We spent the week with the Watha people of Kenya, traveling from Watamu and Malindi to their ancestral villages. What is most memorable is the quiet dignity of people who, by every Western measure, live in extreme poverty; and yet, they may be among the wealthiest people we’ve ever met. Nevertheless, life is challenging. Families live in mud huts with thatched roofs, without plumbing or electricity. If a child is lucky, they attend a dilapidated school with 50 other students or more packed into one classroom. In one remote primary school, the desks are 25 years old. The blackboards are crumbling. There are two pit latrines and no water in the school of 500 kids. Schoolbooks are castoffs from other institutions, and the only food the children eat are—just a cup of cornmeal porridge in the morning, maybe two if the school can stretch it. Despite this paucity, the children were laughing. They greeted us with song, dancing in threadbare uniforms handed down over generations. One drum was a plastic water jug. When I pulled out a guitar and harmonica, they lit up, cheering and dancing as if I were a world-famous musician. They’d never seen live music before. That moment, taught me more about joy than any concert hall or theater that I ever played in. Our friend Guyo walked 30 kilometers each way—22 miles—as a child just to attend primary school. He’d sleep on a mat for the week at the school, then walk back. No roads, no crossing guards, just wild boars, snakes, and open terrain. His story isn’t exceptional. It’s normal here. To be clear, there is nothing noble about poverty. It crushes opportunity and limits choices. But the narrative we often carry in the West—that material poverty equals misery—doesn’t hold up here. These kids, without toys, tablets, TikTok, and the thousands of distractions that are the bane of contemporary culture are vibrant. Their families are intact. Their community is strong. No one is alone. What struck us was the contrast between our apparent affluence and wealth in the West. In the U.S., we spend nearly $2 trillion a year on the military, but 25% of our elderly live in poverty. Millions go bankrupt over medical bills. Our infant mortality rate is among the highest in the developed world. In urban centers and rural towns alike, children suffer from food insecurity, addiction, depression, and isolation. In Europe, Russia is spending trillions to destroy Ukraine, and Europe is spending trillions to defend it. We are on a planet wide ecological crisis, that will doom humanity, and we waste millions on war. The US pays hundreds of billions of dollars so that Israel can destroy Palestine and rule supreme, and yet half the world does not have access to clean drinking water. Who are the impoverished people here? The Watha who spend zero dollars on war and military, or the West with their voracious appetite for war? Meanwhile, in Watha villages, people live in what we’d call extreme poverty—but they are wealthy in time, connection, and place. No one smokes or drinks alcohol. There is no fentanyl or drug crisis, or the hundreds of variations of Western neurosis and psychosis. They look healthy and all look strong and fit, and who easily walk a dozen miles a day. No one is obese. Their diet is primarily plant-based. Most have never tasted Coca-Cola or eaten processed food. Most have never ridden in a car. Few have traveled more than a few kilometers from home. They rise with the sun, tend the fields by hand, and rest at midday. They are not consumers. They are participants in life. One elder told me, “We don’t have much, but we have enough.” That phrase could rewrite economic theory. Nevertheless, life here is fragile. Climate change has dried up forests and farmland, making crops less predictable. When water is found, it is often contaminated. Guyo’s mother survived a crocodile attack while collecting water. People walk miles, even pregnant, for basic healthcare. A broken solar panel at school means no light, no internet, and no charging for an antique laptop that no longer runs. We are grateful that our organization www.gracecaes.org, with our generous donors were able to assist in providing five wells with pumps that have helped to transform this community Yes, outside assistance matters—but only when it’s driven by listening and respect. To underscore, as experts on community development, the one essential key is to deeply listen to what people have to say and understand their wisdom. After emailing our supporters about the plight of a school, one donor quickly gave $500 to replace desks and blackboards. That was all the school principal asked for. We wanted to repaint the classrooms, but that’s my Western sensibility. The children don’t complain. They are grateful simply to be in any kind of school and learning. ADHD is often a Western construct, children here are profoundly grateful to be in school and attentive to the teacher. The village elders don’t ask for any kind of luxury. They only asked for help to preserve their culture. Their traditions, stories, and songs are their treasures, and they want their children and grandchildren to inherit them. If we can also help with water access, some basic health care, and schools they area overwhelmed with gratitude. Our support and technical assistance to this community is a partnership. They teach us about community and gratitude, and we offer our support in grant writing, technical assistance, and project planning. We’ve met children in the U.S. with closets full of toys, streaming access to every cartoon, and three kinds of cereal for breakfast—who are far less joyful and content than the barefoot kids we met and danced with in Watha land. We’ve seen kids in New York, Nairobi, and Europe numb from social media and prescription drugs. We’ve know of elders in Florida who live alone in air-conditioned silence, disconnected from their families. We call this modernity.
