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Archive for April, 2011

Apr 27

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Waiting for 14 days to throw trash away is the punishment for moving

It may very well be that you have not even noticed that an unusually high number of days have passed without as much as a peep from me. This is what happened:

We moved to a new house.

Than in itself is enough stress to make even the most avid blogger think about other stuff.

But the other issue is this: The house has no internet. Easy to fix, thought we. We just call the company and they show up the next day with Internet. Not so. We called the company and they said: How do we even know that you live where you say you live?

Well, won’t it be obvious when you get here, we asked. No, they would not even consider getting into their car and wasting expensive gas to drive our house if we did not first tell the IRS that we had moved, or the People’s register as they say here. The People’s register knows everything about you.

So I went to the People’s Register and said: I am here to tell you we have moved. Can you put that fact into your database?

No, no, no, said the lady. It’s not that easy. First you fill in this form.

Easy, I thought and got my pen out. But the form was more complicated than just the simple form we fill out to get our passports here in Norway, for example. This form needed our kids social security numbers (which I have not memorized), our house code and lots of other specifics about the house. It needed to know who we were employed by and also needed a copy of our passports.

All that just to tell the People’s Register that we had moved to a house 10 kilometers away! And all that before the Internet company will even consider giving us as much as a minute of Internet.

So today we spent the morning filling out the elaborate form. But they cannot put it in their database here in town. No, it has to be sent to the central people’s register.

So it may be a while before we get Internet.

Now, do you want to here about getting trash cans? Not? I will tell you anyway.

So I call the trash company and say: We have moved. Can we have new trash cans or do we get new ones. 

Oh, wait a minute, said the lady. You can definitely not take the old trash cans away from the house. The house and the trash cans are one unit and we think of it as one unit, not as trash cans and a house.

So can we get new ones then?

Yes, for sure. But we have the right to take 14 days before we deliver them.

14 days! That is a long time to wait to get trash cans.

Well, you could have called us earlier. This is our rule. 14 days. How far away is your old house?

10 kilometers.

Well, can you take your garbage over there for the time being.

It’s a little far to go to throw our trash, don’t you think? 

Like I said, you could have told us earlier.

Well, we did not know when we would be moving so it was a bit hard to tell you earlier. 

It’s your problem then.

Anyway, now that we have moved I assume that there is a process to cancel our garbage fees of 300 dollars every six months. What do I do?

Well, you cannot just do that. You still have to pay your garbage fees for six more months.

I do?! But why? If I don’t live there and I don’t throw any trash in my trash cans why in the world do I have to pay. Your people don’t have to pick up anything.

That is just our rule and we treat all people equal. Everybody will get the same treatment, even if they are old and move to an old folks home. They have to pay until the house has been empty for six months. Then you may send an application asking us if you can please stop paying the garbage fees.

But I don’t understand. Why do I have to pay? You have no expenses with me whatsoever. Can you explain?

I can only say that we treat all people equal and this is our law. 

OK, then. That is some very expensive garbage, and a very long time to wait for a trash can.

Well, you can always hope they will come before the 14 days have passed. Good bye and have a nice day.

You want to hear about the plumbers? Yes? I don’t think I want to write about them. It is too stressful.

But now you know why there won’t be many blogs coming from me for a while. And our house? You will find it by following the smell of rotting garbage.

Apr 15

Praying or thinking of Johnny Depp?

There are two things that I have thought about today. Of course, there are more things too, like: What shall I eat for lunch. But the two predominant thoughts are these:

This is what I am talking about. People who spend their days off to sell waffles to raise money for refugees. They are real heroes in my book.

1. Some people are real heroes and most of the world doesn’t know about them. And, to confirm that they are real heroes, it appears they don’t care that the world doesn’t care. If only there were more of that kind of people.

Yesterday I met three of them, Kjell, Øydis and Ingunn. On their own initiative they are putting together a mega yard sale to raise money for Partners. Spending their own time and resources they are doing this. And told me: “Don’t worry about a thing, Oddny. Just show up. We want to do this.” Boy, am I impressed. There are a lot of these people around and I want to become more like them—generous with my time and resources, self-sacrificing, humble and committed.

2. My second thought is this: I can’t stay awake when I pray. And this is a bummer. What I mean is that I don’t actually fall asleep, but I spend all my energy thinking about not falling asleep and that makes praying very unsatisfying for God, and me. My friends who pray a lot will, no doubt, say this: You fall asleep because you don’t know The One you pray to. If you were really excited about being in God’s presence you would be as excited as you are when you watch Johnny Depp. And I agree. The thing is that I am excited about God and I want to be as alert when I pray, as I am when I see Johnny D. But I can’t really get to know him when I think about not sleeping.

