A short wooden sword

When I was living in South Korea my Hapkido master decided to start teaching us sword fighting.  Amazing right?  Yeah I thought so too until he handed me a rather short wooden sword.  In response to my frown he gently pointed out that I was too tall to have a normal sized sword because I would keep hitting the roof.  As much as I could appreciate the practicality of that, I could not help but feel slightly insignificant and childish as I glanced down the row of would-be sword fighters with their full-length weapons.  Mentally I could not reconcile my black belt status with my short sword.  Three months into my new job that same feeling of conflicting status is creeping in.  I may like to think of myself as a black belt in communications but as a humanitarian I am still very much holding a short wooden sword.

Humanitarians love to tell war stories.  On the whole they are great and really make you want to light a fire, toast marshmellows, listen and learn.  Sometimes however these stories can take on a life of their own and, in some circumstances, be used as a way to determine whose sword is bigger.  There is a sensitive balance between technical and context experiences.  Technical expertise gives you the theories, best practices, and transferable skills but context experiences give you the nuances and credibility.  Unfortunately the only way to get context experience is, well to be in the context.  Somehow when I am sitting in a room listening to my colleagues talk about Jordan, Turkey and Lebanon in support for the Syria Response, or their experiences in Rwanda, Pakistan and Sudan, my usual stories of the lengthy international negotiations over the great brussel-sprout shortage of 2004, running 16 events in one week, having articles published, or achieving market leadership of a canned meat product just don’t seem as impressive.  I am once again the black-belt with the short wooden sword.

So how do you deal with a short wooden sword?

I need to be honest with you here.  I stopped writing just after I finished that question because I didn’t have an answer.  I get the whole learning, developing, experience and knowledge takes time but I am not naturally a patient person.  I am not good at not being good at things.  And, well part of me feels as though I have done the training and the learning.  I have attended internal training, I’ve been part of simulations, I’m nearly finished my Masters in International Conflict Management, I’ve read books by former humanitarian workers, I read their blogs, I’ve even read the Sphere Standards and I do have some limited field exposure.  And that all paid off cos I am now in my dream job.  But I still have so much to learn and experience.

It is now a day later.  And after a night of red wine, delicious food and wonderful conversations with my new colleagues I just decided to get over myself.

As my Hapkido Master said when he was toasting our achievement of our black-belts after a year and a half of training twice a day, five days a week, ‘Now the real work begins.’

And just as my Hapkido Master was always there for me as I fumbled my way through learning new wrist locks and Jackie Chan like moves, I do feel rather confident that my new colleagues will be there for me too.

 

 

What’s in a story?

I am wearing a Panama Hat.  Yes, I do look ridiculous, especially as I am also wearing an old tracksuit with UGG boots, wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket and sitting inside on my couch.  But I felt inspired to write about my recent trip to Panama and thought it only fitting to don my Genuine Panama Hat, made in Ecuador.

Panama is hot.  Sweaty, red face hot.  Especially if, like me, you do stupid things like go for a walk along the Canal mid-morning in black exercise gear, without a hat and no water bottle.  Just as well that I wasn’t surrounded by a bunch of experienced humanitarians who have that whole practical preparedness thing going on.  Oh right, I was.

I was in Panama for a Global Relief Forum.  A week with some great humanitarian minds challenging, debating, and at times arguing how to improve our responsiveness to the changing humanitarian needs.   And boy can these guys debate.  This combination of passionate, intelligent, experienced and principled people is awe inspiring and a tad humbling.  The more I heard the more my inner communicator jumped for joy.  It is my job to tell their stories and engage others in their work and after just five days of listening to them I thought wow, there are so many stories here it will take me years to collect and share them all.

Armed with what has been described as my ‘annoying and misplaced’ enthusiasm for storytelling I oooh’ed and ahhh’ed and asked two reasonably innocent questions, ‘Have you told this story to anyone?  Can we do a piece on this?’

I expect people to get embarrassed, nervous, even excited when I ask to share their story but I was unprepared to have a high number of people turn to me and say “I was told this isn’t a story.”