Ben Franklin story by Namaya
All boy way. Oh well, the mystic God will make you feel better, but give me I am okay Ben Franklin: The lightning in the jar. Benjamin Franklin had an electrifying personality Imagine the president of the United States with these qualities: Temperance Silence Order Resolution Frugality Industry Sincerity Justice Moderation Cleanliness Tranquility Chastity He was brilliant and temperate in his opinions. He was so temperate that he was loved by all, and his funeral, was flooded with thousands of people. The Quakers claimed him as one of theirs. The Masons extolled his virtues. The Jews said, “He’s a mensch!” The Catholics said, “In charity, justice, and industry, he was in the best Spirit like Jesus.” The Vegetarian society extolled his virtues, “He was a vegetarian since the age of sixteen and was just towards animals and kind to all.” The firemen, the Librarians, the Art Guild, the beer makes and all the organizations came out to celebrate Benjamin Franklin as one of their own at his funeral. He lived and worked with great industry guided by a profound curiosity and thirst for knowledge. He said, “I begin my day at dawn to read and study.” . Sometimes, his inquisitiveness got him into such awful trouble. This is the story of one day of the most extraordinary journeys. One day, Uncle Ben said, “My boy, I’ve had this insight that I can capture lightning! All we need to do is fly a kite and attach a brass key inside the Leyden jar.” “Uncle Ben, when there is lightning outside, you go into the house; you don’t go out into a storm! With all due respect. How is it possible that a man of your intelligence could be such a blithering idiot?” “My boy, a scientist must be fearless.” Well, we all know the story supposedly of how in this Leyden and what happened. Yes, lightning leaped into his jar and then ran all the way through him and found its way to my Uncle’s brass shoe buckles, and he keeled over! “Uncle, wake up!” Then he told me this story of his incredible journey. Uncle Ben’s Incredible Journey He awoke in the most glorious city he had ever seen. Buildings were white marbled and grinte, and he opened his eyes and spoke to a passerby. “Sir, what is this place? Am I in a dream? The man said, “Go away, you homeless idiot!” and scurried away. Perhaps he misunderstood? He saw a man dressed in blue like the police in Philadelphia. “Sir, where am I?” The officers said. “Bum! Get a life!” Uncle Ben was not one to be easily dismissed or trifled with. He felt in his pocket, and he had three copper pennies. I can get a fine meal and figure out exactly where I am. He walked to a dinner and saw a special for vegetable soup. The waiter served Uncle Ben a hot bowl of soup with bread. He said. “Buddy, you need to pay for it first.” Ben took a shiny new copper and said, “My man, keep the change!” The man looked bewildered. “Buddy, it’s three dollars!” The man tried to take it away. “No temperance! I’m a hungry man!” I’ll give you something more important than money. I’ll give you some solid advice. After all, people always paid for my advice in Poor Richard’s Almanac. Early to bed and rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” “Is that so? I’m an immigrant from Guatemala, and ever since I was a boy, I woke up early and went to bed late at night because I had to work. I ain’t healthy, wealthy, and I’m certainly not wise. Who are you, and why are you dressed so weirdly?” “I am Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia. Pray tell me what year this is.” “2024? You must be daft. A moment ago, I was walking down the broad, pleasant streets of Philadelphia. A storm came, and I was flying my kite in 1775.” “Why would you fly a kite in a thunderstorm?” “I was curious about electricity.” Juan said, “1775, is that so? I got my citizenship last year and made a journey to your city in Philadelphia and read all about the ideals of the early Republic – work, temperance, resolve, and justice. All fine ideals, but our country is far from this ideal. What about this slavery issue? You discussed this, but people like George Washington arrived in Philadelphia with his slaves, and others like Thomas Jefferson, who some thought embodied the Age of Enlightenment, he had over two hundred and sixty slaves. Why didn’t you resolve this problem of slavery and left it for future generations?” “Democracy is not always so democratic,” said Uncle Juan pointed out all the buildings, the Washington Monument, the Capitol, and all these marble buildings. “Remarkable,” said Ben, “Two hundred years later, there is a House of Representatives? A senate?” Juan said, “Sadly, mostly they do the bidding of the big monopolies and the rich people, and pretend they help the little guy like myself. Even more ironic the capitol and the congress was built with slave labor.” He joined a tour group and announced himself, “I am Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania! Let us go and visit the capitol!” Everyone assumed he was an actor, and he regaled the crowd of Japanese tourists with stories from Poor Richard and frugality stories of rising up as a poor printer boy to becoming the man you know as Ben Franklin, representing a Yankee wisdom of charity, ingenuity, and kindness. The tour driver said, “Let’s go to Congress!” When they arrived everybody took pictures of him with their little cameras. One man took out a one hundred dollar bill and showed him.” “You’re perfect for an actor.” said one man. “I am with all sincerity and modesty the real Benjamin Franklin.” “I’ve come back to see what the United States is all about now. I was told
CELEBRATE LIFE: VIVA LA VIDA!
