department of Energy before they decide to give up. At least $35 billion has already been spent on the cleanup. It is estimated that at least $50 billion more will be needed to finish the job. The Department of Energy has two federal offices in Hanford. The Richland Operations Office and the Office of River Protection both oversee contracts held by private companies. There are approximately 11,000 on the cleanup workforce. Clean up is expected to be complete by 2035. For more than 40 years, Hanford played a vital role in the nation’s defense. As a nation, we will be dealing with the effects of the Hanford Site for generations to come. Clean up of the site has been a long and tedious process, which is far from over. Only through continued public interest will the completion of the mission be reached. America must now face the consequences of its actions. By creating the world’s first weapons of mass destruction we have not only affected our environment, but our entire world as well. References “Hanford Cultural and Historic Resources Program.” Department of Energy Hanford Site. 2 Feb 2005. 17 May 2006. <Hanford.gov/ doe/history/> “The Hanford Health Information Network.” Washington State Department of Health. Spring 1997. 19 May 2006. <doh.wa.gov/ Hanford/publications/history/release.html> “Hanford Townsite.” East Benton Historical Society. 11 Oct. 2002. 16 May 2006. <owt.com/ebchs/architecture/Hanford/townsite/h_ hanford_townsite.htm> Stahl, Leslie. “Lethal and Leaking.” 60 Minutes. 30 April 2006. 16 May 2006. <cbsnews.com/storie…/60minutes/main1553896.shtml> Stiffler, Lisa. “Hanford’s Unfinished Business.” Seattle Post-Intelligencer. 18 April 2002. 16 May 2006. <seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/66920_hanford18.shtml>
Photos by Department of Energy: Hanford Site
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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.â&#x20AC;? -Nelson Mandela
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Photo by Dr. Mark Bodamer
The Unreported plight of Christian Arabs in the West Bank Julia Biemann
A
s I crossed the heavily fortified concrete border into the West Bank, I could not help but notice the bullet holes everywhere, most noticeably in the bizarre ironic graffiti (I starkly remember a peace dove wearing body armor and caught in crossfire, covered in bullet holes). I have read and listened to the news that has saturated the airwaves for years about the plight of Palestinians in the West Bank. Being there first hand, it became clear that news reporting was often tainted with the spin of propaganda from one side or another. As often occurs when one puts their feet on the ground, a clearer picture emerges of what is actually going on. With all the rich history, complex conflicts and dense geopolitics of the Middle East, the most overwhelming encounter that I experienced involved a persecuted group that I was unaware of, the Christian Arabs. As part of my familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Middle East adventure last summer, we hired a Christian Arab driver to take us to Bethlehem to visit all the holy sites. After the tour, we were driven to a hidden location that contained a store selling Christian artifacts. The Christian Arab family who managed the secret store went on to explain to us that visible Christian shops are simply destroyed. For this family, and many more in the same situation, it is nearly impossible to obtain the visas they would need to live elsewhere as a family. All of the staff were of the same family, and they were the saddest people I have ever met.
They begged to hear stories about America, and they were completely despondent over the oppression they lived under. They seemed utterly defeated. Ten years ago, Christian Arabs were 65% of the population of Bethlehem, and now they are less than 5% of the population. They are simply being terrorized into leaving. In 2002, militants took over the Church of the Nativity and started shooting into Israel, resulting in news clips of the return fire, leaving the media to lead us to believe that Christian Arabs were at fault. The true but unknown victims in all this were the Christian Arabs. That same year, a Muslim Arab girl was accused of having an affair with a Christian Arab. She was subsequently killed in an honor killing, and the Christian town of Taibe, where the man lived, was burned almost to the ground. These people are being forced out, but are not welcome elsewhere. Outside of the West Bank they are Arabs, and inside the West Bank they are Christians. No matter where they go, they are either not trusted or they are persecuted. They have no rights, no future, and no hope, despite having lived in the West Bank for nearly two thousand years. I am left to wonder why their story is never told in the media, why their elimination causes no outrage, and what will become of this family that is just trying to survive.