I am glad I don’t need to be driven by guilt and shame, because surely, there is a lot to feel bad about. I am not as generous with my time and resources, self-sacrificing, humble and committed as many of my friends and people I know. I don’t pray very well. And Johnny Depp would not even notice me. But the good news is:

God loves me in spite of my shortcomings, and I think he is delighted that I at least try. Steve loves me and, honestly, I think I am much better off with him anyhow. I have people to look up to in my life that don’t reject me even when I am selfish and lazy, but who sets a good example for me to follow.

I have heard of prayer walks. That may work.

Apr 11

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The prettiest rocks are not always the ones that are pink

Kristin and I practicing our balance.

Kristin was so happy this weekend. She was like a smiling little sunflower. I tried to get her to tell us why she was so content, but she was not really able to. I knew why though. We picked rocks and stuff.

We went to a cabin by the ocean and had nothing to do except being together. We had left the computers at home, and we had even forgotten to bring any games. It was raining and crummy outside, but in the morning we put on our warm clothes and ventured outside. There were lots of rocks and clay and other obstacles on the beach. Kristin and I had to help each other climb up on rocks and jump to others. The snow is melting so everywhere there were small streams of water that we had to get over or through.

Standing where the vikings were before us. We found a spatula that Kristin was sure was from the Stone Age. It looked more like a rusty IKEA piece.

This is an interesting thing about collecting rocks and seashells: First off, you really get into it. Secondly: You notice how pretty they are—even the ugly ones. Third: When you find one that is really pretty or interesting you want the others to see it. The weirdest thing is that the finder feels proud of him or herself for finding the pretty rock or shell, as if he or she can take the credit for it.

I found a rock that looked like a piece of cooked salmon with residue of mashed potatoes on it. I had to show Steve and Kristin and hoped they would like it. They did, and if they hadn’t I would have felt a little sad. It would have felt like they rejected me, not the rock. Kristin found a rock with a map of wherever—we found the spot of our cabin on the map. We all marveled at the cool rock she had found. What a gifted rock finder! Steve found something that looked like modern art and we thought it fit him. He always wants to be different and push boundaries.

We went back to the cabin with a grocery bag full of fun rocks and shells that we are going to put in a glass bowl on our table. No, actually we changed our mind. We are going to put them on a silver tray and put candles with them. That will be a great centerpiece.

It will also be a reminder of how we all are as different as the rocks on the beach. Even the ones that we don’t notice at first, because they don’t glimmer and glitter, have beauty. We just need to look a little longer and see a little deeper. My favorite rock from yesterday was plain and grey, it had a while line across it. Simple, but beautiful. It will look great on my table.

A good way to spend a Sunday. Among the rocks of God.

Apr 7

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Giving your life to save others

It was January and I was driving down the road in Chiang Mai, very likely listening to the Eels. My phone rang and it was Baw Boe. He sounded upset. “I don’t know who else to call, Thara Muu. But the Burma Army is attacking many villages in Karen State. Many, many people are fleeing. Two days ago the shot and killed a man, the father of five children. Then yesterday they killed another man. He has six children. Very bad, Thara Muu. We need to do something.”

Last month I sat with the widows of the two men who were shot. They had walked for days. I wrote about Naw Muu Wah yesterday. This is Naw Sey Ler Wah’s story.

This photo of Naw Sey Ler Wah was taken by Kris Ryan.

“When I was 5 my parents died from a disease,” says Naw Sey Ler Wah. “They died only months after my mother and I had a very bad experience. The Burma Army came and captured us. For two days we were forced to walk with them and they treated us very badly. I remember them spitting on us. ‘Give us your daughter and we will let you go,’ they said to my mother. But she would not give me to them.”

“Did they rape your mother?”

“I was too little to know if that is what they did.”

“After two days they let us go, but when we came back to the village, all the villagers were gone. They had escaped. It was soon after that that my mother and father both died and I went to live with my relatives, my aunt and uncle.”

“Then, when I was 10, another terrible thing happened. The Burma Army attacked our village. My uncle was the headman at that time. We ran as fast as we could to escape, but I felt like it was not fast enough. My uncle and my two cousins did not run fast enough. They got killed. (I will not write the details about how they got killed since it is too violent). My aunt lost two children and her husband that day. I continued to live with her after this happened.”

On January 19th 2010 Naw Sey Ler Wah’s husband was shot and killed by the Burma Army too.

“I cannot remember a year in my whole life when we have not been forced to flee from our homes at least ten times a year. One year, in 2007, we fled 11 times in just three months. Last year our village was in hiding already. We were expecting an attack, so we had fled into the jungle. My husband was the radio operator who was responsible to alert other villages if we were attacked.

The Karen resistance was patrolling our area at this time, but somehow the Burma Army had found a way through. One of the children in our village saw the soldiers approaching and told us. We all ran to a new hiding place then. My husband told the rest of the village to run, he would catch up. He wanted to send a message to the other villages first. That was the reason they found him and killed him. They also stole our radios.

