sábado, 10 de mayo de 2008
miércoles, 7 de mayo de 2008
Of Compassion and Shame
Yesterday I went through the worst day I ever had in Socotra, and most certainly not the easiest in my personal or professional life.
I spent most of the evening and night to think about the experience I went through. That was a necessary process, as I just cannot forget or save it in the same memory cell where I store loads of strange or funny things. What happened yesterday cannot be kept among trivial events that, at the end of the day, do not have any direct or conscious effects on you and will just fade away as time goes by.
In the first lines I dropped on this blog, I warned that I would have not touched professional aspects of my Socotrian life. But I guess that exceptions are always allowed, especially if they transcend so powerfully to stay, from now on, deeply rooted inside myself.
There is a very youg girl on this island that suffers from a rare disease, Xeroderma pigmentosum, or XP. Even though it may imply pedantry of the writer and consequent boredom of the reader, I must resort to Wikipedia to define the disease as “an autosomal recessive genetic disorder of DNA repair in which the ability to repair damage caused by ultraviolet (UV) light is deficient. This disorder leads to multiple basaliomas and other skin malignancies at a young age. In severe cases, it is necessary to avoid sunlight completely” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xeroderma_pigmentosum).
One of my pending professional tasks is to bring some kind of relief to this young girl, who has not even the age to cover herself completely in black like girls here start to do as they reach puberty. Even though I never met her, I know the case since I arrived in the island and regularly updated her father on what steps I was taking. But because an Italian doctor, following up the case, is spending sometime on the island with two young doctors, we decided to pay a visit to the girl. Again, I did not actually see the girl, as the doctors wisely advised me to just wait in the patio with my assistant, but I could hear her screams in panic and see the expression of the doctors as they came out of the dark room where she lives. The doctors were very careful and professional in explaining to me in Italian the seriousness of the case, avoiding every unnecessary detail in their briefing, and in informing her father, through the translations of my assistant, on what possible measures could be taken as to alleviate her from that incurable disease, which may torment her even for the next ten years. Less than a couple of hours later, my boss called me and asked me about the visit. It is not easy to admit that I went through a terrifying emotional collapse and I could not speak out a bloody word for the first five minutes of the phone call.
Wikipedia defines compassion as “an understanding of the emotional state of another or oneself. Not to be confused with empathy, compassion is often combined with a desire to alleviate or reduce the suffering of another or to show special kindness to those who suffer. However, compassion may lead an individual to feel empathy with another person” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compassion).
Is it actually compassion what I feel? The problems I go through, the loneliness of this stage of my life, the boredom that haunts me during these last days of my job here, the sadness I feel when I miss those I love… are just nothing. They can never be compared to the screams that still echo in my mind, to the perpetual torture she is going through. A tremendously brazen shame can never be confused with compassion.
I spent most of the evening and night to think about the experience I went through. That was a necessary process, as I just cannot forget or save it in the same memory cell where I store loads of strange or funny things. What happened yesterday cannot be kept among trivial events that, at the end of the day, do not have any direct or conscious effects on you and will just fade away as time goes by.
In the first lines I dropped on this blog, I warned that I would have not touched professional aspects of my Socotrian life. But I guess that exceptions are always allowed, especially if they transcend so powerfully to stay, from now on, deeply rooted inside myself.
There is a very youg girl on this island that suffers from a rare disease, Xeroderma pigmentosum, or XP. Even though it may imply pedantry of the writer and consequent boredom of the reader, I must resort to Wikipedia to define the disease as “an autosomal recessive genetic disorder of DNA repair in which the ability to repair damage caused by ultraviolet (UV) light is deficient. This disorder leads to multiple basaliomas and other skin malignancies at a young age. In severe cases, it is necessary to avoid sunlight completely” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xeroderma_pigmentosum).