CELEBRATE LIFE: VIVA LA VIDA! by Namaya – Storyteller, performance poet, musician Stories, music, and songs celebrating life Studio 620 November 12 Tuesday 7 PM www.thejazzpoet.com Sample of Celebrate Life show The Studio@620 620 1st Avenue S St. Petersburg, Florida PRESS RELEASE 12 November 2024 at 7 PM Studio@620, a leading catalyst of performance and visual arts in St. Petersburg, is pleased to present Namaya, an internationally renowned storyteller and performance poet who has performed on five continents. The Celebrate Life show is stories, music, and songs like the story of Stagolee, the first mojo man of love; The Flying Finn – a half-naked Vermont dairy farmer sailing down the mountain in a blizzard; or the tales of Benny O Shea from the Jazz Beat Detective Agency, and ballads like “Gypsies of Old” and stories of traveling the globe. Samples of performances can be found at the Sample of Celebrate Life show. Comments on performances: “Namaya, one of the most amazing storytellers I know. Namaya’s a force of nature on stage! He’s got this incredible energy, this way of grabbing you and pulling you into the story with him. It’s like he’s a true senache, an ancient Irish storyteller, weaving his spells and transporting you with every word. His stories are wild, too – from his roots in Palestine to adventures in NYC, Vermont, and all over the globe. Namaya’s a one-of-a-kind storyteller, poet, and gifted musician who has a knack for grabbing your heart and attention and taking you on a journey. Jim Kissane, Executive Director – Suncoast Storytellers Join us on Tuesday, November 12th, 2024, at 7 PM at Studio 620 for an evening of Namaya, one of the most innovative stories and improvisations with the high-wire performance artist of the spoken word. BIO: Namaya – Jazz poet, storyteller, musician, and artist. Wwww. thejazzpoet.com/about And www.namayaproductions.com Namaya is an Irish and US citizen and internationally renowned Jazz performance poet, storyteller, humorist, and sublime improvisational artist. He has performed throughout the US, Europe, New Zealand, Japan, Asia, the Americas, and Palmyra, Syria. He is a member of Storytellers of Ireland. Suncoast Storytellers, Florida Storytellers, and European Storytellers.