My husband died because he wanted to save the lives of others.”

She is so quiet as she talks. I am sitting close to her and watch her slender face, her beautifully woven costume, the small mole on her lip. “Did you make your shirt yourself?” “Yes,” she smiles, kind of surprised that I think it is so special.

“What did the soldiers do after they killed your husband?”

“They went to our village and destroyed it. Everything they found they stole or destroyed. They cut holes in our cooking pots with their machetes; they shot holes in our rice barns with their guns. They killed our dogs and pigs. They ate some of the meat and left the rest to rot. One of the ladies in the village had left a bag of rice and they mixed dirt and sand into the bag so that the rice is uneatable now. They took one of my sarongs (wrap-around skirt that the Karen use) and sliced it on the wood. Why they do this, I don’t understand. But anything they find they will take. If they don’t need it, they destroy it. Everything in our house, including our house was destroyed.”

We drink some sweet instant coffee and she tells me she has five young children at home. They are staying with the neighbors while she is away. I feel a pinch of bad conscience because I know she left them for days just to come and spend time with me.

“My neighbors in my village helped me build a new house because that was one thing I was not able to do myself. But all the rest I must do alone now. The other villagers have enough with their own lives; I cannot depend on help from them. This time of the year is hard because I need to clear the land for planting the rice. It is very hard work and I don’t think I will be able to grow enough rice for my whole family this year.”

“Since my husband died we have not had meat or fish even once. He used to go hunting and fishing, but that is also something I am not able to do. Sometimes my children will go and find frogs to eat, but not so often. We only eat rice and salt.”

“Can’t you have a pig or chickens?” I wonder.

“No, Thara Muu, we cannot because I have nothing to feed them. Whatever we have to eat we must eat ourselves. Also, what use is it if the Burma Army attacks us again? The animals will just become food for the soldiers.”

My friends, Kris and Ashley, brought gifts. We give a stuffed animal for her to take back to each of her children. Naw Sey Ler Wah smiles and strokes a stuffed bunny gently, as if it was real. We give her and Naw Muu Wah some money, some clothes and whatever else we can think of that they may need, and be able to carry back. But it all seems so hopelessly little when what they need is to get their husbands back, a decent meal and the assurance that they won’t have to run away from the soldiers and watch their homes burn to the ground again. Hopelessly little.

Apr 6

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One bright January morning

This is a story I have been meaning to write for a while. It’s a story that has stayed with me since the day I heard it and it will not go away. I heard it a month ago.

This is the story:

This beautiful picture of Naw Muu Wah was taken by my friend Kris Ryan.

“If he hadn’t ran back the second time to get rice he may not have gotten killed,” says Naw Muu Wah. “The problem was that he took the sewing machine first.”

I cannot get the sewing machine out of my head. The woman sitting on the floor in front of me is poor. She has no shoes. She has walked for four days to talk to me. She comes from one of the most oppressed areas in the world. How come she had a sewing machine?

“It was a gift from my husband,” she says quietly and I try to imagine it: Saw Mya Htoo harvesting rice, hunting, growing vegetables and thinking of other ways to save some money. Many nights he takes a bag of coins out and counts them. Then finally, after months, maybe years, he adds it all up and it’s enough. Proudly he walks to the market and points to the sewing machine he has looked at so many times before: “This one,” he says. He pays for it and carries it home and gives it to his wife who right then feels like the richest woman in the village.

“Where is the sewing machine now?” I ask. “It’s still where he put it when he hid it.” “Aren’t you going to get it?” “I can’t.” Of course she cannot. Bringing the sewing machine back from under the bushes and branches in the jungle will be like ripping up a wound that is still painful. There is no point in putting salt on it to make the pain worse.

It happened January a year ago. The day was cold and crisp as January days often are. Saw Mya Htoo was out hunting in the jungle. Naw Muu Wah was busy in the house. With six children to care for she rarely had a quiet moment.

Saw Mya Htoo’s eyes were always on the lookout, for animals, for plants to eat—and for the enemy. On this day he spotted the enemy first. From the hill where he was standing he saw them coming walking, brown uniforms, guns on their backs. Quickly Saw Mya Htoo took his own gun and shot it in the air. He had to alert the village somehow, and he was too far away to run there and warn them. The agreement was that if they heard a shot, they would turn on the village radios and he could them tell them that they were in danger. He was the person responsible for the radio and always carried it with him. The other person responsible was the village teacher. They did not leave the radios on all the time in order to save batteries. The shot did not have the desired effect. The old gun jammed and the shot just sounded like a little puff in the air. Desperately he thought of what to do now. He tried once more, but it wasn’t much better.

