(Sky’s DUP newsletter, 4 July 2019)
 Most Peacemakers deny that they are doing anything special, as Barbe Chambliss found out when she collected accounts from women Peacemakers. Salim Chisti Matt Sean Gras, whose spiritual or Sufi name means “Bringer of Peace,” is a Dance leader, Dance drummer, and Dancer living in Montana. He went to Standing Rock. He attended a Trump rally on purpose. He recently spent two months at the border, in Tijuana. He doesn’t think he’s doing anything special; he says this work is just something he has to do, which is what many Peacemakers say: they’re just wired that way, in a sense. He agreed to share with us about his experiences; thank you Salim. Salim writes, I am no peacemaker. For one thing, I don’t believe that peace is something that can be ‘made’: as the activist A.J. Muste said, “There is no way to peace; peace is the way.” For another, I’ve learned the hard way, through a lifetime of trial and error (lots of trials, even more errors) that the only person I can change is myself, and then only if I’m lucky. Truth is, I am often decidedly unpeaceful: I can be ornery and ill-tempered, and though I can preach peace with the best of people, when it comes to being rather than doing peace, I’m no better than some and worse than others. It is both a blessing and a curse that my beloved first Sufi guide saddled me with a spiritual name I can never live up to; for a long time it so embarrassed me that when people asked what it meant, I’d try to dodge the question. Now I remind myself that it’s an archetype and that I can use it to prod myself in the right direction when I need it. Which is right now, all the time, always. Looking back on it, I’ve been an activist for peace pretty much all my life, trick or treating for UNICEF and later cutting my teeth on the massive rallies protesting the Vietnam War in the ‘60s. I knew I had to lend my body to the hundreds of thousands in Washington, D.C., New York City, Madison, WI. and elsewhere demanding an end to that war. I was tear-gassed and billy-club bashed. But I knew I had to be there. Even then, when I was 16, I knew that I didn’t have a choice. These days the compulsion is stronger than ever. Through a concatenation of truly inconceivable, deliberate, astonishingly corrupt human-made decisions, the struggle for peace on earth has become a struggle for life itself, as the existential cataclysm of climate catastrophe threatens to bring about the extinction not just of homo sapiens, but of virtually all multi-celled life forms. I don’t know how to deal with this – how to be alive and breathing on this planet during what could very well prove to be humankind’s end-game, the pace of destruction careering past even the worst-case scenarios of the most dire predictions. The whole thing makes me crazy, literally; how is it that all of us aren’t rioting in the streets, knowing what we know, seeing what we see? So it’s for my own sanity as well as for anything else that I choose to… engage… in some way that puts myself out there, on some type of front line. It’s time for me to ramp up, show up, speak truths and take risks. And I can’t let the grief I feel overwhelm me, or slow me down. As is said in the Talmud, “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.” “The work,” as I see it, is to stand by others who lead in the fight – to support them, offer them protection, and broadcast their stories as far and wide as I can. Though it’s taken a while for this to sink in, it’s become clear to me that the role I step into is that of the Witness, and that what I’m doing is bearing witness. To me this means being present in the face of injustice, and doing whatever I can, any and every small thing, to help. The first time I engaged in this as a conscious practice was in February, 2016. The Syrian refugee crisis was in full swing, and communities across the country were wrestling with whether or not to welcome Middle-Eastern refugees into their midst. In small-town Hamilton, MT, a mostly red community with a strong blue streak, the debate was highly charged, and the County Commissioners had drafted a letter to the U.S. State Department vehemently objecting to the possibility that any refugees from anywhere find a home in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley. They called a public meeting to give people an opportunity to publicly voice their feelings. Almost 500 attended – a breathtaking number for a city with a population under 5,000. Almost everyone who spoke at that meeting voiced shrill, rabid, and fear-infused objections to our welcoming any refugees from Syria. I was one of a handful of people who dared speak out in opposition – in favor of providing safe haven for Syrian refugees – a terrifying position to take in a room full of xenophobic nationalists, many carrying sidearms. A video taken at that meeting aired on local TV news; the snippet of my plea (that our Syrian refugee brothers and sisters deserved our compassionate support) begins at appx. 1:20. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxDmxyE2GOQ&feature=youtu.be The energy in that meeting was terrifying: I was shaking as I offered my testimony, and left that school gymnasium discouraged and in tears. But for weeks after, strangers I’d never before met accosted me on the streets of Hamilton and thanked me for publicly airing beliefs they shared, but were afraid to voice. In speaking out for myself, I found that I was also speaking out for many. The second time I engaged in this conscious practice was in late fall of 2016, when I finally gave in to the urge that had been tugging at my heart for months and went to Standing Rock for three weeks, to live with and support the indigenous water protectors gathered there by the thousands from across the globe. You can read about my Standing Rock experience here: https://ravallirepublic.com/news/local/article_2d63d8b0-cfce-11e6-b28d-cbafa341ead0.html)%20and%20here%20(https:/missoulian.com/news/local/western-montana-standing-rock-protesters-to-share-experiences/article_7fe74330-9e50-54e7-b29c-08f5f20a1791.html The third time was last October, when I finally gave in to my gut and, overcoming my almost equally strong fears, attended a Trump rally