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Life After Genocide Andy Lundquist
F
our years ago I had no idea where Bosnia was on a map. I had no clue of its history or people. As an incoming freshmen I was sheltered, grew up in a middleclass family and like many other freshman had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. One of the reasons I came to Gonzaga was because of its emphasis on social justice, and I may have not known exactly what job I wanted out of college let alone what my major would be, but one thing was certain, I wanted to change the world. An opportunity to do just that came in January of the same year. A friend of mine from high school recommended an organization she had heard about through a friend, the Global Children’s Organization. The organization provides children who have been orphaned and traumatized by war with a simple summer camp experience. Without knowing the history of the conflict, or where Bosnia was, I applied and six months later there I was in Bosnia, far, far away from my sheltered home.
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I can distinctly remember the ride from the airport to where we would be staying. I hadn’t slept in twenty hours but I was shaken awake by the site of rubble from homes bombed ten years before. Bullet holes painted the sides of buildings. I had begun to doubt what I had gotten myself into. We toured Sarajevo, Bosnia’s capitol city, and saw what had been rebuilt, but many portions remained untouched. What struck me most was a monument which could be seen in various places throughout the capitol. For each bombing, riot, sniper shot murder committed ten years before lays a red splotch. I remember walking through the city, amazed by the architecture of its synagogue, when I looked down to find that where I had been standing, someone was killed just a decade ago. Days after we arrived in Bosnia, the kids arrived. Three groups of kids came to the camp for two weeks, each from a different nation, all orphans. There were Bosnians, Croats and Serbs. The significance of this is that the conflict was mainly fought by Serbs against Croats and Bosnians. Quick history lesson. These three present-day nations were once all combined into Yugoslavia, after its separation, Serbia was the main proponent for reuniting the nations under her own superior beliefs, even if it meant attacking her former patriots. Religion played a key role in the conflict; Croatians were dominantly Christian, Bosnians Muslim and Serbs Eastern Orthodox. It is important to understand that these children’s fathers could have died fighting against one another, and here they were under the same roof with an American kid who didn’t know any Bosnian. The in country volunteers helped with overcoming language barriers, and allowed me to get to know many of the kids more than I ever thought I would. There was a daily routine of activities, small groups time, horse riding, soccer, swimming and one very interesting activity for some of the younger kids; the sand box. Another American volunteer was in charge of this station and noticed something in one
particular child’s play. Each child was given a space to work, and when she noticed a cross drawn by a child she asked for an interpreter to ask why it was there. His response was something similar to, ‘these are the men who killed my father, and someday I will kill them.’ To hear a six-year-old child say something as vengeful as those words was nothing short of heart-dropping, something that kept me awake that night. As the course of the two weeks progressed the kids began to feel at home, not just with the camp or the leaders, but more importantly with each other. The space created by the organization allowed the orphans to relax, have fun; something every child should experience, something this group of kids had not experienced enough. At the time I had no idea the impact I had on these kids, until the very last evening. That final day had been spent organizing an Olympic games, which was needless to say an exhausting experience. At the very end medals were awarded and a first place team was crowned, sadly my team got second. One of the boys in my group, who had been one of the toughest to control the entire two weeks ran off to his room crying. An in-country volunteer had gone to get him and came back saying that he wanted me to come and get him. I had no idea why, I couldn’t understand what he would say nor could he understand anything I would say. I went anyway not knowing what I would do. I went to his bed and sat with him awhile, silent. After a long pause he looked at me and hugged me until his tears slowly disappeared. I stood him up and smiled, he smiled back, grabbing my hand signaling he wanted to go back to the party. When I came back with him someone asked me what I did, and I responded “I don’t know.” Somehow he had become attached to me, without ever saying a word of English to me. At that moment, I realized I had become attached too. The next day was filled with tears, an anguish not built from hatred or revenge, but separation from the friendships made over the course of those two weeks. It is common that children who experience violence at an early age will grow into abusive parents. There was potential for something similar to happen in these children, but then the Global Children’s Organization stepped in. These orphans could very well have gown up and sparked another genocide, aimlessly killing one another,
Photos by Andy Lundquist
but here they were hugging each other with tears running down their faces, Bosnian, Croat and Serb alike. Zlata Filipovic has been called ‘Bosnia’s Anne Frank’ however unlike Frank, Zlata narrowly escaped death. To this day she continues to advocate for a global peace saying we must “choose to deal with inhumane situations in a humane way, we can turn the world around and create positive lessons for ourselves and for others.” I had done just that in my two weeks at the camp. We saw an opportunity to make a great change in the lives of those whose childhood was interrupted by genocide. That day the world changed; as each bus left for the orphanages, stigmas and preconceived notions were shattered. Orphans clung to each other dreading the moment they would be torn apart. Heartfelt tears replaced tears of grief and perhaps even ‘the others’ were no longer seen as the enemy. However, that change doesn’t end there. Each day presents itself with new opportunities to provoke change in our world. There are children around the world affected by violence, whether by genocide, gang violence, bus bombings or abusive families. Changing the world begins with seeking these children out, offering your heart to those you never knew were in need.