Court of the Lions: Al- Hambra
Court of the Lions: The Moor’s Last Sigh 25 August 2023 In the seventh Century, heralded by the prophet Mohammed, a religious fervor called Islam rose out of the desert of Arabia. It swept like a tidal wave across the Middle East, North Africa, and Iberia and finally stopped at Poitier’s battle in France. The Iberian Peninsula conquered and contested for centuries by Neolithic tribes, Phoenicians, Romans, Visigoths, and others, gained the presence and richness of the newly found Islamic world. While Europe floundered in the long chaos of the Middle Ages, the Moorish courts flourished. At the center of this Empire is the Al Hambra in Granada and the architectural jewel, the Court of the Lions. Granada lies in the plains at the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Southern Spain. In the center of this valley, carved out of the top of a mountain with a commanding view of the region, is one of the seven wonders of the modern world, the Al-Hambra, the Red Fort. As the centuries passed, the Alhambra transformed itself from a military bastion to an oasis of gardens, a center of learning and culture, and the apogee of Islamic civilization. The steep path up to the Alhambra requires a walk over a kilometer in length. The cobblestone path at each twist and turn offers a glimpse of the elegant city of Granada below. The hillsides are wildly overgrown with forests and the ruins of ancient walls and portals that barely hint at the hundreds of armies that have traversed this hillside and the thousands of soldiers who died in an attempt to conquer it. The moat surrounding the fortress, more than forty meters deep, hints at the virtual impossibility of seizing it. Today, peacefulness envelops you as you approach the outer ramparts of the massive red stone fortress walls. Walking to At the core of this citadel, the paths are lined with fruit trees and lush gardens. At one time, vendors of food, textiles, exotic birds, and jewels from all corners of the globe lined these roadways, filling the air with dozens of languages as they called out their wares. In the center of this complex stand the Nasrid Palaces that personify the soul of Islamic culture and allow its genius to be best expressed in a perfect symmetry of architecture, one that is lyrical and expressive, yet, out of necessity, ruled by logic and the constraints of weight and time. In the central courtyard is the Alberca, known as the Blessed or the Myrtle Court, with its reflecting pools some forty meters long and less than three meters wide. Standing at the far end, you look through several portals, elegant vulva-like arches that recede into the distance. In the courtyards, the mellifluous sounds of fountains and running water are music to the ear, while the perfume of myrtle trees and orange blossoms fragrance the air. Islamic culture, with its music, architecture, and even its sacred literature, has a sensual fluid sensibility. Walk further through more portals and passageways, and you finally reach the true center of the Empire, the Court of the Lions. The central focus of the garden is the fountain of the Lions, representing nourishment from the four directions of the globe with narrow channels leading to each cardinal point of the compass. It mirrors a common theme in the Koran: Heaven is a garden with abundant running streams. Once planted with fragrant gardens, the inner courtyard garden beds are now filled with crushed stones. The counterpoint balance of stone and garden, sensuousness with symmetry, rationale and intuition, is reflected in each facet of this architectural jewel, the Court of the Lions. In the center of this courtyard are twelve stone lions that are oddly still and tranquil and embody a stasis as if time has been suspended. From the 700s to the 15th Century, the rest of Europe was in the thick sleep of the Middle Ages; the courts of the Moorish kings held a welcoming place for scholars who divined the secrets of astronomy, architecture, literature, art, hydraulics, and enough disciplines to fill a modern university. The Islamic court, though it preferred its subjects were Muslim, welcomed Jews and Christians; scholars and artists of all faith lived and worked here. The graceful calligraphy on the walls are lyrical and flowing verses of the Koran, the words of Allah as spoken through the prophet Mohammed, adjacent to love poems meticulously scripted in plaster, sculpted into the arches and walls. The love poems became flowers that transformed into birds and peacocks. Artists expressed their devotion to Allah through this mystical vision in every facet of life and nature. Nature was not separate from life but integral to it. In the Court of the Lions, one could find the perfection of Islamic culture ordered by beauty, logic, and cohesion. In the Court of the Lions and its adjacent throne room, a vaulted gilded ceiling carved in wood and inlaid with gold and brass lays out the cosmology of the heavens. Allah is the alpha and the omega in the constellation’s epicenter. The representation of the ineffable was neither a caricature of God nor a pantheon of Saints painted across the ceiling or on the walls. God was alluded to by the simplicity of a star at the center of the heavens. In Islam, God is ineffable, and to represent Allah in a picture or drawing is considered heretical. By the late 1400s, the Christian armies of Ferdinand and Isabella had conquered the other Moorish kingdoms of Castile, Seville, and Cordoba. The Reconquest had replaced the crescent moon of Islam with the cross all over Spain, and now it was making its way to this fortress. As the last Moorish Emperor Boabdil contemplated his future, he drank sweetened tea, listened to his generals and weighed the options, but he knew that his end could not be forestalled. He looked up at the calligraphy on the wall to the words of