One of my pending professional tasks is to bring some kind of relief to this young girl, who has not even the age to cover herself completely in black like girls here start to do as they reach puberty. Even though I never met her, I know the case since I arrived in the island and regularly updated her father on what steps I was taking. But because an Italian doctor, following up the case, is spending sometime on the island with two young doctors, we decided to pay a visit to the girl. Again, I did not actually see the girl, as the doctors wisely advised me to just wait in the patio with my assistant, but I could hear her screams in panic and see the expression of the doctors as they came out of the dark room where she lives. The doctors were very careful and professional in explaining to me in Italian the seriousness of the case, avoiding every unnecessary detail in their briefing, and in informing her father, through the translations of my assistant, on what possible measures could be taken as to alleviate her from that incurable disease, which may torment her even for the next ten years. Less than a couple of hours later, my boss called me and asked me about the visit. It is not easy to admit that I went through a terrifying emotional collapse and I could not speak out a bloody word for the first five minutes of the phone call.
Wikipedia defines compassion as “an understanding of the emotional state of another or oneself. Not to be confused with empathy, compassion is often combined with a desire to alleviate or reduce the suffering of another or to show special kindness to those who suffer. However, compassion may lead an individual to feel empathy with another person” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compassion).
Is it actually compassion what I feel? The problems I go through, the loneliness of this stage of my life, the boredom that haunts me during these last days of my job here, the sadness I feel when I miss those I love… are just nothing. They can never be compared to the screams that still echo in my mind, to the perpetual torture she is going through. A tremendously brazen shame can never be confused with compassion.
domingo, 4 de mayo de 2008
The Egyptian Vulture
(Neophron Percnopterus) Though present in Africa, Europe and Asia, 25% of the total population lives in Socotra. The local nickname of these birds is "the municipality service".
viernes, 2 de mayo de 2008
Football and Goats
I just got back to Socotra, after having spent some most deserved holidays in Barcelona. It was most theurapeutic to see my people, taste my food, wine and vices. Of course, some anectdotes dropped between a drink and another, and from the face of the “audience” you could measure the eccentricity of some situations I went through…
It is not always easy to realize how funny and crazy some situations can life can be. Sometimes, a certain distance in time and space are necessary to put things in context and have a clear idea of the absolute madness and surrealism that often decorate the landscape of our walks of life!
Let me just give you an example, which a very dear person encouraged me to talk about in this blog. During the first weeks of my stay in Socotra I was regularly going to the house of a local guy, F.C. Barcelona fan like me, who had the right card to decript the Spanish league on TV. Of course, all young men of Hadibo, who split up between supporters of Barcelona and Real Madrid, used to join in the big patio of the pirate card owner to watch the “Liga” every “Christian” weekend, or during the week for the “Champions League”. Until something happened.
Few days before Aid, the supporters of Real Madrid kidnapped the goat the owner of the place was keeping for the celebration and killed it. They cooked it and kindly offered some meet to the man, who of course was expressing his deep gratitutde to be invited to such a nice meal by his “sworn enemies” and absolutely unaware of where the meat was from. At the end of the dinner, the Real Madrid supporters could not keep it anymore and told the poor guy about the destiny of his goat.
I am sorry not to have been there that night, for it must had been a tremendous show, a story to pass on to many future generations. I was told that the guy became real angry; quite expectably I would say, bearing in mind that he could not buy another goat in time for Aid. Well, the result is that, since that unfortunate day, nobody could follow the “Liga” anymore: we were all banned from his house, regardless of what team we support or our actual participation in the crime. Even worse, Real Madrid has won the “Liga” and Barcelona played very bad for the rest of the season.
There is no justice. Not even for the innocent goats, the only ones who never have fun for Aid.
It is not always easy to realize how funny and crazy some situations can life can be. Sometimes, a certain distance in time and space are necessary to put things in context and have a clear idea of the absolute madness and surrealism that often decorate the landscape of our walks of life!
Let me just give you an example, which a very dear person encouraged me to talk about in this blog. During the first weeks of my stay in Socotra I was regularly going to the house of a local guy, F.C. Barcelona fan like me, who had the right card to decript the Spanish league on TV. Of course, all young men of Hadibo, who split up between supporters of Barcelona and Real Madrid, used to join in the big patio of the pirate card owner to watch the “Liga” every “Christian” weekend, or during the week for the “Champions League”. Until something happened.