“That day the world changed; as each bus left for the orphanages, stigmas and preconceived notions were shattered.” 19
Bold Hope: A Celebration Of The Wild Salmon’s Return
I
Celina M. Moreno
scramble up the rocky boulder and just as quickly as I’ve gained balance, I surrender myself to gravity and leap. I am underwater for only a moment, but in those few seconds every curve of my body is embraced by the river and I am at peace. The weight of my tranquility here sinks me to the depths where I test my human form to rest in sacred water. I am frustrated that I have not evolved to extract oxygen from water or tolerate alpine water temperatures, but because I am not a salmon or a river otter my lungs plead for air and my body begs for warmth. I must yield to the laws of nature. I come up for breath. I swim cupping my hands pushing against the resistance of water trying to mimic the webbed feet of the merganser. As I get out of the numbing water, I watch a mink gracefully skipping along the bony bank searching for its next meal. I sit among sun-heated rocks to bask in humility. I accept that I lack the elegance of mergansers on water and the agility of the mink on the rocky terrain of the riverbank. For the past two summers I have been living everyday on the Salmon River, jumping into its headwaters to be engulfedby cool, calming water. The journey of the Salmon River begins at the Sawtooth Mountains, the heart of the Idaho Rockies, where it flows 425 miles free and undammed by humans. It steadily beats over wide, deep sections of river bottom to form placid pools and pounds swiftly over stones creating rowdy rapids. The river sings songs throughout the land, keeping time for the ripplingcongo line of willow, the fluid ballet of the osprey, and the passionate tango of the spawning salmon. Its waters weave through the landscape interlacing diverse threads of wildlife with green ribbons of riparian grasses, shrubs, and trees. Veinous networks of streams unite with its body, engraving historical and biological routes into the land. Canyons are chiseled out and stones are etched into, sculpting an intricate artwork of earth. Mountains encompass the town of Stanley in every direction, but it is the Sawtooth Range that safeguards this small town and its one hundred residents. My first experience with this place was at nightfall where no ris20
ing buildings competed for the sky or scraped away at the light of the stars. The sky was free, flushed with the pure yellow of the moon, outlining the profile of prominent peaks and silhouetting their ruggedness. I awoke to see the sun crowning the mountains with its golden rays, reflecting off the glaring jewels of snow that meticulously detail serrated edges of rock. The mountains embody the spirit of their name--towering peaks jagged as the teeth of a saw, alternating keenly toward the sky and gently toward the earth, carving an everlasting vision of wild peace and freedom into my soul. A job as river guide is what brings me to this place. I tell myself that I am running away from televisions that hiss the static of injustices happening around the world. I’m sick of hearing the dissonant ringing of cell phones that have severed the intimacy of good conversation. Here in Stanley news is communicated over a drink at the bar, where headlines include the current water levels or the latest caddis fly hatch. The controversial cell phone tower reaches only a one mile radius giving me a good excuse not to return phone calls. I float with ease through summer, finding myself unaware of the rest of world and caught up in the back eddies of this small town community. I think I can drift away to the rich ocean without any snags or hide behind the highest mountain peaks without being seen. It is not simple. Native salmon are dammed from their natural spawning grounds and I find myself tangled up in a net of social contentions. In 2007, four sockeye salmon returned to their natal spawning grounds in Redfish Lake, Idaho near Stanley. Historic runs once averaged 30,000 giving the lake its name, as its glacial waters shimmered scarlet with the bodies of vibrant red sockeye flooding in from the river via outlet creeks. But less and less salmon are returning each year; their existence threatened by four dams