“Farewell To The Beats, Mr. Coney Island Of Our Mind” — a poem by Namaya
Lawrence Ferlinghetti in 2012 at Caffe Trieste, San Francisco. He died on February 22, 2021 at the age of 101 Farewell To The Beats Mr. Coney Island Of Our Mind Ferlinghetti at 101 took the cosmic bus home this week. A life abundant, blessed with art, poetry, creativity, and a lot of fun. RingMaster for the poetry revolution, Mr. San Francisco Big Daddy! City Lights! The Mecca of hip! Ferlinghetti and San Francisco, incubators of beat poets, ragged saints, and the revolution. He made his stodgy city swing and explode with poetry, art, and life. Ferlinghetti, the Coney Island impossible ride of jazz soaring, to the infinite space of hip. Di Prima, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Snyder, and Ferlinghetti in the howl for humanity and love. Beatific beatitudes of bebop blues, and bards rifting to cosmic tunes. Farewell! Farewell! My beautiful noble beats, blessed and sanctified in that stoned rifting for godhead! Blessed are you! Blessed are the Beats! We are blessed in those beatitudes of blues! Farewell, Ferlinghetti! A cosmic rifting journey home! Namaya is an internationally reknowned Jazz poet, storyteller, humorist and sublime improvisational artist. He has performed throughout the US and has toured in Europe, New Zealand, Japan, Asia, the Americas and Palmyra Syria. Both as a solo artist, with his band the Jazz Beat Blues Poetry Ensemble, and with jazz musicians around the world, Namaya performs an astonishing blend of jazz word, story and improvisation. Visit his website by clicking here Listen to the 1946 recording of Lester Young playing “Blowed and Gone,” with Harry “Sweets” Edison (trumpet), Nat “King” Cole (piano), Dexter Gordon (tenor sax) Red Callender or Johnny Miller (bass), and Clifford Owens (drums)
As a White Guy How Racism F**k with my Life?
I’m a White middle class sixty eight year old man with more than a few dollars in the bank. I can see the police and wave at them and drive safely on by. Thought I do not identify as White, in my soul and world view, I am the rainbow of experiences I’ve lived. I’ve lived in Yemen, Morocco, and traveled around the world. I can converse in five languages. I do not identify with my heritage of Irish and Jewish. I do not limit or define myself by this narrow band of racial identity. Nevertheless, I am viewed as White, and thus I will continue this line of thinking. I rarely have the fear the police will stop me with guns drawn, because I am viewed as White. I have my gossamer White protective shield. If I reach into my coat pocket for my ID I will not get shot with forty bullets like Amidou Diallo or the dozens of Black men and woman who get shot every year, like Breeona Taylor. Their only “crime” is living while Black. Being a White guy of European and Jewish descent I don’t have to worry that I will be mistaken for an American citizen named Mohammed, strip searched and given a rectal search at the airport looking for Weapons of Mass Destruction. However, given Timothy McVeigh’s role in blowing up the Federal buildings in Oklahoma it would seem reasonable that White guys should equally be suspect and the US. We should have launched an invasion of Scotland and given Mel Gibson a real war to fight. However, the United States generally doesn’t declare war on a White nations, we invade South American, Asian or Arabic countries. We seemed to have no moral compunction of dropping A bombs on civilians in Hiroshima or Nagasaki. When I apply for work my employers will generally not wonder if I was successful because of Affirmative action: The employer assumes I did it on my own merit or at the least perhaps if I did get into an Ivy League school, it was because I was smart or in the case of GW from a wealthy and well connected family. When I go into a grocery store and decide not to use a shopping cart and stuff a few things in my pockets; generally, it is assumed that I was in a rush and the management doesn’t call the police because there is a suspected shoplifter. Because I am a White elderly man who is not walking around in raggedy clothes mumbling to myself, it is assumed that I’m harmless, a little careless in not using a cart, but not a significant problem. I can walk around in clothes that are a bit raggedy and people will usually assume I’m not a homeless bum. I can usually walk into a bank and cash a check without ID. They will not ask me for four pieces of ID. I will not have the bank guard calling for back up because I get in an argument with