Few days before Aid, the supporters of Real Madrid kidnapped the goat the owner of the place was keeping for the celebration and killed it. They cooked it and kindly offered some meet to the man, who of course was expressing his deep gratitutde to be invited to such a nice meal by his “sworn enemies” and absolutely unaware of where the meat was from. At the end of the dinner, the Real Madrid supporters could not keep it anymore and told the poor guy about the destiny of his goat.
I am sorry not to have been there that night, for it must had been a tremendous show, a story to pass on to many future generations. I was told that the guy became real angry; quite expectably I would say, bearing in mind that he could not buy another goat in time for Aid. Well, the result is that, since that unfortunate day, nobody could follow the “Liga” anymore: we were all banned from his house, regardless of what team we support or our actual participation in the crime. Even worse, Real Madrid has won the “Liga” and Barcelona played very bad for the rest of the season.
There is no justice. Not even for the innocent goats, the only ones who never have fun for Aid.
lunes, 7 de abril de 2008
domingo, 23 de marzo de 2008
sábado, 15 de marzo de 2008
The Purring Khat
When you arrive to live for some time in a dramatically different context, you may try to increase your chances of survival by camaleonically merging into the new social and cultural environment. But those who travel a lot are aware that these pseudo-darwinistc efforts to decrease vulnerability, or to adapt, actually have limited success. Hopelessly, no matter how hard you try to fit, you will always be a funny external element in the picture. In other words, the best you can do, on the one hand, is to enter the new environment in the most descreet way, as to be better tollerated; on the other hand, you should try to tollerate yourself many “crazy” things you will find in the place. But there will always be some you will never manage to accept; as far as I am concerned, I am having some difficulties with khat.
Let me immediately warn you that I personally never had the experience of its psychotropic properties on myself, and I do not plan to have it. Writing about something I do not really know may entail a credibility issue; therefore, I shall limit myself to describe the interference khat has on my day in Socotra.
Wikipedia describes khat (Catha edulis) “as a flowering plant native to tropical East Africa and the Arab Peninsula.” (for furher infos on the matter, check http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khat). R. Folch, in his article “Khat” (El Periódico de Catalunya, 17th February 2008), explains very well its importance in Yemen: “Every afternoon, millions of Yemenis sit in group to chat, while they tear and chew the khat [leafs] they have just bought in the shop around the corner”. Khat cultivations substituted first quality coffee plantations and I even read that many people in Yemen die in the attempt to steal it, killed by the electrified fences or anti-personnel mines (!) around the cultivations. Once limited to weekends and now generalised throughout the week, Folch must obvoiusly be right when describing the consumption of khat as “a social problem”.
The Yemeni and Socotri societies are quite different. Actually, the plant does not grow in Socotra and it only arrrived in the early Nineties: therefore, far from being a Socotri tradition, khat is an external element in this island (just like me!) and, apparently, is getting to be a “social problem” like in Yemen, at least in the urban area of Hadibo. It is a pain in the neck indeed, especially for those willing to work in the afternoons, like many foreigners: if they need assistance from the locals, they have serious difficulties in getting them active. It seems that, during the Soviet adventure in the Yemeni civil war, Russians tried to erradicate khat from South Yemen (the belligerent side they were supporting) and to promote vodka instead. After the reunification, these efforts rapidly disappeared and any “vicious” change rapidly reversed. Recently, I heard a rumour about Yemenia Airways wanting to forbid khat on the planes going to Socotra, but it sounds pretty irrealistic to me.
If you complain and try to motivate the boys to work, by pointing out that to be active also in the afternoons can only increase the GNP of the country, they would just say: “You should respect such tradition! Come and enjoy khat with us!” Though it would be nice if UNESCO could provide us some clear guidelines to know how long it takes for a simple “let’s get high session” to become a “cultural tradition”, I anyway doubt that 15 years would be enough time. The numerous coffee-shops in the Netherlands did not turn Cannabis indica cosumption into a genuine Dutch tradition yet, as far as I know…
According to Wikipedia, “Khat contains the alkaloid cathinone, an amphetamine-like stimulant which causes excitement and euphoria”. As I do not know any Yemeni male who does not regularly chew khat, I have asked here and there what is it like, and this is a sample of the answers I got: “you don’t feel bored in doing what you do!”, “you have very pleasant chats with your mates!”, or “the driver will concentrate on driving, and the political scientist on finding the perfect way to rule a community!” Apparently, after spitting the mushed leafs, some people experience a lonely and depressive fall-down.