I couldn’t believe it. I had thought I might encounter some resistance, I mean these are busy people and stopping to tell a story could be a tad annoying.  But no, instead I found a bunch of people keen, almost desperate to share their experiences, challenges, and successes but disillusioned by ‘this isn’t a story’.

Imagine that.  Imagine being told that your work, in some cases your life, which is spent travelling to some of the worst disaster affected communities isn’t worth talking about.  Imagine having been someone who was on the ground in responding to the Cyclone Nargis, Asian Tsunami, the Haiti earthquake, imagine working in protracted conflict zones like Sudan, Pakistan, DRC, Somalia, imagine pouring your heart and soul into new projects to expedite the delivering of lifesaving aid, of working tirelessly with other agencies and governments to protect human rights. Imagine all of that and then being told, ‘this isn’t a story’.

Everyone has a story and every story is worth telling.  How you tell it, where you tell it and to who you tell it to, sure that is important.  But never let someone tell you your story is not worth telling.

Stories lead to friendships.  Stories lead to identifying things we have in common and understanding things that are different.  Stories lead to education, knowledge, and wisdom.

Ok, so rant over back to Panama hats and sweaty walks along the Canal.

The water goes up then down, the ships come in and then go out. All in all a fine canal.

Friends, boats and humidity. A great day out.

My morning walks along the Panama Canal.

For a non hat person, I having way too much fun with my Panama Hat

When listening hurts

Think of the hardest, most difficult, worst time in your life.  Then think of the one thing that someone could have said or done to have made things seem better.  Got it?  Please tell me.  I have a strong feeling I am going to need those words.

I often describe myself as a storyteller.  A more apt description is a story listener.  I listen to stories, funny stories, horrible gut wrenching stories and everything in between.  I listen to stories even when they are not spoken but being told by the tilt of head, an awkward laugh, the clench of hand or the shift of the eyes. 

Last month I spent a couple of weeks in Bangkok meeting my new team members, getting to know them and their experiences and simply just listening to them.  They are amazing, impressive and generally quite amusing.  I laughed a lot and felt welcomed.  But there is a distance present.  They are a tight knit group of people with bonds forged in the harshness of the work they do.  But there is most definitely distance; an underlying remoteness that I guess is the heart and mind’s natural protection.  There were times with these people where the sadness was overwhelming.  I don’t own this sadness.  It is not mine. But as a story listener, as stupid as it might sound to you, sometimes listening hurts.  Really hurts.  I want to be able to say or do that one thing that will make all the difference to that person and their story.  I want to make the sadness go away.  There are moments, rare beautiful moments where just being there makes that difference.  More often than not though, I just feel helpless. 

So how do we cope with helplessness?  Well I have a number of strategies but most of them are not technically the healthiest and most mature of options, and given my parents often read this blog I’ll leave those ones to your imagination. 

So the healthier options?  Um, before I share I should probably give you a geek alert.  Cos, well my latest coping strategy is Gandalf.  Yep, I did really just write Gandalf and yes I do mean the wizard from Lord of the Rings.  I just think of the scene in Two Towers where Gandalf frees Theodred, King of Rohan from the negative influence of Saruman.  When the sadness takes hold of me from listening and feeling these stories I just imagine Gandalf coming to my rescue. 

Oh Gandalf, my hero.

Think I’m crazy?  Yeah so do I really.  But hey what ever works, works.  And if that fails I just think of my little niece or nephew currently baking away in my sister’s tummy.  I imagine him/her dancing away with the full protection of my sister and brother-in-law’s love and once again know that worst moments can only be the worst because we have better moments to compare them to.   And when you really think about it, there can only be one worst moment in your life but there can be an infinite number of better moments.

Artistic interpretation of my little niece or nephew as it dances it’s way into life.

A first to remember

Everyone has a first time.  No not that first time, I mean the first time you know why you exist.  The first time you realised that what you think, feel and do matters.  Oh yeah, sorry I meant to start with a warning that this blog post may verge a little on the deep and reflective.

