by maia

this post is more questions than answers.  some thoughts brought together on a crazy taxi ride with my 2 year old aza.

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i love riding in taxis here.

i am feeling very uninspired these past few days.  its hard to explain.  normally i am brimming with ideas just trying to find the time and resources to do them all.  but lately ive got the: whats the point?  seriously?

part of me is feeling frustrated.  over the past couple of months observing the iranian protests from afar.  following cynthia mckinney and others voyage through israeli prisons.  thinking about the various intersecting communities in cairo and egypt.  dreaming of visiting aswan (the capital of southern egypt aka upper egypt aka nubia) which people continuously tell me that it is the most beautiful city they have ever seen.

today aza and i caught a cab to take her to the refugee school so that they she could be babysat and i could return home and get some much needed writing done. the taxi driver whipped the car around a corner.  started going the wrong way on a one way street.  ran over a police officer’s foot who was trying to stop the driver.  the police officer limps/runs after us.  so the cab driver speeds up.  more police officers are running after us.  the driver starts whipping around corners trying to outdrive the police officers…

its not that i am feeling uninspired.  really.  its that i cant see where i am going to get the resources to do the work that supports me or my communities.  what i mean is. i think i was born an internationalist.  i taught myself french starting at the age 8.  spanish at the age 10.  taught myself latin when i was 16.  i was getting ready to fly.

several times in the past decade various folks have tried to convince me that the really crucial work was being done ‘in the belly of the beast’.  you know locally in the states.  in the regions of the us that are ravaged by poverty, racism, and various other  forms of structural and direct marginalization and violence.  and so i co-built community in the states for years.  but then when i was 23 i decided that since i had nothing, then i had nothing to lose.  and i finally took the plunge and left the country.

the taxi driver wound through the streets.  aza held onto my legs. at a stop light  (when he finally decided that it was ok to stop for the light) he turned back to look at us and said: they would have taken me to jail.  i laughed.  aza looked at me like: wtf?

but today as i was repeating to myself: we are going to survive this.  i realized that the reason that i was frustrated is that i have been putting more energy that i should into us-centric organizations.

i have had this dream.  this kooky little dream since i met a bunch of folks in guatemala back in 2001 who were running a poc space in chiapas working in solidarity the zapatistas.

i am dreaming of women of color/third world women/ two-thirds women/ indigenous women working in solidarity with one another across borders and boundaries.  across oceans and man built walls.  and that dream is my focus.  especially focusing on reproductive justice solidarity across borders.

i understand folks who focus on what is happening locally rather than globally.  (and this local/global dichotomy is so limited in describing the world that we live in…) like: shit so bad in my city, sister, its hard to think about what is happening in your city.  shit’s so bad in my hood, in my house, i dont have the time, energy, resources to focus on what is happening in your hood.

i get that.  really i do.  and i feel like that attitude is fueled in part by a limited analysis of where your hood ends.  and where mine begins.

finally after catching our breaths, our driver announces that we have arrived.  im looking around but it doesnt look familiar.  wait a minute, i tell him.  where are we?  he starts repeating the street over and over (only one of the biggest streets in cairo, but ok…)and i say fine.  i pay him 10 ep.  he raises his eyebrow and puts his hand out for more.  no, chauffeur  no.  10 ep is over paying for that trip.  and you took 3 times longer to get here (wherever here is cause it still doesnt look familiar to me) because you had to outrun cops in the process… i start yelling at him in english…and get out of the car.  before he drives off he yells to me.  i look back.  and he has my house keys in his hands handing them to me.  they must have dropped out of my pocket i thank him.  and try to figure out where i am.

when i think about media and healing.  i think about the times that i have most needed community.  in healing from trauma.  and how little info there was out there about trauma healing for women of color.  and i think about all the women i have known here in cairo and in palestine and in chiapas and in the congo and how and where could i have found resources for trauma healing for them and for me.  i looked.  and looked.  and am still looking.

especially when it comes to birth.  it is just so weird to me how little energy in the anti-violence and reproductive justice movement is centered around birth.  really?  maybe part of the reason is that there are so many women who are traumatized by birth.  so many.  so many.  just trying to focus on the positive parts of the birth and ignore the recurring depression.  ignore the ptsd.  ignore it.  ignore the violence.  dont call it violence.  call it protocol.  call it normal.  dont talk about what does ‘consent’ mean in the middle of labor.  or after a woman has taken a series of drugs.

really.  why is birth in relation to physical violation such a common experience for women worldwide.  and such a marginal topic in the reproductive justice movement?

i mean birth and motherhood are one of those experiences that can connect women of color across borders.  those who have given birth. those who will. those who have supported others giving birth.  life. life.  life.  life.

and one of the first waves of colonization is the medical industrial system.  think nestle formula.  think dangerous contraception.  think c-section.  think traditional midwives replaced. think doctor with out borders.  think medical aid being denied to gazans.  think red cross tents replacing israeli demolished homes.  think women giving birth at checkpoints.  think enforced contraception by maquiladoras.  think women giving birth in chains in the usa and israel.  think life.

if you dont talk about it.  then you certainly cant organize around it.

and i think about what the girls at the refugee school that i teach dance to have to teach me and others about movement, borders, and strength.  about creating community.  about caretaking.  about healing.  and communication across difference and difficulties.  and i am thinking about how little it would cost (in terms of money) to support them creating their own media.  or me creating mine.

i mean if we are going to create models and resources for our communities then who should be centered in those models?

how do we create anti-imperialist us-centric models and movements?  is that even possible?

and i am thinking about how your hood aint like mine.  and if we dont figure out how to find out more about each others hood.  then your hood may be destroyed.  right after mine is.

survival/evolution. because our survival requires evolution. of our conceptions of where my hood is. and where your hood isnt. of who your people are.  and who mine aren’t.

trans national community building cannot be the spice on the main us-centric meal.  we cannot afford that.  my hood cant afford that.

or maybe we can…

thank god.  we are ready now.

i walk half a block and realize that we are closer than i had first thought.  we dash across the streets and walk into the garden of the school.  it is an oasis in the midst of one the busiest streets in one of the largest city in africa. the sound is muffled by the walls and trees that surround the school grounds.  older women (moms?) walk around in groups wearing bright green, yellow, blue sudanese saris. the world slows down.  folks wave to aza and i.  and smile. and run up to give us daps and hugs.  this is my hood.  too.  like dale city, va.  like washington, dc.  like chip’s house in chiapas in fall/winter 2007-2008.  like pageland, sc.  like at-tuwani, west bank.  like survivors.  like rwoc.  like us.

what does your hood look like?