Finally, Wikipedia reminds that the World Health Organisation classified it as a drug of abuse that can produce mild to moderate psychological dependence. To spend 30,000 Yemen Reials a month on khat when the avarage monthly salary is about 20,000 is not so “mild”; to blow up on a mine to get some leafs for the afternoon is not really “moderate”; but to interact with a guy who is strangely staring at you and speaking through the green purée behind his cheek can actually… get on your nerves!
Let me immediately warn you that I personally never had the experience of its psychotropic properties on myself, and I do not plan to have it. Writing about something I do not really know may entail a credibility issue; therefore, I shall limit myself to describe the interference khat has on my day in Socotra.
Wikipedia describes khat (Catha edulis) “as a flowering plant native to tropical East Africa and the Arab Peninsula.” (for furher infos on the matter, check http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khat). R. Folch, in his article “Khat” (El Periódico de Catalunya, 17th February 2008), explains very well its importance in Yemen: “Every afternoon, millions of Yemenis sit in group to chat, while they tear and chew the khat [leafs] they have just bought in the shop around the corner”. Khat cultivations substituted first quality coffee plantations and I even read that many people in Yemen die in the attempt to steal it, killed by the electrified fences or anti-personnel mines (!) around the cultivations. Once limited to weekends and now generalised throughout the week, Folch must obvoiusly be right when describing the consumption of khat as “a social problem”.
The Yemeni and Socotri societies are quite different. Actually, the plant does not grow in Socotra and it only arrrived in the early Nineties: therefore, far from being a Socotri tradition, khat is an external element in this island (just like me!) and, apparently, is getting to be a “social problem” like in Yemen, at least in the urban area of Hadibo. It is a pain in the neck indeed, especially for those willing to work in the afternoons, like many foreigners: if they need assistance from the locals, they have serious difficulties in getting them active. It seems that, during the Soviet adventure in the Yemeni civil war, Russians tried to erradicate khat from South Yemen (the belligerent side they were supporting) and to promote vodka instead. After the reunification, these efforts rapidly disappeared and any “vicious” change rapidly reversed. Recently, I heard a rumour about Yemenia Airways wanting to forbid khat on the planes going to Socotra, but it sounds pretty irrealistic to me.
If you complain and try to motivate the boys to work, by pointing out that to be active also in the afternoons can only increase the GNP of the country, they would just say: “You should respect such tradition! Come and enjoy khat with us!” Though it would be nice if UNESCO could provide us some clear guidelines to know how long it takes for a simple “let’s get high session” to become a “cultural tradition”, I anyway doubt that 15 years would be enough time. The numerous coffee-shops in the Netherlands did not turn Cannabis indica cosumption into a genuine Dutch tradition yet, as far as I know…
According to Wikipedia, “Khat contains the alkaloid cathinone, an amphetamine-like stimulant which causes excitement and euphoria”. As I do not know any Yemeni male who does not regularly chew khat, I have asked here and there what is it like, and this is a sample of the answers I got: “you don’t feel bored in doing what you do!”, “you have very pleasant chats with your mates!”, or “the driver will concentrate on driving, and the political scientist on finding the perfect way to rule a community!” Apparently, after spitting the mushed leafs, some people experience a lonely and depressive fall-down.
Finally, Wikipedia reminds that the World Health Organisation classified it as a drug of abuse that can produce mild to moderate psychological dependence. To spend 30,000 Yemen Reials a month on khat when the avarage monthly salary is about 20,000 is not so “mild”; to blow up on a mine to get some leafs for the afternoon is not really “moderate”; but to interact with a guy who is strangely staring at you and speaking through the green purée behind his cheek can actually… get on your nerves!
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)