Rekindling the fire of resistance with storytelling

As a young girl growing up in Nairobi, I had the pleasure of hearing Wangari Muta Maathai, the founder of the Green Belt Movement, speak truth to power in 1985.  Her passion for women’s rights and the environment came through in her conversation.  Her famous stories like the little hummingbird who put out a forest fire by carrying one beak full of water at a time lit a fire of Afrocentric feminism in an entire generation of young Kenyan women.  The art of storytelling in social activism is critical to what Paolo Friere has called conscientization or the process of changing the world.  Wangari believed in lived experience, recognized the rooted knowledge of women farmers, and the critical role of self-empowerment in a context of social resistance.  Fueled by her stories and advocacy, the Green Belt Movement has planted over 51 million trees in Kenya, demanded greater democratic spaces for disenfranchised people, and empowered the livelihood of communities across the country. 

Cultural traditions across the world bloom with the oral tradition of storytelling for awareness-raising, and I was fortunate enough to grow up with both an East African and Indian embrace of this art form. I was blessed with many fiery female storytellers in my life.  They, like Scheherazade, have shared everything from practical advice to moral guidance through their 1001 stories, that traversed intergenerational and cultural boundaries to empower my journey to myself.

Recently, I was fortunate enough to work with students at Seneca College and the Krasman Centre to host a trialogue event in York Region. A trialogue is a unique gift to mental health movements as it allows psychiatric survivors, families/friends, and service providers to engage in storytelling as a way to heal and create positive change.  Our trialogue was conducted in the spirit of anonymity and the fifty participants in our circle did not reveal their identity.  The conversation was led by survivors who helped us co-create ground rules and asked all of us around the circle to share topics to guide our storytelling.  While we couldn’t guarantee a safe space, we could offer a brave space for people to give voice to critical experiences.  Here, I saw the power of storytelling crackle and spark.  The stories and questions that unfurled from the circle were truly profound – How can I cope with loneliness as a caregiver? What does it mean to have a mental health crisis?  How do I help my son maintain hygiene during a crisis? How can I help a friend who is afraid to leave her home?  How do we create jobs that allow people with mental health histories to engage meaningfully in society?  The stories powerfully hooked us in and held our attention, and we became part of the communal narrative.  That little grassroots community space in Richmond Hill was transformed.  We saw each other for the first time, bowed down to the highest in each of us, and nurtured the flame to protect all of our human rights.  Stories truly help people understand the political nature of our experiences.  We were able to connect the dots across our unique experiences and bridge the distances between silences caused by stigma. People had the courage to find out about resources in our neighbourhoods, seek out voices of people who are otherwise silenced, and begin to shift community consciousness towards empathy and inclusion.  The stories had filled our hearts and bellies and lifted us up to action.

How do you make time for stories of resistance in your community?  Here is one of my favourite stories shared by Wangari Maathai:  http://www.greenbeltmovement.org/get-involved/be-a-hummingbird   And here is a link to the Krasman Centre, a powerful peer-led organization filled with stories of hope and resilience: https://krasmancentre.com/

Pathways to community are all around us

Recently, while attending an annual silent meditation retreat at the edge of the beautiful Bruce
Trail, I was reminded of the incredible value of Saṃgha*. This diverse circle of yoga
practitioners came together to commune in silence among wild thyme, giant cedars, ponds,
meadows and sky. Our time together was spent in meditation, walking contemplation and
gentle movements of yoga. Bumbling bees and jade dragonflies were our guides through wood
and fern, as we followed a compass pointing to our hearts. For a few days, in a humble
monastery, we are privileged to collectively embrace quiet – we gaze at it, open our arms wide
and step into it, and gather it around us like a soft cobweb of stars. Without words and daily
routines, we find ourselves and each other anew. Gentle nods, smiles, hugs, and mindful
gestures light our way as we are intertwined in our intention to work towards compassion and
non-violence. My daily practice fully enriched by the efforts of this silent fellowship.

This sense of collectivism reminded me of working with my peers as a child in elementary
school and later high school in Tanzania, where we cultivated small communal vegetable farms
as part of our school curriculum. Nature was always a balm as we stopped for shade under
jacaranda trees and umbrella-shaped flame trees. At that time, President Julius Nyerere
stressed the value of agriculture and ujamaa or kinship. He saw education as liberation and felt
that children and educators should be engaged in productive, self-reliant activities. When my
family later moved to Kenya, President Jomo Kenyatta had popularized the philosophy of
harambee, which is a tradition to build on community self-help events to utilize local resources.
As a teenager, I participated in many cooperative harambee efforts that raised funds for a
friend to pay for school fees or pay for textbooks, or organize a wedding for a neighbour, or
help an elder buy a small rural property. The fundamental idea was always collective good
rather than individual benefit. When we watched Nelson Mandela roar “Ubuntu”, we all stood with him because we fundamentally understood the concept that “I am because we are.” We
knew it was our duty to support each other and that we could make everything happen
together.

“In Africa there is a concept known as “ubuntu” – the profound sense that we are human only
through the humanity of others; that if we are to accomplish anything in this world it will in
equal measure be due to the work and achievement of others.”
-Nelson Mandela

More than a decade ago, this insight of inter-connectedness guided us in setting up the first
support group for people living with HIV in our suburban neighbourhood in York Region.
Working in an AIDS-service organization was extremely isolating as a handful of us pushed back against stigma and NIMBYism at that time. It was not enough to sign petitions, write grant
proposals and meet politicians for support. We needed a place to practice our resilience –
where we could live our lives, cultivate kindness, dare to be vulnerable, share joy and raise
children. We needed community to heal and where the hearts were vast enough to hold all of
us.