on the lower Snake River that have destroy 90 percent of their runs. The salmon that are born in the freshwaters of the Salmon River and Redfish Lake are part of unique circle that connects nutrients from the Pacific Ocean to the otherwise lifeless Idaho batholith, the dense granite foundation of the state’s mountainous terrain. Salmon capture nutrients from the sea and return them to the land. Their annual pilgrimage from ocean to mountain is long and strenuous. They undergo extreme physiological changes, their bodies slowly deteriorating where ocean and river meet. Their lean silver bodies darken, tarnishing with touch of river water. Their sleek bodies beat against rocks as they adamantly propel themselves up waterfalls. Fins fray with fatigue, scales are torn from exhaustion. They
live off fat preserves, eating nothing on their trek up the wide mouth of Columbia River, through deep gorges carved by the Snake River, and into the remote landscape of the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness. This is their special rite of passage. They fly over rapids and ascend mountains, traveling over 900 miles and nearly 7,000 feet to spawn--farther and higher than any other species of salmon on earth. All this to make love. The female salmon lays on her side, her tail worn into a stub of bone as she strategically shovels gravel. Her redd, a delicate nest of pebbles carefully holds her fragile orange eggs. A spawning male with a hooked nose, humped back, and wicked canines swims over, releasing his milt to dissolve into her eggs. Together they dance, circling their sacred artwork of life. As it is the fate of all salmon, they expire and their bodies rise up along the banks of lake and river. This is more than the natural instinct to mate. This is a love deeply embedded in the land; a sacrifice connected to the life of over 130 different species of plants and animals. Salmon are the center of a complex ecosystem, fertilizing forests and nourishing wildlife. The eggs hatch, feeding in their freshwater home for one to two years and conquering each biting winter of the Sawtooth Basin that threatens to freeze streams solid. As each spring creeps up, the sun burns a little longer and the veil of snow on the Sawtooth Range slowly reveals more rock. Streams swell and the river rages. Salmon are called to the ocean. They ride the
fast-moving winter run-off out to sea, surfing the foamy waves of turbulent rapids. With their eyes and nose pointed toward their birthplace, juvenile salmon journey out to sea backwards, imprinting the sense of home for their returning voyage. But life in the fast current ends for young salmon as they reach the slackwater of the first of eight dams on their route to the ocean. The flow of river is controlled here, water is held back, and the six inch smolts are lost in an abyss of motionless water. The 900 mile seaward journey is prolonged from less than two weeks to more than six. Small smolts fall prey to larger fish or starve as they frantically search for a way to get though these monstrous concrete barriers. The largest source of Idaho salmon mortality has been from four dams on the lower Snake River. Before 1960, Idaho salmon populations were relatively healthy as they only had to navigate three dams on the Colombia River to get to sea. Between the early 1960s and mid 1970s one dam on Colombia and four dams on the Snake were constructed. Lower Granite, Little Goose, Lower Monumental, and Ice Harbor dams have significantly reduced Idaho salmon populations and by 1986 Snake and Salmon River coho were extinct. The removal of these four dams would allow wild sockeye and chinook salmon a chance to recover, but concrete walls supported by power, money, and pride block compromise. Photos courtesy of The River Company
Dam removal has been a controversial topic throughout the northwest, with environmentalists, politicians, farmers, and businessmen all fighting for their interests. The
â&#x20AC;&#x153;In 2007, four sockeye salmon returned to their natal spawning grounds in Redfish Lake, Idaho near Stanley. Historic runs once averaged 30,000 giving the lake its name, as its glacial waters shimmered scarlet with the bodies of vibrant red sockeye flooding in from the river via outlet creeks.â&#x20AC;?
