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| The DukeEngage Colombia team at the documentary site, Manantiales de paz. |
Juan Granados
‘When we are dead, seek not our tomb in the earth, but find it in the hearts of men’.
—Rumi’s epitaph
So, it goes without saying that as a person I really don’t have any secrets, or any withheld information that with asking I won’t reveal.
Thinking about something personal is not easy. It makes me tremble, makes my heart pound at my chest – but I take that as honesty. So with that, I’ll say that finding me in a bad mood is really hard to do. Assuming that you understood what I just said, I’m a happy person -- period. There is not a day that I wake up and say “Wow, this day is horrible.” I’m always trying to make other people happy, to share with them a little bit of my personality. I do because I believe that there is not a reason to be sad, everything that happens to us has a “brighter side.” But with that said, sometimes it is hard to keep on trying to give happiness when there is none to give. What I mean by this is that sometimes carrying the burden of others, starts to become difficult, but there’s no reason to show that. In other words, what I think I’m trying to say is that I do not like looking emotionally weak. I don’t like to show more than one emotion. Reason being – I don’t know.
But to share, an experience, one that changed me as a person, was when my grandfather died. I understand, people leave this earth – and we believe that they’ll find somewhere better. The hardest part about his death was that I couldn’t go to his funeral, or his service, or anything that commended his life. I was stuck in the United States. I was stuck in a house of 3 families, living in 3 rooms. I was stuck thinking about what happened. I was stuck, hopeless, not being able to say goodbye to him at all. We couldn’t leave the United States and how much did I want to leave. How much did I want to return to Colombia to say goodbye, but our family just couldn’t.
We all have different stories to tell, we all have sadness in us that we don’t want to reveal, we all have happiness that we don’t want to share, but our experiences with these emotions, always allow us to understand, just a little bit.
This week we visited Manantiales de Paz, a slum, in which we will be documenting the live or lives of people in the community, so their stories don’t get lost in translation. I had the pleasure of interviewing two men, with two very different stories about their displacement.
I am going to focus on one of their stories – a story that I was not able to document by camera, but definitely by memory.
He started of talking about how he left his home because a criminal group assassinated his wife. Simple. There was no padding to it. It was forward. It was raw. His expression was expressionless -- he kind of just looked off to the distance.
I didn’t ask for him to give me his most personal memory. I wasn’t asking for that.
Anyways, he told me vividly about his story. He told me that his wife was assassinated because the group was looking for him. Since he wasn’t at home, they left him a message -- his wife as a message. The worst of the story is that his wife was three months pregnant. Even worse, he escaped his town in his wife’s coffin. To keep his life, he laid still in a coffin where his loved one rested.
So with that, I can not imagine what went on through his head – or what goes through his head now, since this event is so recent.
I don’t mean to cut his story short, nor do I mean to not pay my respects to his wife. I just think that these stories are meant to be told by a face to face conversation. They’re not meant to be told by writing. It’s hard to evoke feelings through writing, it’s hard to share the pain that they shared.
Over these weeks that we have been in Medellin, I have realized that stories are meant to be shared. People need to share their pain, their happiness, anything. They’re not looking for someone to solve their problems; they’re looking for someone to listen. They’re looking for an out of their lives, just for 10 minutes. They’re looking to remember and not forget.
Marah Jolibois
I didn’t know Manantiales de Paz existed. Now being a first class gringa, many might not be so quick to question my ignorance, but I’m not even sure if many Colombian natives know of the little community that resides just outside of the borders of Medellin. When we first arrived in Manantiales, I have to be honest I was extremely happy. These past few weeks I’ve been walking around Medellin with this white savior complex and disappointed when I would see things that didn’t need “saving.” I felt guilty. Walking around in that little square I finally felt useful. ”Now this is what Duke Engage is supposed to look like.” After enjoying the sancocho and leaving the site, I was excited, I felt like I was going to make an impact and do something. When Alice and I returned to Manantiales yesterday, I was eager to make something out of the day. When the woman who I found to interview picked me up from the familiar town square, I walked confidently behind her to capture her story. As we entered her house, the familiar feeling of hopeless overcame my whole body. I walked in there ready to spend about an hour talking to this woman and do my best to capture a narrative for my video…but I couldn’t even think about the video at the time. This woman’s home was a wooden box, draped with cardboard and held up by the grace of god himself. I wanted to ask who built this house, but I didn’t want to be rude. The remainder of my time there I remember hearing the words she was saying but I wasn’t even listening because my mind was preoccupied with maybe 1000 other things. To be honest, I’m more than confused at this point about the community stories and whom they’re intended for. At the end of my interview, my woman and her husband told me they didn’t want their documentary published, for fear that other people in the world wouldn’t be able to relate to their message. I don’t blame them at all; I don’t even want to share my own story. At this point I’m a bit overwhelmed and don’t know how to gather my thoughts exactly, but to try and summarize how I’m feeling right now my emotions are very mixed and I’m very confused.
