Black Tuesday: Secrecy Bill

Today, along with many other South Africans, I'm wearing black. The National Press Club has dubbed today 'black Tuesday' because it is the day that the Protection of Information Bill will be passed in parliament. The Right2Know campaign is holding protests across the country and Radio 702 has been holding a vote on its show where the vast majority of South Africans who have called in have voted 'no' to the bill.

In Friday's 'Mail and Gaurdian' large portions of the article about Mac Maharaj's possible involvement in the controversial arms deal were blacked out, indicating the effect the Information Bill will have on the Media in terms of reporting anything related to government corruption. Some have argued that the primary purpose of this Bill is to prevent more information about the arms deal, in which many high level leaders are implicated, from coming out. Even were this not to be the case, coming from a history of banning and censorship during Apartheid, many see this as a major step back for South Africa.

Wearing black today will not change the fact that the Information Bill is passed or the content of the Bill, but as Sarah Britten writes in Thought Leader, visibility matters. As people change their avatars, blog and tweet and wear visibly black clothing, a movement is started that slowly gain momentum and impacts society. We can't always predict what the impact or outcome will be, but the movement has started, and as Britten argues, "Once its out their, nobody can pretend otherwise".

South Africans are making themselves heard: We don't approve of the Information Bill, we want press freedom, we will protest. Protest in this country has brought down a government and a powerful and evil system. Watch this space to see what Black Tuesday may lead to yet.

Identity and openness

People who do not have an identity, who have not put down roots and do not have a clear set of values, cannot be really open to others. They cannot give because they do not really know who they are, what they want and what they are capable of. Those, on the other hand, who have a strong identity, but who are closed in on themselves and on their own particular circle, behind solid walls, are convinced that they are right. They judge and condemn people who do not see things their way. Either they are in danger or suffocation, or they tend to create conflict.

Those who have an identity and who are open to people different from themselves will gradually become people of compassion, peace and reconciliation. Through humble and simple acts, through listening and kindness, they will bring peace and unity. By directing their abilities towards communion, they will help others to live their humanity more fully and to be united in love and in a common purpose.

Openness also implies trying to understand those who are different, and those who use their authority to oppress people, in order to find ways of entering into dialogue with them. Openness impels us to make space for them in our hearts.

                    -Jean Vanier, Our Journey Home, p 146

God is wide

A few days ago, a street vendor was trying to sell me something at a robot and spotted the tattoo on my arm. He first complimented it and then asked what it meant. I started saying it was from Ghana, and he immediately broke in, "God is wide!" making an expansive gesture with his hands. I've heard the meaning of my tattoo described in various ways, such as 'God is soveriegn' or 'God is in all things' but I think 'God is wide' is my favourite. And the fact that a street vendor recognised it pleased me a lot!

I've been learning the past few years that God is wider than anything we can possibly conceptualise and because of this can embrace a diversity of people, situations, contexts and events with a love and acceptance we can barely imagine.

Every time I glimpse my tattoo I am reminded of God's expansiveness (how high and wide and deep and broad is God's love, says Paul!) and I feel myself expanding to embrace more of myself, others and the world around me.

Therapy: The Wounded Self

Since I started seeing a psychodynamic therapist two years ago, a number of people have asked me what therapy is all about. I'm going to write a few posts over the next couple of months that will explore some of my answers to this question, although I’m sure therapists themselves might have countless more ways of describing their work. So these posts will describe some aspects of the therapy process that seem particularly pertinent to me but won’t pretend to be an exhaustive description of therapy, which can take so many forms and be approached in such a variety of ways.

A therapist seems to me to be someone particularly adept at engaging my wounded self. We all have selves that have been wounded by the rough and tumble of life. Much of this wounding apparently happens during those formative early years of our lives before we are able to really understand or articulate our experiences. As we grow older, we develop ways of protecting this wounded and vulnerable self. This is often referred to as developing defense mechanisms. These defenses have helped us get through certain periods of our lives, but later become inappropriate and stunting as we need to grow and develop.

These defenses can become quite strong and bury parts of ourselves deep within us, so that they are rarely accessed by others or even ourselves. Sometimes we encounter these parts of ourselves in dreams, or in the moment of intense emotion or trauma, or in the freedom of creativity. But mostly they are hidden – both the gifts these parts of ourselves might offer and the raw pain they try to keep us from having to feel.  A therapist, I believe, knows how to draw out this wounded self gently and in a safe environment. If these hidden parts of self are revealed to us too quickly, the pain and internal dissonance can be psychologically dangerous (as Archibald Hart writes about in Me, myself and I). There is a reason we have developed defenses to protect ourselves from this, after all. But a therapist knows at what speed to draw out this wounded self and how to engage it without the rest of us being overwhelmed.

The therapist begins carefully to engage the wounded self. But more importantly, the therapist helps us engage our own wounded self and as we speak to the hidden parts of our psyche, healing begins to take place. It is a painful process to have those defense mechanisms peeled away. We may become resistant to the process and withdraw in fear. But if we persevere in faith and trust, behind those tough outer layers lie some treasures waiting to be discovered.

I think this is a little bit what C.S.Lewis was writing about in Voyage of the Dawn Treader (in the Chronicles of Narnia) when Aslan tears Eustace's dragon skin off. The relevant excerpt can be found here. In this case, Aslan as a metaphor for Christ, is the one who peals away the defensive layers so that we can experience the joy of 'being a boy again'. Perhaps the defences are sometimes so great that we need the help of a therapist. But at the most fundamental level, I guess I believe the process to be a spiritual one and that the integration of our wounded selves might be what it means to be born again.