It all started with a relapse into my teenage years following my 36^th 30^th 26^th birthday when I thought I’d check out the Dolly Magazine website.  I read a blog by Tiffany Dunk, editor of Dolly, about her recent to trip to India.  And I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I got teary as I read it.  Didn’t help that I was reading it when I should have been paying attention in a meeting but I just couldn’t stop.  You see India was my first time.

It wasn’t my first time traveling and it certainly wasn’t the first time I had witnessed a less than savoury side of life.  But it was the start of knowing for absolute sure what I was going to be when I grew up.  Yep it was when I knew that I was going to be a humanitarian communicator.

Reading Tiffany’s blog was almost like a “This is Your Life” moment.  The chaos and colour, the heat and the food of India filled my mind.  And the memory of that horrible heart-wrenching pause I felt in a father’s response to the hopeful bright eyes of his daughter.  That moment where reality was cruelly allowed to suppress hope.

I don’t much like reality.  I like sci-fi, fantasy and the odd cartoon.  I like happy endings and yes I like rom-coms.  And here I was, one of seven people crammed into a tiny concrete box of a home, sweat running down my face, transfixed by a little girl looking at her HIV infected father in much the same way I use to, and probably still do, look at mine.   Seeing his hesitation and unease at his daughter’s gaze as she dreamed of a future affected me more than the filth of the city slums and the exhaustive poverty.

I would never again be able to say I’m not sure what to do with my life.  In the two and half years since I was in India I’ve worked toward this, and just for you guys, I’ve started documenting my journey to becoming a humanitarian communicator.  In four weeks time I will move into a new role as a communicator within our humanitarian team.  It is going to be a massive learning curve working with some incredible people.  I am excited, scared and sad to leave my current team of amazing communicators.  But it is time to grow up and stop changing the channel when a bit of reality comes through my TV.

Making the list

I’m on a list.  Not just any list.  The list.  After two years of training courses, uni study and extra workload I’ve finally made it onto the list.  I’m on the emergency communications roster.  And I am petrified.

I think I am prepared.  I have my travel bag ready to go.  I have the right amount of white singlets, cargo pants and branded t-shirts.  I even have a media interview worthy travel make-up kit.  And of course I have just downloaded season two of Phineas and Ferb, the best cartoon ever.

Being prepared, one never knows when you’ll need a white singlet

But no matter how prepared I think I might be there is the usual self-doubt that comes with going into an unknown situation. I’m nervous that I am on the verge of entering into the field I have wanted to work in since I was a kid.  I feel a tad guilty that wanting to work in emergencies in some way means I’m tempting fate.  And after studying terrorism and writing a research paper on the targeting of aid workers in the field I’m also scared that my security training may not be enough.  In my darker moments, usually around 3am, I worry about what I will be like in twenty years.

I have a lot of friends and family members that are ex military, police, emergency services and of course humanitarian aid workers.  After a few drinks you hear some stories, usually told with bravado and laughter.  After a few more drinks you feel their silences and sit uncomfortably with them hoping that what you imagine is far worse than reality.  After even more drinks you put your arms around them while they cry.  Sometimes in the middle of an everyday conversation they just start recounting a gut wrenching experience and you just listen because what else can you do.

I listen to a lot stories.  All my life people, including strangers, just seem to tell me their stories.  Usually the ones they won’t tell anyone else.  There is something rather magical about listening to or telling a story.  I’ve often thought that if there is such as thing as a calling or God given gifts mine is to listen and tell stories.  As petrified as I sometimes get around my current and future work I know it is worth it.

So armed with cartoons, my reSILLYence tactics, and the ongoing therapy that is writing a blog I will spend this Christmas and New Years on call, ready and willing to listen and tell stories.

Sometimes you have to step up the reSILLYense

Car accidents, bombs and Christmas cards

Uh oh!  That was my single thought as the dark coloured Toyota drove straight into the side of my car and pushed me onto the other side of the road.  My thoughts rapidly advanced when my eyes focused on the two lanes of on coming traffic and I somehow managed to steer my half caved in car to the edge of the road.  I think I even managed a head check.