Taylor Jones
When describing my experiences to my boyfriend he asked me “would you rather be poor in Colombia or poor in the US?” I didn’t know how to answer. The thing with being poor in the US is that no one wants to acknowledge you. They tell you “you have the same chances to get out of poverty just like everyone else” or they call you the black sheep of the country for accepting food stamps. You live in government housing and yet your whole life is a reflection of how the other half lives, a life that you don’t have access to and yet the whole world is screaming “you live in America! I did it, you can do it too!”
Colombia is different. Poverty is everywhere. It’s not just one side of the city or one community, many communities are stricken by it and many are the results of displaced people. I don’t know enough about Colombia and that’s my problem. I don’t know where this poverty lies, what are their specific challenges, I don’t even know what these people need and that’s why I can’t direct my feelings towards them yet.
In Manantiales the poverty I saw was in their stories. The stories of why they were here. How many people were buried in the process? What was taken from them? Who is missing from their home that is supposed to be there? I don’t know what people think of Manantiales. My host mom tells me I should be afraid to go up there. but is that because of the violence or because I shouldn’t be associating with the people that live up there? I’m not keen enough on the dynamics yet.
I came to Colombia with no idea what this program was and in a sense I still have the same idea. I don’t know what this community needs, or rather what my actions can do in the grand scheme. I see Manantiales as a spring of sorrow, that while women and families build their homes, they also build their lives and each other back up. Manantiales de Paz, literally translated into Springs of Peace.
I don't have a goal for this project. It’s not my project nor my story. These stories won’t change the world, these stories won’t elicit that much change. I’m just trying to add a drop of humanity into the lives of these people. See the problem with oppressed groups is that they lose their ability to use “I”. They are forever bonded by their poverty, a unit of “have nots” when in reality everyone has their own web of a past that weaves into the community and why it is the way that it is.
I’m not some deranged American who thinks she’s here to change the world. I’m a black women who has lost. But see the difference is, when I lost my brother to cancer I lost him to the hands of God, at one of the best hospitals in the world. Women in Manantiales lose their children due to war, violence, because they don’t have enough money to treat them when they are sick. They lose people because the hospital is down the mountain by metro-cable and they just might not make. Because someone with a weapon decided to play God and end a life, because their resources weren’t aligned enough to save them. I wish that on no one.
And what hurts the most probably? Lack of acknowledgement. Because see, at least people realize that cancer is a problem. Every day Colombians see their settlement on the top of that mountain and it’s a little too reminiscent of the Lion King “You see that.. that is Manantiales.. you must never go there.” And as a result they are casted into a shadow and remain there.
The only thing I can offer citizens of Manantiales is the confirmation that their stories matter. I’ve never been happier in my life to be a brown girl. The only shared experience that I have is that yes I’ve been cast away at points by my own country and yes I’ve had people say that my suffering doesn’t exist or isn’t legit and that’s the knife that hurts the deepest. A small intersection at the divergence of two lives who otherwise would have nothing in common. I’ll give an ear, I’ll give a laugh, I’ll give them something that matters.. the confirmation that they themselves do.
Alice Marson
I was not raised in a typical family dynamic. I love my brother, and he has taught me so much, but growing up with him wasn’t always easy.
When visiting Mantinales de Paz, it’s hard to envision what my life would have been like if my family lived here. 92% of the families in this barrio are displaced, meaning they have all experienced some sort of violence/disruption forcing them to flee their homes and settle into this new life. What is the typical family dynamic in this town? These people’s problems include finding running water, providing an education for their children, providing a life for their families when the Medellin city government doesn’t even recognize them as citizens. And that makes me wonder, what do they think when they see me, a blonde gringa, toting around a camera that costs more than most of the possessions in their home? How do they perceive me, as someone who can help them? Someone who can’t?