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truth is, the four dams are not only threatening the very existence of a cornerstone species, but they represent another type of barrier, one blinding us from the indirect costs of our energy sources, transportation systems, and agricultural practices. The four dams, originally built with the idea of making Lewiston, Idaho into a booming “seaport,” has failed miserably as government subsides and taxpayer dollars keep the inland port afloat. Since reservoirs must be full for barges to pass, turbine use is minimal and the combination of all four dams produces a total of 3.5 percent of the region’s electricity. In addition, 13 farms use one reservoir behind Ice Harbor to irrigate and none of the dams are used for flood control. The high costs of these four dams outweigh their value and priceless salmon are cashed in on as the development of renewable energy sources, alternative transportation, and sustainable agriculture is barricaded by a culture addicted convenience. Idaho salmon are not the only victims of a society willing to exploit people and land in the name of progress. As I write, Appalachia mountains are literally scraped off the land to feed a nation dependent coal, people are dying in a war over oil, and species extinction is occurring at unprecedented rates as increased carbon emissions warm the planet. It is easy to be overwhelmed by the litany of these injustices and to some, having hope in human compassion and nature’s resiliency is about as absurd as buildnig a port 450 miles from sea. But hope is for the bold, for those who are willing to fight for the people, places, and things they love. It is late August and the pace of the river is slower. The salmon are on their way home. Each hot day of summer evaporates moisture, gradually uncovering more river rocks and forcing me to read the water more diligently. I watch the currents sweep and hear a smack as it passes a rock with a high five. The eddies swirl, giggling as they dance behind boulders, flirting with the idea of joining the current. My boat hugs the edges of rough rock and I feather my oars to glide in between boulders. These rock formations are landmarks. On the surface they help me establish my location on the river, guiding me through the safest lines of water. Underneath, they are colorful pebbles, geological confetti scattered on the river bottom to celebrate the homecoming of wild salmon.
I pull my oars, feeling satisfaction as my back muscles rhythmically contract with every back stoke. I catch an eddy river right and portage my boat around the sacred spawning grounds of summer chinook. As I walk along a ridge that overlooks the river, I unexpectedly spot two salmon. I watch in awe as a male and female waltz, side by side they slowly turn around and around their nest. I sit down and keep vigil, recalling Aldo Leopold’s Round River. He writes: The song of a river ordinarily means the tune that waters play on rock, root and rapid. This song of the water is audible to every ear, but there is other music in these hills, by no means audible to all. To hear even a few notes of it you must first live here for a long time, and you must know the speech of the hills and rivers. Then on a still night, when the campfire is low and the Pleiades have climbed over the rimrocks, sit quietly and listen for a wolf to howl, and think hard of everything you have seen and tried to understand. Then you may hear it—a vast, pulsating harmony—its score inscribed on a thousand hills, its notes the lives and deaths of plants and animals, its rhythms spanning the secons and the centuries. My spirit celebrates as I gaze at the red glistening under every riffle. Each orange sphere burns with life—a flickering flame of hope.
‘The high costs of these four dams outweigh their value and priceless salmon are cashed in on as the development of renewable energy sources, alternative transportation, and sustainable agriculture is barricaded by a culture addicted convenience.’
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“Underneath We’re All The Same” Amy Maddox
Photo by Lindsey Sekulich
Photo by Kelly O’Keefe
He prayed, it wasn’t my religion. He ate, it wasn’t what I ate. He spoke, it wasn’t my language. He dressed, it wasn’t what I wore. Photo by Meg Morris
He took my hand, it wasn’t the color of mine. But when he laughed, it was how I laughed,
Photo by Jackie Miller
And when he cried, it was how I cried.
Photo by Jackie Miller
Photo by Lindsey Sekulich
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THIS IS AFRICA
By: Lauren Panasewicz Written While in Benin, Africa August 1st, 2008 I don’t really ever know where to start. There is too much to say, too much to wrap my brain around and all in such a short time since we’ve arrived that I find myself short on words. And maybe that’s just who I am... being an engineer I’m never the best at communicating verbally (if you know me I speak in fragmented sentences, usually can’t keep a straight face and even on this trip I have been known to talk French in my sleep) haha, awesome, I know. It’s true I’d be better at analyzing the tension and compression in a beam or recording the results for the pathogens that came up in a water sample, but tonight on the 48th birthday of Benin I will try to use my words to the best of my ability.