Brutal violence

This weekend I went with a friend to visit her relatives. While there, an elderly family friend came to visit who told the most horrific story about how her 67-year-old sister was brutally attacked in her home only a few days ago. She was beaten, raped and stabbed several times, and only by some miracle had survived the ordeal and was receiving emergency surgery as we spoke. This family friend broke into small, controlled sobs while telling the story and then quickly composed herself again.

It was a heavy story to receive. We sat in shock as it unraveled before us and we were left not knowing what to say in response. I've often read and heard stories of violent crime, but this incident was particularly recent, close and brutal. We struggled to make sense of the cruelty of the crime. It seemed possible that it was committed by a beggar that this woman had been giving food to.

In the US, this kind of crime would probably be seen as the work of a psychopath and be dealt with within that framework. In South Africa, these crimes are normally set within a political framework, assumed to be racially motivated and to draw from deep seated anger and resentment still simmering within people as they recover from Apartheid. Or perhaps the theories about poverty, unemployment and frustration are brought into the mix.

Any of this might be true. But it doesn't explain the cold brutality and cruelty of the crime. The senselessness of it. Pure maliciousness and hate seem to be at its root. As I sat with it, tried to make sense of it, had it play over and over in my mind, a small tendril of fear started to grow in me. The fear is not so much about being the victim of such a crime as it is about what it says about the human race and our ability to lose touch completely with our humanity.

The family friend said several times, with a heavy heart, how it shakes one's faith. She was speaking about her faith in God and God's protection. It shakes my faith in humanity. It shakes my faith in the ability of people to rehabilitate, be restored, be healed, be whole. It shakes my faith in the possibility of reconciliation in our fragile society.

And yet, in that painful conversation, there was already the narrative of forgiveness and healing. I think it was probably much too soon. I think there would need to be a lot of anger and hatred; a sitting with the feelings of betrayal, fear and doubt. I think there would need to be a being with the sick reality of the cruelty and brutality of what happened. But growing out of that, is a little seed of restoration. The family friend spoke of being with her sister once she's out of hospital and recovering, sleeping next to her in her bed, holding her while she sleeps. My faith is a little shaken but perhaps hope will, in its determined and persistent way, show its face amidst the horror.

Argentina and the quest for identity

I was in Buenos Aires last week attending a conference on genocide. One of the topics that was discussed at some length was the 30 000 people who 'dissapeared' there during the dictatorships of the 1970s and 1980s. Some political activists who were kidnapped had their babies taken from them and they were then adopted by military families. We heard the stories of women who had lived their entire lives believing themselves to be the children of particular military people, only to discover in their thirties that their entire identity has been a lie.

One young women in her thirties described the struggle to regain her own identity. She was married with children at the time of her discovery. Suddenly, she was not the daughter of a general who was standing trial (and who she was defending at all cost) but the daughter of the political activists who that same general had killed. Not only did her name, her family and her genetic knowledge change overnight, she had to suddenly begin perceiving herself, her past, her present and the world around her from a completely different frame of reference.

Since being back from Argentina I've been sick in bed with a cold and decided to use my recovery time by watching all three of The Bourne movies ('The Bourne Identity', 'The Bourne Supermacy' and 'The Bourne Ultimatum'). These movies reflect a similar quest for regaining a lost identity and the pain involved in facing terrible things that have been done to you and terrible things you may have chosen to do because of the context you found yourself in.

Identity is difficult to grapple with in ordinary circumstances. But in the case of the hundreds of Argentinians who need to face the truth of who they are it is unimgainably traumatic. As I heard the stories of the women coming to terms with who they are, I was reminded of the crucial role that truth plays in any healing process. We need to know what has happened to us and who we are in order to become whole. Facing that truth can be the most difficult thing some of us may ever have to do. But knowing about our own pasts and being able to place the multi-faceted truths of our lives in context remains necessary for healthy self integration.

World Refugee Day: Hope

Today is the United Nations World Refugee Day. The theme chosen this year is 'hope'. With over ten million people seeking asylum in other countries, and some 26 million displaced in their own countries, this seems a pertinent theme.

As I take a moment to think about what it means to be a refugee, I think of the times I've been away from home for long periods of time. I remember the three months I spent in Paraguay in 2001. Although my times there was exciting and stimulating, there were also times of great frustration. I was constantly misunderstood; the little bit of Spanish I learnt was never enough. Learning how simple things, like the public transport system and shopping, worked took large amounts of energy and time. People would sometimes get frustrated with me and treat me like a child. Towards the end of my time there, I was desperate to come home. I longed to be in my own environment, where I'm know and understood and where my environment is safe and familiar.

Magnify my frustrations and my longing by tenfold to begin to imagine the experience of someone who is in another country not by choice, not because they want an interesting adventure, but because it is the only way to survive. Magnify this again when considering someone who has not been able to pack a suitcase with appropriate clothes, toiletries and favourite belonging or stash up on travellers cheques and the relevant currency but who has come empty handed, at the mercy of strangers.

During the first few months, all one is focused on is the hard work of survival. But as the months go by, the longing for home increases. The longing turns into a desperate ache as you keep reading news reports and looking for clues about when it will be safe to return. And perhaps enough months, even years, pass to make going home less and less likely as you make a new life for yourself elsewhere. And however good this new life may be, it will never make up for the fact that you were once uprooted against your will.

Hope, for the refugee, is perhaps the only lifeline. Hope of survival. Hope of return. Hope of the continuation of life in new circumstances. Hope that strangers will be merciful. Hope that somehow, in all that has happened, meaning can be found. Hope that maybe one day there will be the possibility of feeling like a fully contributing human being again.

May we be merciful to the refugee so that they who have been forcefully removed from their own homes may have their hope increased.