I’m not sure if I know myself. This week I spoke with Doña Ena, a woman in her mid forties who runs a juice store in the neighborhood. She has the whitest, most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen. She laughs a lot. Our short conversation covered the surface of her journey to Mantinales de Paz, including the violence she encountered in her home pueblo, the difficulty of the move, and the struggles she faces day to day. When I asked her about the community dynamic, I was expecting an answer about the strength of the people there, how they helped each other in any way they could. But this isn’t what she described. She said she was concerned with the people moving forward, with people being able to change the lifestyle they’ve normalized since moving to the barrio. And something that scares me, as a communicator recording these stories, is that I will do just that. Record these stories and not help this community move forward. I want the videos I make to show passion and drive for change, and prove to the people living in Medellín who can make these changes happen that the people in La Paz have not normalized this life. They are pushing for something bigger.
Ashlyn Nuckols
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| Don Antonio |
One of my favorites things about being a lifeguard is it gives you an excuse to stare at people. It’s actually in the job description. I’m not being creepy, I’m saving your life. Except on the rare occasion that there is some kind of incident, I can pass the hours inventing elaborate stories to explain the determined expression of the boy who comes alone to practice awkward yet oddly mesmerizing spins in the shallow end. Or the bright, red lipstick of the woman who once played three straight hours of candy crush while her sons did their best to drown each other until at last she lured them out of the water with the promise of ice cream. Most of all, I love looking at their faces. Wondering what they would say if I asked them what they did before coming here, and where they hoped to be tomorrow.
Not that I would ever have actually asked. That would have been disrespectful, inappropriate behavior. People have a right to privacy after all. This is what I’ve always been taught, but I’m starting to think maybe we worry so much about invading the privacy of others that we repress something valuable. Our capacity to engage with one another out of sheer curiosity. I’m not saying that any person should ever have to share information that they want to keep private, just that people may want to share more than we think. I’ve spent most of my life afraid to ask. In fact, social norms seem to dictate that I’m not even supposed to look.
Most people find the gaze of another person unnerving, invasive even, particularly if that person is a stranger. To be honest, I’ve never really understood why. When I pass someone on the street we are existing together in that space whether or not we take notice of one another, and am I really supposed to pretend that the stone walkway is more interesting than your wild, graying eyebrows, or the freckles that fold into the wrinkles beneath your eyes? Of course I am well aware of how a stare can be demeaning or offensive, and yet I’ve always felt more comfortable catching the wandering eyes stranger than of most people I know well. I think its because I assume that people who know me are seeing what they expect to see, whereas a stranger sees only what stands before them. I like to imagine that they enjoy wondering about the origin of my imperfections as much as I enjoy wondering about theirs. They may very well find me ridiculous, unattractive or lacking in some other way. But then again they might not. And I’m perfectly willing to be judged if it means getting to share a moment with a person whose life is completely distinct from my own.
This has been one of my favorite things about coming to Medellin. I’m not sure if it is that the culture is more open in general, or if it’s the fact that I am so clearly a foreigner, but everywhere I go people are staring at me. Some of the stares are the uncomfortable kind that make you want to lower your head and walk a little faster, but most people seem merely curious. Before coming to Colombia I had hoped that I would be able to learn to blend in, but now I understand that sticking out is actually gift. Because when people stare openly at me, I feel like I can stare back without causing offense. And while it also helps that I’ve come equipped with a camera and the prestige of a university program, I think every story I’ve heard hear has begun with meeting someone’s eyes and recognizing our mutual curiosity.
When we arrived at Manantiales de Paz, the place where we planned to conduct our interviews, I was worried that my presence there would be resented. More than that, I was worried that it should be resented. Who was I, the entitled American student, to come waltzing in with a camera and expect them to pour their hearts out to me? I was a complete stranger after all, and at first it did seem as though I was being nosy and inappropriate- I wasn’t just staring I was asking these people share their life stories. Yet almost everyone I have spoken to has been eager to share. Far from being resented, I’ve never felt so welcome anywhere in my life. In fact, one woman that I spoke to said she had always dreamed that someone come from another country to sit in her home.
I began to realize that talking to these people wasn’t just about getting a good interview. I had been concerned that the videos themselves were much more for me and my fellow students than for the people of the barrio. I still think that may be true. But there is something else that we are doing for them. Most of these people have made it clear that they feel voiceless, their way of life and very existence has been defined by sensationalized media that focuses on only the very worst of what they have endured. The stories I’d heard of the desplazados in Medellin in the US took on a tone of either condemnation or pity. And none of them had anything to do with the lives of individuals. That is what we came to listen to. We came with curiosity. And while that seemed an obvious thing, or even an invasive or indecent thing to bring, they were grateful for it. We aren’t going to save anyone, and we can’t change there lives in any measurable way. But the woman I spoke to called our presence there a dream come true. And she was crying.