a teller over an error in my bank account. As a White man, I know she will defer to her manager, and we will resolve this. Or on the check out line at the supermarket the person in front is asked to swipe her credit card, but when my friend who is a well-dressed Black man comes to the counter, the young lady asks him, “Do you also have an ID?” “Miss, the lady before me, didn’t have to have an ID.” “Just a formality for out of towners.” “How do you know I’m not from town?” You get the drift of the conversation? Does being Black or Hispanic mean, “Special ID required.” If I move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing housing in an area I want I don’t need to ask my friend to find an apartment. Some years back friends of mine, he was Black and she White, were looking for an apartment. Rejected several times as a couple, I went back to the same apartments with my friend’s wife and we rented the apartment immediately. The lease was in her name. The landlord was a bit surprised when they moved in. I can let the grass grow on my front lawn, have the hedges a bit shabby and the neighbors will think “He’s still a bit of a hippy.” But if my name was Gonzales would the neighbors think, “Those damn Hispanics – one moves into the neighborhood and look what happens!” When friends of mine who come to town, who are Black or Hispanic, do I need to tell them about our local police department’s history of racial profiling or bias? Like one Black friend of mine recounted his story with the local police. “Yes, sir officer. I know it looks suspicious me being a six foot tall Black man wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and tie waiting on the street corner for my wife. No, I wasn’t casing the store for a robber. Yes, officer I have identification. Yes, officer. Observe my hands going into my pocket and no I don’t have a gun or a knife.” It is the hundreds of small clues during the course of day that says, “You’re different. You’re not quite like us.” If it is a fistfight at the school do they assume the Black or Hispanic youngster is the aggressor? Is the same justice meted out to the Black and White kid? If there is drug activity in school are the minority kids the ones most suspected? Is justice really color blind? As a White guy, how does racism affect my life? Sadly, I can be oblivious to the impact of racism in my life. I can live in a White neighborhood, in a mostly White town, and pretend that racism doesn’t exist. But, I can’t accept a society, American society, where bigotry and racism exists. As the singer Solomon Burke said, “None of
VIETNAM LAOS CAMBODIA: MEDICAL & SCIENTIFIC AID NEWS BULLETIN
Namaya is a Vietnam-era U.S. Navy veteran, a poet and an artist. Though far from combat, the war always haunted his memory and inspired him to be a lifelong peace activist. The following is his essay Vietnam: A Journey to Forgiveness: Legacy of Agent Orange. “In Vietnamese, they say, ‘Making Peace is a treasure’: Dĩ hoà vi quý. I searched for this gift during a two-month journey from Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi in early 2020, and to Laos, before COVID shook the world. I came to Vietnam for a writing and art residency on the impact of the war and forgiveness. My primary challenge was to set aside all my assumptions. Landing at the modern airport in Ho Chi Minh City, I quickly realized there had been a seismic change in this country over the past fifty years. Though this country is rooted in its rich cultural legacy, it is also a young, vibrant nation on the move, with most people under thirty. Despite the modernity, I saw the legacy of the war: the site of the My Lai massacre, the war museums with the preserved fetuses of the Agent Orange victims, the programs to locate UXOs (unexploded bombs), and the orphanages and vocational schools that care for the children and young adults with Agent Orange. I was wonderstruck by the magnificent vistas from the Mekong Delta, the shimmering green rice fields, Marble Mountain, the serene Ba Nang mountains, and the two thousand miles of coastline. However, the greatest treasure of this land is the extraordinarily kind, Namaya: veteran, poet and artist. resilient, and welcoming people. It was a great joy to see all the children, from tots to teens playing everywhere, and all the handsome young men and women! I kept asking myself: Why did we (Americans) want to destroy this country and these people? The Agent Orange/dioxin poison remains. The US military sprayed the toxic pesticide throughout the country from 1962-1971, knowing it was toxic to people and the ecosystem. A common fallacy is the Americans were trying to remove the “jungle” foliage and that the herbicide was benign. No, the US intentionally tried to destroy the forests, ecosystem, and farms to force villagers to move to the cities. Agent Orange has affected twenty to twenty-five percent of the land of southern Vietnam, along the length of Laos, and into Cambodia. Even fifty years after the war, children are born with congenital disabilities, and many victims receive no support or compensation. We visited schools and vocational centers like Friendship Village, founded by George Mizo, an American veteran. I