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In the States I didn't know

In the States I didn't know
that statistics correspond to breathing,
living people.
that poverty is a crime
we all perpetrate.


In the States I didn't know
women who have their genitals cut.
Here it is almost every woman I pass.


In the States I didn't know
people whose houses are burnt down
and they are left with nothing -
not a bank account or back-up plan or asset
just the clothes on their back, the
love of a community and the
strength in generations of knowing that
to HAVE is not to BE
Here my best friend rebuilds his charred home
of sun-dried clay bricks and stones.


In the States I didn't know
couples who have lost their children
to things like
diarrhea malnutrition malaria
Here, in the past week I have talked to two
couples who have buried three babies each.


In the States I didn't know
people with
goiters birth defects infected wounds
that go untreated, uncured.
Here I wonder if my offering of aspirin or rubbing alcohol
acknowledgment or empathy
really helps.


In the States I didn't know
people who, without warning,
lose their minds to paranoia, schizophrenia, insanity
speaking tongues or empty words to no one at all
- or to the self they have somehow lost -
Here it happened to my brother in one day – today – Eid-Al-Adha – Tabaski –
The day of Sacrifice
(who knew he would sacrifice his mind?)


In the States
we say such occurrences are cases of
falling through the cracks
of a safety net
a social welfare system
a health care system
a government infrastructure


I didn't know
that in some places
there are no cracks.
there is no net at all.


In the States I didn't know
We don't even see these people falling.

there is a hidden violence

there is a hidden violence i never recognized
til now
it was lurking somewhere
i could sense it was there that
feminine intuition

like every Body in soft or hardened skin
round or dried breasts
and the curvature of life giving hips

i couldn't understand why no one
ever cared to surface this thing
shove it in my face
(and all our faces)
and demand
recognition
reprieve

but now I understand that no one
could force me to open my eyes
my ears
my heart

it is me alone

it is all of us alone who must surface this hate
this hidden violence

turn off the mute
awaken the hushed whispers to a red-glow rant

be it detroit, darfur, rome or beijing

a Woman in her in her soft or hardened skin
round or dried breasts
and life giving hips
is worth the voice she is given
the thoughts she births
the soul she was born unto

we must give life back to her as she
gives to the world

Paying for Attention

I sit at a table, hands beading sweat in nervousness, a white twenty-four-year-old American amongst mostly middle-aged African men. Many of the Malian women here bear small children wrapped tightly to their backs with bright West African fabric, most making themselves look small and unassuming at the periphery of this conference. I want to ask them a question that will undoubtedly elicit a response that makes my stomach knot. A white banner streams in the background, half-lit by the brutal sun under a canopy of mango trees, bearing the words “Espacement de Naissance et Planification Familiale” – Birth Spacing and Family Planning. To my right sits a thick-spectacled, weathered man – an Imam, or Muslim spiritual leader. On the other side, a female radio-journalist. Across from me is a traditional medicinal healer, next to him the mayor and a local doctor. I look at these men and women and want to ask:

“How many children have you lost in your lifetime?”

Many couples here would respond with a figure around two or three, all children who died in the first few years of their lives or during birth.

“How many of you have sisters, mothers, wives, friends who died during childbirth?”

According to Amnesty International, every ninety seconds a woman somewhere in the world dies giving birth.

But before I can ask these questions, I am met with a question of their own: “When do we get paid for being here?”

Every one of the more than 120 people assembled here will receive the equivalent of 10 US dollars per day to be asked these questions. We are paying for their attention, because otherwise, in this patronage-based, foreign aid- and colonialism-corrupted system we have helped to create, many would not be present.

Everyone here has a different price tag for their attention – a certain sum to permit them to think about the fact that many girls here give birth to their first child around the age of 14, that often they will become pregnant again soon after giving birth and may have well over five children in their lifetime, and that very few will do so at anything resembling a modern medical facility.

Later I will meet with a group of media representatives, and they will burst with excitement about radio programs on maternal health and family planning, only to have half of them refuse to return our phone calls when they learn we will not pay for their programs.

A few of the Muslim leaders will tense up and stop listening when they hear we will not pay them to meet with us.

Public officials and even midwives will stir up a frenzy when they learn that their per diem is no greater than that of those lower down the hierarchical ladder.

Too many will retract their attention when it is not paid for, and I fear their sisters and daughters will continue to suffer the consequences.

But then the eldest of the Muslim leaders stands up in his group, insisting that it is Allah's will to protect our wives and daughters. He will inspire the group to lead mass prayers on the importance of maternal nutrition and birth spacing.

A male radio-journalist scorns his colleagues for having their interests in their pockets, rather than in the public good. He will launch a 3-month media campaign on family planning, and others will follow.

A doctor will emerge from the mass of his resistant colleagues and offer to donate his time and effort to train village-based health workers.

A nonprofit will put on a film and theater sketch on contraceptive use to the public, free of charge.

And, one by one, we will reconstruct this system into one where we all freely and passionately pay attention to the lives of women. My hands no longer sweat anxiously, and I hope that some day, the knot in my stomach will be gone.