The true value of our work in our Manantiales de Paz became evident to me when I met Don Antonio. A community leader, and the man I was lucky enough to get to interview, Don Antonio represents the very best of humanity. After being displaced from his home he was one of the people who founded Manantiales. He built a home, a neighborhood and a community from the ground up. Lower than then even, because it began with people who had lost not only their homes, but loved ones to violence that had come without provocation on their part. And now, even as the forge new lives from themselves, they are repeatedly reminded that they were unwanted in the city they now call home. With their previous identity in shambles, they are denied the right to assume a new one. The people of Medellin refer to their neighborhood as “an invasion”. Through all of this, Don Antonio is resilient. He is determined to continue salvaging and improving not only his own life, but the lives of everyone in the community. He is brave, and strong and above all, incredibly kind. He is almost always smiling. When we walk through the neighborhood together he is greeted by anyone and everyone. For once no one is staring at the Gringa, he is far more interesting attraction. To be honest, I can hardly believe that he was willing to make time for me. But he was genuinely thrilled to do it. He believes that my video could help him gain exposure for his community, and help him work towards gaining much need services from the city (clean water for example). If Don Antonio believes that telling his story to me will make a difference for his community, then I believe it too.
It’s funny, but also kind of terrible, to think that I would never have asked to hear his story if I hadn’t been instructed to do so. Not because I didn’t want to hear and not because I didn’t consider his voice valuable, but because I was afraid of offending him. I wonder how many people remain feeling voiceless because those around them are trying to be polite.
Katherine Reed
I: I grew up doing a lot of “service work.” I went to a Catholic high school. They instilled the “five goals” into our brains. I always hated how they made the preschoolers sing hymns when they weren’t old enough to understand them. Or how mass was obligatory. But anyways that’s beside the point. These goals…Goal III: commit themselves to educate to a social awareness which impels to action. i.e. service. And I did. Service has always been an integral part of my life. It wasn’t until I became older, started thinking on my own, that I started to question the work.
I was that girl. Fleeing from one cause to another—bake sales for tsunami victims; beanie baby drives for orphans; farmer’s market stalls for no-kill dog shelters. I don’t regret the service trips I took or the money I raised. But, I do view them a little differently now. When I was younger I used to think the work I was doing was really meaningful. Giving gifts to children, passing out little booklets or whatever. But I don’t think anything I’ve ever done has been sustainable. It’s just been charity. People don’t want to receive charity; it doesn’t make them feel good. It’s condescending. But, I guess I don’t know that for certain, since I haven’t been on the other end of the exchange. But, it’s just a hunch.
That is why I applied to this program though. Because I didn’t think it was charity. We aren’t going into the community trying to save lives or donate goods. We are here to help circulate stories. Amazing, powerful, stories.
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II: Disclaimer: I am not a morning person. It was 8 o’clock. I had already been awake for an hour and a half, taken the metro across half the city. And now I was walking uphill in my gringa sandals, Birkenstocks to be exact. Pathetically panting, sweat starting to run down the side of my face. We were in a single file line—I was trying to navigate between the dog feces and losing my feet to the reckless drivers racing by. It was the trucks that put me over the edge…huge, diesel trucks storming by, emitting an exhaust of black smoke. I held my breath, coughed. And maybe a bit too dramatically I said under my breath…ugh I’m going to come back with lung cancer. A peer looked at me and said, “Think about the people who walk this everyday, they probably do have lung cancer.”
Well, shit. That shut me up.
And then I got to the community. I was nervous for sure. I hated myself for it, but I kept checking my backpack to make sure my iPhone and video equipment were still there. And guess what…they were. I began to feel more at ease, watching Lucas and the other pups play with one another. We crowded into one room and I felt in the way, literally and figuratively. I kept brushing my backpack up against strangers, and attempting to apologize in broken, flustered Spanish. Then Jota started talking.
If someone intruded into my community and asked to film me, record my stories, come into my home, and even more so, a foreigner, I would be slightly taken aback. I would question their intentions, their motive. But as Jota continued to explain the project the community members buzzed. I could see smiles sneak onto their faces, and in the end, they clapped. It could have been out of politeness, or respect. But it seemed genuine, you could tell the people in that room wanted to talk to us. They wanted someone to listen.