It is hard to believe how much can change over an ocean. The transformation of the world around you is so abrupt and uncensored that you can do nothing else but breathe it in, maybe cough once or twice, and force yourself to accept it. The smell of Africa is so unique that you could’ve blindfolded me and put me on a bus (maybe the magic school bus) in the middle of Spokane and if I stepped off that bus and smelled this smell- against any of my logical and better judgments I would have to say we’d somehow made it to Africa. I have been here before; exactly 4 years ago I spent the summer in Benin’s neighbor country of Togo. I have travelled all throughout Benin, Togo, and Ghana. So this African smell was what I had grown accustomed to for a whole summer and believe me, over the four years I have been gone: the smell has not changed a bit. And over the last few days here I have found that not a lot has changed. The people and their culture here are two things that I have grown to love and today was a perfect example of why. We woke up to a beautiful morning here at the Songhai Center. Although rising from bed is often the most difficult part of the day for me, I was only 5 minutes late to breakfast this morning (which is an improvement from yesterday, haha). We had a wonderful meal of bread, papaya jam, eggs, and Songhai’s own brand of yogurt- truly the best I’ve had in my life, oh and did I mention coffee??!! (thank god). Days like today are the best, we knew what we were doing but at the same time had no idea what to expect from it. I used to get nervous and anxious in these situations but that’s one thing I learned from living in Togo, EVERYTHING is an adventure and seldom a schedule actually stays on schedule. This is due to a little thing we call African time- it moves a lot slower here and everyone is way less punctual. It takes time to get used to, but life seems less stressful and it begins to grow on you. After breakfast we made our way to the bus to do a little more off-roading than we may be used to in the United States. It had rained a lot the night before so we were dodging rivers and lakes, piles of dirt and sticks on a small rural road before making it to a paved road where we could travel over 15 mph-and they take advantage of this going as fast as the bus can handle (don’t worry parents, we hold on 24
tight). Nonetheless, it’s always great bonding time for the group and we got many picture opportunities, and I’m sure the people in the neighborhoods loved watching a bus full of Yovos try to plow through 3 feet of water (they could probably see us cringing and grabbing theseats at a few points). We started playing a game with the people of Benin. It’s simple, you wave and smile and see if they wave a smile back. You will get the most stares and blank looks I have ever gotten in my life in one day here... then all of a sudden you open the door of communication, even just a smile and everything changes. The smiles we receive are so genuine and so contagious! You really can’t help but keep the cycle of waving, greeting, and smiling at every person you pass. If I never realized it before, I did today: A smile is universal; it means the same thing in every language. So we made our way to Cotonou where the Independence Day of Benin was being celebrated. Now I’m sure we’ve all been to plenty of parades in our lives or even on this past 4th of July, less than a month ago... but this is one parade that I will never EVER forget. We made our way through a crowd of men that were all pushed up onto a sidewalk and being closely monitored by some men in army suits (Alice would call them generals). We somehow found an area we all fit in behind a row of children and about 2 or 3 rows of African men. The women all sat in the seats provided in the streets in traditional outfits that mostly matched. There was so much color, so much to see and try to understand. Roland definitely helped get us through the day, he has been such an amazing guide and so knowledgeable. He is also helping me with my French and teaching us some Fon, which came in handy today. Right as we got situated and ready to watch the parade, it started to rain and as Western as we can get, rain coats and umbrellas and my bright green poncho (that looks more like a trash bag than anything else) came flying out of our backpacks. That must have been a sight for the people there. I think our presence was enough to make them giggle but oh, it gets better. I offered my trash bag to the man standing next to me and he just laughed and smiled. Then I started acting like the backpack that I was wearing in front (so really more of a stomach pack) was my baby and I told a few of the Beninese guys around me (in French) that my baby would be a boy and its name would be Puma (the brand of my backpack). Well not only did my Gonzaga peers seem to enjoy my humor but the guys I was speaking