Zevie visits Santropol Roulant in Montreal

Wandering through the urban rooftop garden at Santropol Roulant in Montreal in August, I felt
a sense of quiet pride to see Ubuntu in practice all over again. This award-winning community
food hub includes an organic agriculture program that grows food on several farm sites and
uses the produce to feed people who are unable to access healthy meals. Organic baskets are
also available for pick-up at the weekly farmers’ markets organized by the Roulant. Responding
to the immense need for food security, 1500 volunteers give their time to build an
intergenerational community in Montreal. The Meals-on-Wheels program invites youth
volunteers to prepare and deliver food, by foot or on bicycles or by car, five days a week to
community members living with a loss of autonomy. The kitchen is a happy space at the
Roulant as volunteers customize meals based on food restrictions, while delivery time allows
for warm conversations that break down barriers and build social inclusion. I was completely
moved by the dynamic energy, openness, and community engagement that I noted as I chatted
with staff. From the courtyard to the kitchen and through the streets of the Le Plateau
neighbourhoods, the vibrant chorus of collectivism was as radiant as the sunflowers on their
rooftop.

I am completely humbled by brilliant examples of grassroots community movements
everywhere I go. Do you have any stories of harambee to share from your meanderings in
community? Drop me a line, I would love to hear it!

* Saṃgha is a Sanskrit word meaning assembly or congregation or collective gathering. Sangha, a variation of the same word, is a Pali word often used by monastic communities of Buddhist monks who follow rigorous tradition.

A hymn to exploration and reflection

Some time ago, I stumbled upon an itinerary scribbled in my late father’s writing.  An unfulfilled promise to visit the ancient Shiva temple of Thanjavur in South India.  Four years later, I sat at my desk with eyes welling up as I held his map in my hands – a hymn to the magic of exploration.  I picked up the phone and asked my mother if she wanted to travel with me in memory of this explorer we both loved. 

Reading about Thanjavur, formerly Tanjore, is the next best thing to actually travelling there.  Built by Raja Raja I of the Chola dynasty more than 1000 years ago, the Great Temple is a monument of Dravidian architecture that stands on the banks of the Kaveri river.   A symbol of the great glory of the Chola period and their devotion to Shiva, this Tamil sanctuary has a majestic scale with a height of 216 feet and is said to be outstanding in its mathematical precision.  George Michell and Indra Viswanathan Peterson write that while granite was used for the building of the temple, a colossal quantity had to be brought from a considerable distance either by bullock carts, elephants, or by ingeniously floating large blocks on specially built boats downstream from a distant quarry.  Thanjavur drew artists into its fold due to the overwhelming royal patronage of the arts, that continued to flourish right until annexation by the British. Chakravarthy writes that the Brihadishvara temple had at least fifty singers and four hundred dancers, accompanied by musicians, tailors and architects.  Devadasis, women and men dedicated to temple worship through classical Indian dance traditions, offered recitals at temples across India from as early as the 6th century CE.  Devadasis in Thanjavur developed a system of music and dance that soared during temple festivals.  

On a blistering hot June morning, Amma and I arrived at Egmore Station in Chennai at 6:30 am to board the Cholan Express, an 8-hour train ride to Thanjavur.  We visited the Great Temple at sunset with purple sky and fuschia cloud blooms painting the horizon.  Wicker baskets heaving with jasmine, rose, frangipani, and marigold coils spill a dizzy chorus of fragrance, as we stood intoxicated in the magnificence of the temple.   Carved with powerful imagery, the temple was built to represent the sacred Mount Meru with hallways and spires covered with ancient stories on granite, taking the form of a visual anthology.  The courtyard allows for untethered exaltation as we pass guardian deities to shrines dedicated to Goddess Brihannayaki and to Ganesha.  Sacred mantras and rituals called to us and yet we spun in our own rhythm, slow as moonstone beads on a mala, round and round the heels of quiet bliss. 

Amma and I went back to the temple again and again over the next few days, moved to silence and filled with gratitude.  While the sheer scale of this temple nourished our parched senses, I was struck by the elegant simplicity of the space, with minimalist sculptures that lead you back to yourself.  I thought back to parts of A.K. Ramanujan’s translation of an old poem by Basavanna:

The rich will make temples for Siva.
What shall I,
a poor man,
do?

My legs are pillars,
the body the shrine,
the head a cupola
of gold.

Listen, O lord of the meeting rivers,
things standing shall fall,
but the moving ever shall stay.

These words awakening an understanding that while we may not have access to powerful riches or glorious temples in our daily lives, we do have access to building a living temple of the self.  The poem declares that we are all living temples filled with the cosmic dance of existence, so why not commune with our true nature wherever we are?  And yet how do we make time for a balanced life amidst an ocean of daily noise?  My own deep struggles of work versus creative life is emblematic of this daily art of negotiating space.  

As a cure for lives filled with distraction, I am learning the value of daily inward reflections to find the spirit’s compass wherever I am.  Whether I find pebbles of doubt or clouds of peace, I am learning that intentionally slowing time can allow new ways of seeing oneself.  While I may or may not have the chance to travel this way with my Amma again, I will savour these moments as I journey in quiet contemplation to myself.  In walking, in cooking, in gardening, in play, in service, in love, and in loneliness, perhaps we can all summon and gaze upon our inner sanctums with kindness each day.

Anonymous. (1973). Speaking of Siva.  (Ramanujan, A.K., Trans.). London: Penguin Random House. (No date for original work written in the 12 century)

Chakravarthy, P. (2010).  Thanjavur: A Cultural History.  New Delhi: Niyogi Books. 

Mitchell, G. & Viswanathan Peterson, I. (2010).  The Great Temple At Thanjavur: One Thousand Years, 1010-2010.  Mumbai: The Marg Foundation.