I came to interview Claudia at 11 am on Thursday. I walked into her comedor and she greeted me with a kiss. She was all dolled-up. Hair pulled back, her eye shadow mirroring the green in her sweater. She was excited and nervous—so was I.
I told her not to worry; not to let the cameras make her nervous. That this wasn’t an interview; it was a conversation. Between worrying about the next question and fussing over the audio, I strained to understand her. Translating ever other phrase or so in my head. I didn’t know how to respond. I could blame the language barrier, but honestly I don’t think I would have known how to respond in English either. I didn’t know what to say when she told me about her abusive husband. Or how he would come home drunk at night and hurt her. I didn’t know what to say when she told me how worried she was about her daughters. But Claudia opened up to me, I am not entirely sure why, but she trusted me. And so I didn’t say much of anything…I just listened.
I do not know exactly what tangible changes this video will cause. I don’t know if there will be any, to be honest. But I want them to be watched. I want them to be heard. So maybe, when someone talks about Colombia. They won’t make a sarcastic joke about the drug cartels. Instead, they can think of the woman who spends her time teaching abuelos how to read and write. A woman who overcame abuse and mistreatment. A woman who worries about the safety of her children, just like any other mother. And most importantly, they can put a face to it. They can put Claudia’s face to it.
What the hell am I doing here? That was just about the only thought going through my head two summer ago when, on a pretty random impulse, I signed up for a trip to L’viv, Ukraine with my fencing club. I thought it would be an exciting adventure to throw myself into a new part of the world, so what the hell! With a backpack in one hand and a suitcase filled with swords in the other, I boarded a plane to Ukraine, a country I had never been to before with a culture I knew nothing about.
Honestly, landing in L’viv was a bit of a culture shock. Other than a few atrociously translated Ukrainian phrases saved in my phone, I couldn’t speak or understand a word of the language. This proved even more difficult when I started fencing other Ukrainian students, using French fencing commands to compromise between language barriers. I was fascinated by Ukrainian food, by the seemingly endless amounts of fillings a pierogie could have. I want to say that I was able to actually immerse myself after those ten days in Ukraine, but I really only scratched the surface. I came back to New Jersey with a couple postcards, some bent fencing blades, a few new Ukrainian Facebook friends, and the classic tourist t-shirt. And honestly, although it’s embarrassing, I didn’t know too much about the history of L’viv while I was there.
The first few weeks of my trip in Colombia really reminded me of my time in Ukraine. Yes, Medellín was a bit of a culture shock, but I had a better grasp of the language this time around. Kvas and borscht from the streets of Ukraine are replaced with arepas and mango vendors in the Medellín parks, and the views of the Colombian mountains stand in contrast to the cobblestone city of L’viv – but I still feel like an outsider looking in to a culture I don’t know too much about. Our group spent some time being tourists, allowing ourselves to scratch the surface of the city through bus tours, rides on the metrocable, and trips to local museums. And now, I can come back to New Jersey with some photos and a few new Colombian Facebook friends, but this is where the comparison really ends. Here, I have tried to learn a lot about the history of Medellín – I’ve spent time talking to my host mom about feminism in Colombia, listening to stories of violence in La Casa de la Memoria, and actually trying to understand how places like Manantiales de Paz were created.
That’s why interviewing Lamona, one of the community founders and leaders in Manantiales de Paz, felt so important to me. When I first met Lamona, I thought she was a complete badass. While everyone else was having lunch, she was hauling bags of vegetables off a pickup truck and handing them out to families in the neighborhood center. She explained to me how she’s always been good with her hands, and decided to build base structures to build solar panels in the comuna practically on her own. Lamona told stories of displacement, of losing her parents and living on her own, of riding down the metrocable while going into labor because there are no hospitals up the mountain.
For me, it was hard not to be shocked by these stories. Sure, I can research and read about the history of Medellín all I want. But I still have a very surface-level understanding of the city, the culture, and the country. I’m still an outsider looking in, only able to sympathize with Lamona’s stories and understand them as best I can. Because once I shut my camera off, once I ride the metrocable down the mountain to my homestay, I’m still just another tourist. I still don’t really know the meaning behind what I’m doing here, or how I’m going to use the next four weeks to find out. But I know for sure that now, I can come back with much more than a t-shirt. I’m trying to embrace the uncertainty, accept feeling foreign, and continue listening to all the badass things Lamona has to say.