Only a few days earlier I had played a dying car crash victim for a training course and the whole life imitating art really scared the crap out of me.  Noticing the car just before it hit, hearing the screech of his tyres and the smash of metal and feeling the loss of control do not count among my favourite life moments.  Though I am very grateful for the kindness of my family and friends (special shout out to DA, MS, JC, SS, BP, RH, BW, & SC) and for the comfort chocolate I justifiably consumed afterwards.

The accident happened on a Friday.  Fridays are my day to pulled together our internal Global Emergency Monitor, which is a summary of all the current and breaking emergencies around the world.  Between the ongoing nightmare in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the food crises in West and East Africa, the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in Haiti and Syria I selfishly didn’t feel like doing this report.  I sat at my desk and took a moment to look at the picture of one of my sponsor children.  She is eight years old and she lives in Gaza.  A Google search told me her village is situated right in the middle of the bombing.

I don’t know enough to talk about the politics of the Israeli Palestinian conflict.  I am not smart enough to really understand my car insurance policy let alone the history of this troubled area.  I am not even sure if I should be happy or concerned that Palestine has just been acknowledged as a state by the U.N.

I do know that the eyes of a young girl stare out at me from a photo that has travelled half way across the world to my letterbox.  And they make me care more than I thought possible.  Her hand written ‘I love you’ with a smiley face in bright pink texta makes me pay more attention to the news and to our government policies on aid, development, and foreign affairs.

I’ve had a lot of stupid thoughts over my life.  When I was a kid I thought I could re-jig the toilet flush to sound like a car engine so it wouldn’t scare me as much at night.    As a teenager I thought stuffing my bra with tissues, money and my house key was a practical solution to increasing their size and not having to carry a hang bag.  As a sometimes-mature adult I continue to have stupid thoughts.  I often think the packaging on the Lindt chocolate wrapper would make an awesome wedding dress.  As I am writing this though my thoughts are only of a little girl in Gaza.  Will she receive the Christmas card and stickers I just sent?  Will she ever know that a stranger on the other side of the world has spent the past two weeks searching the Internet to try to understand why she is living under the threat of bombs?

 

Writing Christmas cards to my sponsor children

 

 

 

reSILLYence – bringing the silly back

I had a friend who saw things differently.  She was quirky, freakishly insightful and intelligent.  She never let what other thought of her and her ideas deter her from saying what she needed to say.  I admired her for it.  I was also constantly scared for her and the loneliness that is brought about by understanding things long before others do.

She is on the other side of the world now, still going in her own unique brilliance.  I don’t talk to her much but I desperately want to reach out to her and ask how she does it.  How does she always bounce back?

I remember all the crazy times we had together and how we laughed.  Not just laughed, full-blown giggle, chuckle, snorting I’m gonna pee my pants laughed.  And I realised that’s how she does it, she laughs and more importantly she makes others around her laugh.

She has reSILLYence.

I’m still weaving my way through interviews. training and evaluations on my pathway to being an emergency communicator.  One of the key assessments is personal resilience.  I dread this question because I’m secretly scared that I am weak, sensitive and vulnerable.  But as the dictionary reminded me, resilience isn’t about what gets you down it is about how you bounce back.

This week as office politics, preparation for exams, uncertainty in where my career is going, failing to make $50 magically turn into $100, uncomfortable medical procedures and finally accepting that eating chocolate is not going to help me lose weight got me a little overwhelmed I made a decision.

I’m bringing the SILLY back.

First step – living the Pina Colada song

Really liking Pina Coladas

and getting caught in the rain

Second step…getting a little punch drunk with Ntegrity (yes this is a shameless pun/plug for my awesome friend and boxing partner’s aptly named business)

Yep I have flames on my gloves.

Third step…jump for joy when ever and where ever you can

Jump for Joy

Forth step…YOU

Help bring the SILLY back and gives us all a little boost in our reSILLYence.  Tell us what silly little things you do in your day to laugh and bring a smile to the faces around you.

