Not On Our Watch: A Responsibility to Connect

Not On Our Watch was a NGO set up by George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon and others to help the people of Darfur. I sent this poem with a letter. I was seeking to connect not because they were famous but because George Clooney was a UN Peace Ambassador. I did have some concerns at movies that promote violence, but my hope was media could be utilised to promote real peace and bring healing to places deeply traumatised. Just imagine if most of the Hollywood block busters were dedicated to inspiring peace. The world will change immediately. Sadly, they believe that violence sells and the psychology that comes with it undermines peace across the planet. Until we come to a place where we see violence as weakness and a cry for help, we will glorify acts that win at all costs, rather than understanding the true heroism is in love, truth, joy and peace.

I wrote to George Clooney to inspire the idea that clowns can remind of us who we really are. They join with others to reveal the mirror of our true humanity. As clowns we can bring laughter to where there is sadness and help people to live in the moment of happiness whilst respecting deeply their trauma. I have taught peace education, so I wanted to help those in Darfur and in other places around the world to connect to the peace and joy within them and give hope. I knew this worked as when I went to a Cambodian slum I clowned with children who had never seen a clown. Myself and a Sri Lanken Doctor conducted a clown workshop with children and showed them all the props of a clown. There were huge smiles and much love in this make shift school, they were overjoyed. Then we walked through the main slum to connect with parents. We threw fluffy balls into the crowd, blew kisses, juggled and smiled. All this was peace making at a very simple human level. In the end we waved and had to go. In the car I was told by the translator it was like a movie. He was so amazed at what myself and Pasky the Sri Lanken Doctor had done. He said it was magic. I was so surprised, I thought it was average what I had done, but to him it was magical and filled with hope. That is when I saw no small action is insignificant. Through their eyes it was a miracle. Two children chased our car for ages, and after a while one wouldn’t give up. In that moment I saw deeply the connection between myself as a clown and the child. I reached my hand out the window and the child ran to touch my fingers. Then I grabbed for my puppet astounded at the hope in this child running. I gave the puppet and the child stopped, for he had hope in his hands. A puppet to remember the magic of the clown that took him out of slum and into another world. That moment changed my life, that is why I wanted to find Clooney, so I could give more. Maybe make a movie of this miracle, called life. I still cry when I think of it, it was so moving for me personally. The child in the slum made a difference to me. I don’t see him as disadvantaged or not equal, on the contrary he showed me when our fingers touched that connection was the key. That was true peace I realised through his act of great love.

Unfortunately I didn’t get an answer from ‘Not On Our Watch’, but I find these days that is not important, what matters is to try, the failure is in not trying. When you reach out, someone reaches back, sometimes they are touched, sometimes they can’t feel it, for me, it was in the eyes of a child that I saw myself. George Clooney and his famous group have millions of fans so probably my letter is buried under the mountain. I was in the mountain shadow.

In the poem I speak of a beautiful Afghan woman, her name was Bibi, she was like a mother to me. She was the most humble person I had ever met, she had no ego. She had known great fear as she experienced the gunships and bombs dropped on Afghanistan not only by Russians but the tribal leaders in conflict struggling for power and control, and then again, more fighting in her country when the US came in to fight the Taliban.

Her life was very stressful and uncertain and the pain was experienced inwardly, she didn’t show it on the outside. She tried to protect her children, she carried a gun (as many Afghans do traditionally). Sadly her husband was killed and her eldest son. My partner at the time, her son, told me he cried for 40 days when his father died. A very deep trauma. He remembers the terror of the gunships as a 10 year old. His mother was quietly spoken and very kind. She was a person who felt deeply sad for the demise of her country and you could see the desperation in her face. She had to visit her other son in Canada and he was urging her to stay, she loved her country but it was so dangerous. Sadly she fell sick with cancer and had to stay for a time there. Her life was very painful, she had only seen violence and war and the happy and free childhood she told me about was a dream. Where families lived together in great happiness, where people shared with others, sang songs and danced, life was sweet and simple. The culture was rich and deep, they originally had a sufi tradition of poetry and depth that was gentle and welcoming. Her son told me about Rumi (Mawlana) the great Persian Poet and he would read it in pashto. Rumi wrote thousands of poems that uplifted the spirit and the heart and traced the natural and infinite beauty across the face of the world. This beauty translated into life for when you visit their family they make sure their guest gets the best of everything, they never let you feel alone. For their culture was one of belonging and love. The tragedy of war was the lost lover, never to be recoverd, even today.

I remember her being sick with cancer. She and I would walk arm in arm as we looked at the gardens. I would say rose in English and she would tell me the word in pashto. We didn’t speak the same language, yet we were very close friends and spoke the language of kindness through kind actions. I used to massage her legs to relieve her pain. I gave her a support bandage and much love and kindness so she didn’t feel alone. I felt her deep suffering from war and separation. I saw in her eyes the deep powerlessness she felt and the fear for her children. If her son left for a while, she would worry. Such was the war she carried within. The conflict is never over. This is what the military to this day cannot comprehend, the real costs of war die in the hopes of the innocent. As family die, they also die, eventually.

It was through her and the family that I really looked into the reality of those who suffer from war and how their lives and health are shattered. They become displaced from their homes and can never get a foothold in any country, always the refugee, finding refuge but not welcomed home. For their home is not sitcoms and fast food, it is family, community and a love that is indescribable. For her the west was empty and she was drowning, the only light that kept her going was the love of her children.

It was because of this humble lady that I dedicated my life to bring peace to this planet. I am not one to give up, for me it is who I am. So I dedicate this poem to her. I urge those with influence to speak up for peace not as an ideal but a birthright.

Peace IS our true nature. I am watching all ways.

NOT ON OUR WATCH

Are you in the century?
Guarding the fortress?
To protect the innocent?
Yet many are tired,
And falling asleep as they watch,
For there is so much to fight against,
And the world is not safe,
So we must find ways to protect ourselves,
More weapons,
Armies of fortune,
Yet it is unfortunate,
That we are not taught
That non-violence is a force more powerful,
Yet it is in no force,
That we find our power.

I understand the heart of the humanitarian,
Who seeks to protect those from harm,
This is commendable,
This is courage,
Yet many are starting to see interventions cause harm,
Or are used to bring arms,
That development assumes those in need of progress,
Yet many societies have inner strengths,
That are commendable,
That have inherent courage,
Especially when confronting starvation and drought,
Their fortress is the love of protection
Of children,
Of families and friends,
For they are the heroes that survive under impossible conditions.

My friend was a mother from Afghanistan,
She had 7 children,
She viewed me as a daughter,
And taught me of her great humility,
In a country ransacked,
Women’s rights non existent,
For she was not happy,
She spoke much of politics as the problem,
Most of her family killed or in exile,
Her candle flickered out at 55,
As cancer stole her strained breast,
Yet I have a memory of her giggling,
Juggling for me,
As she was also a clown for one moment,
Seeking harmony with me through action,
For when we laugh and smile,
We saw each other,
As same same but different.

It is the power struggle,
Strategic interests,
Economic advantage,
That drives conflicts,
Dissatisfaction,
Disaffection,
Oppression,
Are the flags of dissent,
That is the signal of disarmament,
For we must think again,
We must solve our problems,
With one voice,
For when we do not learn,
We repeat the same mistakes,
And many suffer from ignorance,
That is unchecked.

So watch for the signals,
Keep an eye out for the smoke,
For where there is smoke there is fire,
And it is before the heat that we need to act,
It is prevention,
It is attention,
That empowers values,
Engages in a proactive peace process,
For when many are singing the one tune,
Only then you will find harmony,
Protects those not on our watch.