Then he looked over in the other direction and noticed the village over there, one that was a lot closer, had picked up on his attempt. They must have heard his gun shot. Quickly the villagers fired off one of the village mortars, and this time the sound was impossible to ignore. Within seconds he got a call from the teacher who asked what was happening. “Hurry! Get the people out of the village. The enemy is coming!” was all Saw Mya Htoo needed to say before he hung up and started running. On his way back to the village he met his neighbors, all of them running with whatever they were able to carry. They looked serious and afraid. Every time they had to run they felt afraid. Even though they had to run many times a year. But one never gets used to being chased by men with guns.

He met his wife and kids too. “Hurry! Run the fastest you can,” he told them. He made it into their house, grabbed the sewing machine and ran back into the jungle. With the sewing machine tucked away he decided he may have enough time to run back once more to get some more rice. He knew from experience that whatever was left in their house would be destroyed or stolen. He also knew that they would need much food while in hiding in the jungle.

Surprised he noticed his oldest daughter running next to him. She wanted to help. He didn’t have time to tell her to go back and kept running. They got a bag of rice and he told her to run the fastest she cold. He would catch up.

But he never did. As he came around the corner of his house the soldiers entered the village. Without hesitating they shot him dead. Then they lit the village on fire.

In the jungle sat Naw Muu Wah with her six kids, the youngest only one year old. They were terrified and shaking. The oldest daughter had caught up with them and she told them the news they did not want to hear: “I think they shot daddy.” They had shot after her too. Never had she ran so fast. Never had she been so sure she was going to die. Still she wasn’t sure how the bullets did not hit her. She never looked back, just ran and ran until she ran into her family.

“You know what I feel like?” Naw Muu Wah asks me. “I feel like I am a bird that is not allowed to fly.”

“Do you ever consider taking the children and moving to a refugee camp?” “Never.” “I will not give them that victory. There were times that I thought of it while my husband was alive. Now that he is dead I want even more than before to stay on my homeland.”

She has the classic beauty that so many Karen women have. I like to just look at her as she is reflecting on her life.

“All my life they have been chasing us. They have done a lot to my family. They killed my husband, my brother, my uncle, my cousin, my brother in law and my father.”
“Do you know why the Burma Army come and attack you,” I ask. The answer is so sad:
“We don’t have any idea. We don’t know what they want from us. The Burma Army never speak to us or tell us anything.”

We sit in silence. We both are mothers. We both love our husbands. We both have dreams and fears. We both have a sense of humor and like beauty. We both want a day off to do whatever we want. We both sit in the same room. But our lives are as different as lives can be. I think it is unfair.

Apr 3

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To run a marathon or organize all the clutter?

Today is the day for sharing my dreams. You could call them ambitions too, but I think that sounds a lot more disciplined, and it may actually keep me from achieving them. These are some of my dreams (the ones I am not ashamed to share in public, and most of them I may never accomplish. Read on.)

To put all mine and my family’s stuff in neatly labeled boxes and containers.

To run a marathon once.

To hike in the Patagonia mountains (you thought Patagonia was just a clothing brand making eco friendly clothes? Wrong.)

To write a book that becomes such a big best seller that for the rest of my life I don’t have to worry about money and I can buy a studio apartment in an old tower in Tuscany where I can have my desk overlooking the vineyards. I can write sequels to my best-selling books whilst sipping some wine and eating some green olives and local cheese.

To have tea with Aung San Suu Kyi.

To take my family on a bike ride through Europe, spending some months on the trip, and the girls will think it is totally cool to pedal through old cities and narrow paths having no internet or friends, but a lot of love from their parents. We will bring a deck of cards, our journals, and some of the classics for bedtime reading. Our dog will also run besides us. Or we may put him in a side cart. It will never rain.

To dance swing as well as my neighbor.

To finish that European history book I started some weeks ago, and remember the content.

To do 50 push-ups and one successful pull-up in one setting.

To ski down this particularly difficult set of hills where I go cross country skiing and not fall.

To get scrapbooks for all the girls ready before they get married.

This is the closest I have gotten to Vaclav Havel. We went to his office and left a copy of our report. Here we are with his current and former assistant. Nice office too.

To interview Vaclav Havel.

After the hikes in Patagonia, hike in the Alps, Eastern Europe, Himalayas and the South Island of New Zealand.

To finish one of the knitting projects I am working on.

To sleep in a tent in the snow in the mountain. But only if I have a warm sleeping bag to my disposal and Steve is next to me.

This is a list of some of my dreams. I put nothing here about wanting to look more like Angelina Jolie or about getting a million dollars. There is also nothing about giving all the kids in Burma enough food to eat, a school to go to and medical facilities. I thought it was obvious by now that I want that most of all.

Not sure what is more obtainable, to organize all the clutter or feed all the kids? Not sure. But that will not stop me from dreaming.

Oddny

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