in Missoula, MT and bore witness to the hatred, racism, and xenophobic violence his words deliberately incite. After getting stiffarmed out of his public rally I wrote about I experienced there in an open letter to Donald Trump, which you can read here: https://www.democraticunderground.com/100211307114. The fourth and most recent time was last December, when I tipped my old car’s nose out of the northern Montana Rockies south toward Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico, to stand alongside the asylum seekers gathered there, giving in to the incessant voice saying “you’ve gotta… you don’t have a choice.” What was calling me was the increasingly dangerous odyssey so many human brothers and sisters had pitched themselves into, fleeing violence, massive corruption, and starvation in their Central American homelands and risking everything they had to seek asylum in the ‘land of the free and home of the brave.’ (Yes, I’m bitter. Best to acknowledge that up front, as it’s a key component of my grief.) So not quite knowing what it was I could do, I resigned myself to uncertainty and took off on a 1,300 mile-long odyssey of my own. Let me be clear: I am NOT brave. The thought of driving off, on my own, from my home in smalltown northern Montana to go stand with, bear witness alongside, thousands of Central American asylum seekers who were piling up in unsafe conditions in Tijuana, knotted my stomach and kept me awake at night. My Spanish is pitiful; my resources are extremely limited; my car is 15 years old. Though I was hoping to team up with a coalition of activists from New York, the plan was hazy at best. I had no idea what I’d do when I arrived in that border city with a reputation for being one of Mexico’s most dangerous; no idea where I’d stay or for how long; no idea whether or not I’d be at all useful; no idea whether or not I’d be safe. Still, I loaded up my car, got in, and began driving – simply because I had to. Those of you who followed my posts on Facebook and in Truthout.org know how it went; for those who didn’t, I’ll elaborate. After a tumultuous start, I was invited to join ranks with a coterie of savvy and heart-centered immigration activists, mostly from New York City and the New Sanctuary Coalition, though also including colleagues from across the country. I moved into the hostel NSC had rented in Tijuana, and was grateful for being able to lay my head on a pillow at night in a cubby about the size and shape of a large coffin. Because I was blessed to have a sturdy and frugal old car, and because in my boastful ignorance I claimed to be fearless of driving in Tijuana, I was invited to join a crew of a half-dozen others willing to taxi our (mostly) Central American brother and sister asylum seekers back and forth from the main migrant shelter where they were housed (Barretal, about 17 miles from downtown Tijuana) to appointments and meetings they needed to attend. I was given a nickname that stuck, one I wore proudly, and for most of my six-week stint there became known as “Salim Driver.” Though my law school education and legal experience would have qualified me to work in NSC’s Tijuana pro se legal clinic (helping asylum seekers, through a translator, understand their rights under U.S. and international asylum law) many of my fellow volunteers were similarly qualified, and also spoke Spanish. The more pressing need was for drivers with cars. I’d found my role. And as so often happens in my experience, I found that through giving I received far more than I gave. During my stay in Tijuana – one of the most profoundly moving, powerful, uplifting, painful and consciousness-changing experiences of my life – I was blessed to give safe passage to literally hundreds of asylum seekers, albeit if for the briefest stage of their journeys. My little old station wagon accommodated, to my astonishment, up to seven passengers at a time. Because of my lack of Spanish, I resorted to clowning gestures (big smiles, fist-bumps, high-fives, thumbs up, handshakes, and hugs) to convey to my shell-shocked charges that they were safe with me, and very welcome. I kept a stash of granola bars on hand and passed them around to everyone, each trip, on the assumption, proven correct, that just about everyone who had braved everything, given up everything to walk hundreds or even thousands of miles, was going to be constantly hungry. Whenever possible I’d have an NSC colleague translate for me before my guests would clamber into my people hauler: “I’m Salim, just a dumb ‘ole gringo who doesn’t speak Spanish, but I promise I’ll get you to where you’re going safely and that we’ll have a good time on the way!”, which almost always was good for chuckles and smiles. The single most important message I tried to convey to all my precious human cargo was that they were respected, seen, and loved; the astonishing answer I received from virtually every person who rode with me was that they saw me, respected me, and loved me, too. Even today my eyes well with tears when I remember those times – and there wasn’t a day during my six week stint in Tijuana, that I didn’t cry because of the massive injustice and cruelty I witnessed, deliberately and methodically inflicted by our own government on some of the most beautiful, and shat upon, people I’ve ever met. On my last day in Tijuana I wrote: I’ve cried here every day – every day for more than six weeks. Wept like a baby at least once every day, for the sheer brutal weight of animosity and hostility and fear and mistrust and hatred leveled by the good ole U.S. of A. against some of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. Strong people, decent people, kind people – people who’s only crime, near as I can tell, is to have been born poor and brown-skinned in one of the Central American countries the U.S. regards as a used up piece of fruit; a banana peel after the banana’s been eaten. Today’s my last day here, and today I cried. I cried when my friend Douglas (not his real name) got returned to Tijuana from U.S. Immigration after he passed his ‘critical fear interview’ (in defiance of U.S. and international asylum law), to wait out his time here until his court date in late March when he’ll