to in French just thought this was hilarious. It felt good to make them laugh and just goof around with the people there. Hey, I can be funny in two languages and two completely different cultures... that’s an accomplishment! Shortly after my baby stunt, the rain stopped and all the raincoats went back into the backpacks as quickly as they had come out. The mayor of Benin made his way up and down the street twice followed by rows and rows of the different areas of the military. And the parade commenced. Ten or more groups of soldiers, all different uniforms and marches followed one after the other. The women who were marching got 10 times the noise from the stands as the men groups, which I thought was awesome and very interesting. 25
The guys next to me then told me in French that this was only the beginning and there would be dancing and costumes later. And sure enough groups and groups lined up in their costumes and danced down the street singing songs. Each group with their own unique outfits, songs, and dance. It was unreal! and the people just kept coming. I videotaped a lot of it and the men in the crowd loved watching me zoom in on things and they kept telling me where to look to get the best shot. A few of them even told me to step in front of them so I could see better. The stories that each tribe and each group told through dance and song were amazing and only made me appreciate their culture that much more. A favorite (pictured below) was the women with the basket on her head that had a cat and a turtle hanging from the outside. During the parade we got to speak to the people in the crowd. Carrie and I tried out our Fon and they helped us with some of it and we helped them with English. The communication barrier had been broken, even just a little. I felt that we were all on the same playing field. We could communicate some in French while teaching each other Fon and English. It was so fun, so refreshing and actually quite amusing. It’s very hard to pronounce some of the words and they got a kick out of us Americans trying to make sense of sounds I’m not sure my mouth can make. We all had a good laugh and parted ways saying “Au revoir” (French), “Good Bye” (English), and “Edabo” (Fonbai). The parade ended and we made our way to a wonderful market nearby where I managed to spend all the CFA I had. OOPS. We returned to the Songhai Center for a late lunch and reflective afternoon. After dinner we had an amazing group talk. The group here is awesome... I really couldn’t ask for a better group dynamic and the discussion that came up tonight was truly profound. I felt myself reflecting on so much more than I thought my brain could handle. Their lifestyle here, their culture, their attitude, their way of life is truly shocking and astonishing. It really does spark a passion in our variety of interests and pulls on our heart strings in so many ways. Everything today, from the bus ride on roads that shouldn’t qualify as roads, to the brief view into the different cultures at the parade, to the friendly people we exchanged smiles and small words with trying to understand each others’ languages, to the market full of carvings and paintings and then back home again, we had a day full of experiencing Africa. You really need to experience it for yourself to even begin to understand it. The smells, the trash on the street, the language barrier, the smiles, the crowded markets, the interesting food that doesn’t always sit well, the colors, the sounds, the eager students, the humidity, the roads that wash away after rain, well...
THIS IS AFRICA. It’s teaching us.
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Photos submitted by Lauren Panasewicz
EASY INSPIRATION BOOKS AND TUNES WITH THEMES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EQUALITY Playlist: 1. Change Tracy Chapman 2. Ain’t No Reason Brett Dennon 3. Waiting On The World To Change John Mayer 4. Paradigm Ani Difranco 5. Diamonds from Sierra Leone Kanye West 6. Change The WorlD Eric Clapton 7.Imagine John Lennon 8. We’re All In This Together Ben Lee 9. Peace Train Cat Stevens 10. Walk On U2 11. WHERE IS THE LOVE BLACK EYED PEAS 12. EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING LAURYN HILL 13. Cry Freedom Dave Matthews Band
Library: 1. Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lammott 2. The Road to Peace by Henri Nouwen 3. Volunteer with the Poor in Peru by Jeff Thielman 4. A VIOLENCE OF LOVE by OSCAR ROMERO 5. Confessions of an Economic Hitman by John Perkins 6. Nickle and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By In America by Barbara Ehrenreich 7. Crossing the River By Caryl phillips 8. Mountains Beyond Mountains By Tracy Kidder 9. Decolonising the mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature By Ngugi wa Thiong’o
Photo by Emily Back Back photo by Martine Kulesa
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