 

What to do when the Triple C defense faulters

Suicide bombers are getting me down.  I’ve been reading about them for five days in preparation for writing a research paper and it is a little disturbing.  Usually I combat the serious topics of my Masters degree in International Crisis Management with chocolate, cartoons and cocktails.  I call it the Triple C defense.  Lately though I have needed more than chocolate to keep the sweetness in my life.  So here is a collection of short shout outs to the people that have kept me inspired and on track this week.

The Whitney Houston Moment

No this is not about The Bodyguard.   Before she was always loving Kevin Costner she was giving us ‘the greatest love of all’. Back in June I met a local school principal in Senegal. I don’t normally like school principals and certainly any discussion I’ve had with ones in the past usually resulted me sitting in a room on my own for 50 minutes.  This one though was different.  Within moments of talking with him I found myself wanting to break out singing ‘I believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way.’

He had left his hometown and traveled to this very small remote area of Senegal because he believes every child has a basic right to education.  He spoke with so much hope and affection for his students.  He was working with the community to ensure access to education for all; he was encouraging parents to even let their daughters go to school.  When I told him that earlier that day I had interviewed one of his female students and she and her mother had said their biggest hope for their future was to finish school and not enter into an early marriage he clasped his hands together, looked to the sky and whispered a thank you.  Everything about him was hopeful, and now when I need a reminder of what hope means I just look at his picture, take a moment to sit back and smile.   Then I just get on with it.

The reality check

She walked into the room and sat at the end of the table silently.  We continued our monthly meeting for a few minutes and then when the usual business was concluded we asked her to speak.  The moment she opened her mouth we knew it was our turn to be silent.  She was quiet, modest, strong and beautiful.  As the Communications Director for World Vision Pakistan she gave us a small insight into her time working as a single, white, young, female in one of the most complex international development situations.  I didn’t take my eyes of her the entire time she was speaking.  Not cos I’m creepy but because she had a real grace about her.  You do hear a lot of war stories in this industry and they are sometimes worn as a badge of honour.  But she wasn’t like that.   The impact of her talk was more in the pauses than the words.  Her smiles, laughs, directness and truths wove together to show the tight rope of harsh realities and hopeful futures we all walk at some point in our lives.

My fairy ‘fashionista’ godmother

I am not a fashion model and I have given up trying to have style.  But this week, I found myself caring a lot about my appearance.  I had a rather important meeting and I was nervous; so nervous that I was completely freaking out about what to wear.  This is unusual for me as I own five pairs of jeans, nine white tops and that’s really all I wear, simple, easy and no colour coordination required.  Unfortunately I couldn’t don my standard outfit for this meeting.  Enter my fairy ‘fashionista’ godmother.  With a whirl and a twirl I found myself laden with gorgeous dresses from my friend’s wardrobe with hints of what shoes and jackets would match.  It is not so much the clothes that made my day, though they were pretty awesome.  It was the kindness and support from someone that has only been a friend for a short time.  What to her might seem like a small act or gesture to me was amazing.  It reminded me that despite some of the knocks you take there is always kindness out there if you keep yourself open to it.

 

This week’s special: $2,000 worth of bills with a side serving of guilt

$2,000.  That is the amount of bills that arrived in the mail this week.  With them came four pieces of mail from the respective charities that I support, two domestic and two international, all asking for money.  I also work for a charity, which is code for I care more about what I do than what I earn.  At the moment caring is becoming financially taxing.  I have looked at my budget five times today, each time hoping that my poor maths skills have meant I have somehow missed a zero or a comma and that my finances aren’t as bad as I think they are.

I start to strategise about how I can possibly reduce my expenditure.  I could give up chocolate.  Yeah I know I laughed out loud at that suggestion too.  I could cut back on my social life, but I already did that last year.  I tried going without heating for a few days but now have a cold.  It annoys me that as I sit in my comfortable two bedroom rented apartment and slowly sip on my homemade (ok fine it is from a can) pumpkin soup that I am thinking about money and feeling sorry for myself when I every time I close my eyes I see the faces of people I have met in India, Ethiopia and Senegal that have so much less.