played music, spoke with the young adults at the center, and was grateful to see how these people, even with significant disabilities, had so much joy despite their limitations. There is a need for a hundred or more centers like this throughout the country. People need to know the epic struggle of the Vietnamese in their courageous fight for freedom against almost insurmountable odds; this strength and courage is a core part of the Vietnamese identity. The United States had undermined the independence movement since the 1940s. During WWII, the Viet Minh, under the leadership of Ho Chi Minh, aided the US and Allied troops against the Japanese occupation. The French Vichy had collaborated with the Japanese during the war, but the Viet Minh bravely fought against the occupation and supported the allies. Nevertheless, the USA reneged on its promise of freedom, rejected Vietnam’s independence, and became mired in an unwinnable war. France, which had occupied Vietnam for one hundred years, was re-armed by the Americans until soundly defeated in 1954 at Dien Bien Phu. This victory led to the eventual collapse of all French colonies. With typical American hubris, the US military refused to accept the Vietnamese victory and continued the war until their defeat in 1973. The Vietnamese struggle for freedom was like David versus Goliath; though they were supported by the Chinese and the Russians, it was the North Vietnamese’s grit, courage, and resilience that won the war. The numerous Rambo and other American war movies are a pathetic farce and negate the truth of this war. The South Vietnamese government was a corrupt legacy of the French occupation and a puppet of the USA. President Diem was so corrupt the CIA had him assassinated. The Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc immolated himself protesting the war in downtown Saigon on June 11, 1963. His profound sacrifice embodied the courage of the Vietnamese people. In this monumental folly, 58,200 American soldiers were killed and over 150,000 wounded. America’s loss, though tragic, pales to the Vietnamese losses: more than two million Vietnamese were killed, a country devastated by decades of war, and millions of people still affected by Agent Orange. The most poignant moment for me was meeting North Vietnamese veterans; even knowing I was a US Navy veteran, there wasn’t any palpable bitterness. Every family in Vietnam has a grandparent, uncle, or relative who was killed in the war. I am humbled by the Vietnamese’s courage, sacrifice, and willingness to forgive. Veterans like Chuck Searcy have worked in Vietnam for twenty years with Agent Orange remediation and removing UXOs (unexploded ordinances). Through the persistent advocacy of Senator Leahy, the USA is helping to clean up some of the most contaminated “hot-spots” sites of Agent Orange. Nevertheless, it is only a fraction of the aid needed. This poison affects all the places it was handled and stored: Vietnam, Japan, Okinawa, US military bases, the Philippines, and more. To make peace with our past, we must remediate the damage we have done, and those actions are the first steps to forgiveness. The work of cleaning up Agent Orange and removing unexploded ordinances must also occur in Laos and Cambodia. We cannot ignore our responsibility for the war: the destruction of vast forests and ecosystems, cultural and historical treasures that have been lost, and this land shattered by bombs and poisoned by herbicides. The Vietnamese, Laotian,
My Lai Prayers Jan 2020
Mothers were cooking rice porridge breakfast on the wood stoves, children laughing and singing, and fathers getting ready to work in the rice paddies. Then American soldiers descended on this village and in a few hours they executed 504 men, women, and children. The women and girls were raped. War came and went, one conqueror after another, the Chinese, French, Americans, but the rice farmers’ life was largely immune to the turns and twists of empires except on that day, March 16, 1968. Few soldiers showed remorse, “We were following orders.” said the soldiers. Few held to account for the murders, and eventually, all the soldiers were acquitted. What compels soldiers to turn into soulless creatures devoid of humanity? Today, fifty-one years later I slowly walk through My Lai village my eyes filled with tears. I walk along the paths with the footprints of the men, women, and children fleeing in panic from the soldiers. My steps are a prayer and meditation. The sky is serenely blue. Songs of the birds fill the morning air. Are they the souls of the people killed? The profusion of pink and purple flowers and a hint of jasmine belies the tragedy. There is a large brass Buddhist bell. I toll this sonorous bell and light incense. I am empty and alone with my thoughts and the memories of these people. I have no poetic or holy words to heal the insanity. There is only one word that roars back to me Why? Namaya 2020- bio: Namaya is a poet and artist, a Vietnam era veteran, and a lifelong peace activist. www.namayaproductions.com
Resist with Love
I am Stuff/ We Are Stuff: Decrapifying