be allowed to return to the U.S. to make his case for asylum to a U.S. Immigration judge. I cried because Douglas is being treated like a piece of s***, a human turd, when what he deserves (what all humans deserve) is to be treated with kindness and dignity and respect. I cried because this noble man cries, afraid that he won’t be granted the asylum he so desperately needs from the U.S., the strongest and richest and most powerful nation on earth – and afraid because he has not a clue about how he’s supposed to survive here in Tijuana until his case is called. I cried because I am so goddamned helpless to do anything about this, other than to offer my shoulder and my heart for Douglas to lean on. And I cry because I am enraged, furious, that I, simply by accident of my birth, am granted such enormous privilege that Douglas, simply by accident of his, is denied. Tomorrow, early, I’ll climb into my car, throttle up its sweetly purring diesel engine, and aim north towards the U.S. border. Unless something goes shockingly amiss, I’ll be admitted back into the U.S. with nary a blink, and allowed to re-engage with my simple life in small-town Montana. Should I choose, I could travel back and forth across that border as often as I wish – or hop on a plane and travel to damned near anyplace I want. All the while knowing that Douglas, along with millions of refugees worldwide, is denied that basic human right, simply because they ‘chose’ to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time. All in all, I’d guess that I gave rides to more than 400 beautiful Central American asylum seekers, racking up more than 2,000 miles during my six week Tijuanan odyssey. I carry in my heart now the hearts of men and women, boys and girls, whose courage and determination and sheer human kindness, dignity and compassion I will never forget. I ventured forth to Tijuana not knowing what I’d do when I got there, but just knowing that I had to go, simply couldn’t choose not to. And I know that, though I’ve accomplished little to blunt the impact of an immigration system made deliberately cruel and hurtful by an administration that is xenophobic and racist to an extreme, I’ve touched the lives of many sojourners who for brief moments in time felt, perhaps, a bit of peace, safety, and love in the presence of me and my colleagues. You can read some of my thoughts about my time bearing witness with the asylum seekers in Tijuana https://truthout.org/articles/transcending-language-barriers-to-connect-with-asylum-seekers/ I’m an old coot, and at 66, no closer to wisdom than I was in my 20s. Still, I’ve learned how important it is to do, and not just talk: to act, and not just ponder. When as an idealistic and naïve youth I set off to march the streets of Washington, D.C., demanding with hundreds of thousands of others that we end the war in Vietnam, I couldn’t know that we would, in fact, achieve that objective. When I spoke out at the meeting in favor of inviting Syrian refugees to find safe haven in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley, I never expected that for weeks after, one stranger after another would walk up to me in downtown Hamilton thanking me for airing beliefs they shared but had been afraid to speak. When I gave in to my heart and went to Standing Rock three years ago, I couldn’t foresee the far-ranging effect that coalescence of heart-energy would have, spawning and invigorating similar environmental and human-rights actions across the globe (including Tijuana). When I recorded my experience at Trump’s Missoula rally last October, I could not know that tens of thousands of people would resonate with my witnessing, and draw strength from it. And when I set out last winter to stand alongside those whom Trump sneeringly denigrated as the “migrant caravan,” I couldn’t imagine the love I’d receive from people I’d be proud to call neighbor, nor could I imagine the possible ripple effects sharing my experiences online would have with others. I don’t know where I’ll go next, or what I’ll do when I get there. As I write this, I’m feeling more and more drawn to go to one of the border towns in Arizona or Texas where humanitarians are being arrested and threatened with crushing jail sentences for the ‘crime’ of stashing water and food in the deserts near trails known to be used by asylum seekers who might otherwise perish. I’m thinking of signing up with No More Deaths / No Mas Muertes, an advocacy group that seeks to end the deaths of undocumented immigrants crossing the border regions near the U.S. / Mexico border. I’ve learned to listen to and follow my heart, so that when it next tells me “you’ve got to; you have no choice,” I’ll do my best to follow its lead, with humility, acceptance, non attachment, courage, and love. I urge you (and you, and you) to do the same. There is no time to waste; no longer have we the option to put off our work until later. Life as we know it on this infinitely precious and beautiful planet, this sacred Mother Earth, is coming to an end. I urge everyone to embrace the grief that results from this awareness with absolute candor, and to use it to fuel our each and every act. We must all bear witness, each of us in our own unique way, to the terrible and beautiful truths around us. May we all come together in peace and in love, in compassion and humility, in the deepest of griefs and in the highest exaltations of joy. May we all work to uncover the peace that is in our hearts, and in that way to pour the essential goodness that lives within each of us into our precious, fragile, beautiful, finite, and infinite world. Everything we do must henceforth be in service to our world. As Dahr Jamail urges all of us to inquire: “For me, now, today, it comes down to this: Each day, how can I best serve the Earth?” Asalaam alaikum, Salim Chisti Matt Sean Gras ICH LEBE MEIN LEBEN IN WACHSENDEN RINGEN I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world. I may not complete this last one but I give myself to it. I circle around God, around the primordial tower. I’ve been circling for thousands of years and I still don’t know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song? — R.M. RILKE (translated by Joanna Macy) |