Guilt is an odd thing.  Moral justification is even stranger.  There are all kinds of counseling tools that they give aid workers to help manage the paradoxes we see, hear and live everyday.  Nine out of ten times they work.  That one time though, that one time keeps you up at night.

It’s not all miserable of course.  I have managed to find enough money for a short holiday in Malaysia and even splurged on a new pair of jeans since my current pair has developed a hole in a rather awkward place.   And catch up TV does provide good entertainment for sleepless nights.  I just have to keep focused on what this is all about.  So I’ll make myself another cup of tea and have a piece of chocolate, watch some mindless cartoons and trust that tomorrow my calculator will allow one and one to equal three.

An impractical approach to packing

There is an over obsession with practicality when it comes to packing.  When on the job they talk about us having ‘grab’ or ‘run’ bags.  These bags, as their names suggest are for when you have to run from an escalating situation.  These bags must be practical; I get that.  They are full of practical things like travel documents, water, medical kits, snacks, etc.  Sometimes though I just really want to be impractical.

I’m sitting on my bed amidst a mild explosion of clothes as I prepare to pack not for a deployment to an emergency but for a long overdue holiday.  My friends and I are going for one week to Queenstown, they are planning to ski, I am planning to indulge in red wine and cheese.  So I have one week, it will be cold, the roads potentially slippery and wet and I will be walking a lot. Logic tells me I should be practical in my packing.  My instincts, or perhaps it is my inner diva is telling to misplace my practical walking shoes and take my high heels instead.

I like to travel light and after two passports, three backpacks, six continents and thousands of photos here’s my recently remodeled and refined list of feminine essentials that can fit neatly amongst the practical.

#1 Heels.  Stuff practicality, on every trip there is an occasion requiring you to look fantastic; an unexpected dinner invitation, a formal work thingy no one told you about, or simply that you need to feel human after four days hiking. Whatever the unknown reason take the heels.

#2 Lace not cotton.   Time at a laundrette or use of hotel laundry services is rarely an option, or at least it wasn’t in the places I’ve been.  I can’t remember the number of times I’ve simultaneously washed my hair and underwear in the shower. I do recall that cotton takes a long time to dry.  Lace will dry over night with the added bonus of making your feel like a lady despite the layers of travel grime clinging to your skin.

#3 Perfume.  Seem indulgent?  I can tell you from experience that there are some climates where it doesn’t matter how much deodorant you apply or how many times you use body wipes you’re going to…well I don’t need to smell it out for you.  A little squirt of perfume here and there will make you and your nose feel a lot better.

#4 One decent top.  It can be a t-shirt, shirt, jumper, jacket, it doesn’t matter but it’s important you look good in it.  There are going to be days when you don’t care how you look and more often than not I don’t.  I’ve been a communicator for over a decade and am pretty skilled at keeping myself behind the camera but when every one around you is a potential photojournalist things can get tricky.  Do yourself a favour and have a decent top on the ready or be prepared to spend hours un-tagging yourself from FaceBook photos.  Oh and if anyone has any advice on how to avoid triple chin-dom please share.

#5 Scarves.  I love scarves.  I have three draws full of scarves, winter scarves, summer scarves, going out scarves, and my newest addition travel scarves.  Forget diamonds, scarves are a girl’s best friend.  They can dress you up, cover you up, warm you up and if we want to side-step back into practicality they can not only wipe the sweat of your face when in ridiculously hot climates they can also be impromptu bandages for those Bear Grylls first aid moments.
#6 Eyelash tint.  OK, this isn’t so much an item to pack as something to do before travelling.  I’m not great with make-up and nothing is more embarrassing than wiping your face and seeing smears of foundation on your sleeves.  Having your eyelashes tinted makes you look made-up with out the daily hassle.  Add a touch of lip balm and you’re good to go.