I am Stuff/ We Are Stuff: Decrapifying I am an ecologically groovy kind of 67-year-old white middle-class male. By politics, I am a socialist. I believe in free universal health care: housing for all: strict licensing and gun control: free college, a vocational school for all: all corporations pay all of their taxes without deductions: Ending the welfare state for the military-industrial mafia, and that is only start of my platform as the next Presidential candidate for the Socialist Party. As a socialist, I should be a paragon of modesty, though that is not true. Stuff! For these past fifty years, I have, through intention and accident, accumulated a lot of stuff. It is like a purse or a tool bag. The bigger your bag –, the more stuff you have. We have a roomy, comfortable home in Vermont; I have a workshop for home repairs, a large art studio, and a 1,000 s f living space. I also have hundreds of books of all kinds and sizes, medical books from my medical practice, poetry and literature books galore, and even books in Persian, which I don’t read. I like my books. They are my friends, neatly tucked into my bookshelves. But it is all, stuff! Too much wonderful stuff. My closet is filled with shirts and clothes that I have no idea how most of those clothes showed up there – gifts from my wife, friends, and others. I rarely buy new clothes, yet the clothes have just shown up. In my upsizing to the next phase of my life, I need a major de-crapification. My tool and workshop with all my house repair stuff. Drills, saws, hammers, and enough stuff to build a house. There are cans of paints, solvents, cleaners, brushes, and enough stuff for a hardware store. I got an email that there is a gizmo that will scan books and images into a jpeg file. I was about to buy it when I thought – damn! My camera can do the same thing! Why am I so addicted to this stuff binge? I’ve been emptying a huge crate of old letters, cards, and notes from the past fifty years for the past few days. One set of letters is from a girl I was in a philosophy class with. She was the smartest person in the class, but she was quiet and only spoke when she had something important to say. I have our notes and letters from nearly fifty years ago. In the way that people fall in love in their twenties, we were in love and filled with much ardor. I had some of her first philosophy papers. On a whim, I searched the internet and found out that she had become a philosophy professor in Mexico. I was so proud of her for continuing her studies and ordered one of her books. Most of the letters were routine hello and updates, but some were so important at various points in my life. When I was in the Navy and struggling with alcohol and emotional issues, I became friendly with family in Florida, a Navy career man, and his incredibly loving and supportive family. I helped his family while recovering from a heart attack, and they helped support me. I felt the love and care of all the cards and letters, trivial and otherwise. In the years to come, I will open this box of love if I should feel down and blue. Yes, there will be some perfumed letters (yes, they really did exist). The fragrance of the perfume remains. But more significantly, all the love, concern, guidance, support, and insights will lift my spirits. In opening that box of letters in the years to come, I believe it will be like the flood of memories when you smell Bazooka Bubble gum, bringing back all those memories. Or for me, when I was a kid in Seville, every corner pastry shop made its unique pastry. When I was last in Seville, I went to my old neighborhood and bought a tiny powdery anise pastry, and as soon as I tasted it, it brought me back to my childhood. Today, I stacked and arranged the letters and cards and taped the box. It will stay in storage, but those memories are so vibrant. Skipping stones – I spent a half-hour by Blue Heron Pond with two little boys and their dad. We were skipping stones. Is that one of the oldest games? I hadn’t done that in ages. I was playing with these 7 and 8-year-old boys and skipping stones. The beauty of Blue Heron Pond fills my soul with wonder and joy. Blue Heron Pond- it is my soul. Not in hyperbole, but in reality. This magnificent sanctuary in Southern Vermont has fueled my creative work over the past twenty-five years. Sadly, our home has become too big to keep up, and the taxes in Brattleboro keep escalating. Our town has an appetite for an electric Rolls Royce but only a budget for a used Kia. As much as I love this beautiful treasure, we know it is time for the next step and the next third of our lives. At sixty-eight, we could hang on to our home in Vermont, but it is time, and we want to travel more. I need less responsibility, fewer things to own, and more time for my creative work. When I left the Navy fifty years ago, I had a duffle bag of clothes, and that was my worldly possessions. I sometimes hunger for that level of simplicity. When traveling with a suitcase and guitar, I realize that is all I need. The rest of this beautiful stuff and clutter is merely beautiful stuff and clutter. I will probably never have the Thoreau simple life of a cabin on Walden Pond, but I can radically slenderize my life. Serendipitously now, I am losing weight, and in my creative work, I am taking a
