Keeping Quiet

Yesterday's sessions were productive. First, we talked about a process called Concientization (spelling?), which was thought up by Paolo Feire (spelling?). It talks about a certain way to meet oppressed people in a constructive way that gives them dignity using things including but not limited to dialogue and no neutrality. Then we talked about the realities of crossing cultures, where we were told that we will all experience culture shock, whether we like it or not. This is an interesting thing to face: knowing that you're going to face something before you have to face it, knowing that, no matter how much one can prepare, it won't do anything because this something will still happen either way. It's good we live in community, because this probably would be a lot harder if one were to be living alone. Finally, we listened to a panel of about seven other former volunteers who gave us a somewhat candid look at volunteer life from the field. They told us their stories and talked to us after our evening prayer, but I want to focus on our evening prayer.

We were given a sheet of poetry last night for our evening prayer, and the one poem we used was one of the most profound things I've ever read. Pablo Neruda was writing from a Chileno perspective, but his insights cross cultures and really resonated with me. The last stanza of the poem really spoke to me, and I wanted to share it with everyone. I must say I did not live the life of a volunteer for the last six weeks before I came here. I'll be honest about that. I very much enjoyed my time with all of my friends, Christine, and my family, but reading this poem made me realize how sometimes it is necessary just to stop. We cannot live life without reflecting on it, or else we will never understand the secrets life has for us.

"Keeping Quiet"

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

This one time upon the earth,
let's not speak any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be a delicious moment,
without hurry, without locomotives,
all of us would be together
in a sudden uneasiness.

The fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to the whales
and the peasant gathering salt
would look at his torn hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothing
and would walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.

What I want shouldn't be confused with final inactivity:
life alone is what matters,
I want nothing to do with death.

If we weren't unanimous
about keeping our lives so much in motion,

if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves
and threatening ourselves with death,
perhaps the earth is teaching us
when everything seems to be dead
and then everything is alive.

Now I will count to twelve
and you keep quiet and I'll go.