Don't Send Helicopters

In the 2007 post election violence in Kenya, we didn't have time to stock up on basics. We woke to rioting, no gasoline or cell phone time and a media blackout. As word of mouth began to trickle through the confusion, we realized there was nothing we could do but shelter in place. The roads to the airport were blocked. Fuel pumps were dry without a way to get more. Water became more valuable than gold. Wealthy family members pleaded with us to allow a helicopter to extract us. Of course we refused; we were indignant at the suggestion. A nation was at war with itself and we were caught in the crossfire. In the meantime, there was no extra food. Electricity and internet would come and go, along with water. In times like these, one's chaff is quickly pulverized to reveal someone almost unknown to the self and others. Yes, Kenyan family members murdered each other, neighbors, and friends if they weren't of the “correct” tribe. Police fell in line with which ever presidential candidate was of their tribe. People became desperate to stay alive. Those were the stories of other people. As an expatriate, I could only be horrified and shocked and terrified at what I saw others doing. For myself, I had to deal with what it meant to help my family survive while also assisting those around me.

This pandemic brings me directly back to those times. I am watching others behave in ways that are ugly and selfish, yet I know they just want to survive. They are scared. But the rich and privileged have all the power to buy up what they might need to hunker down and wait out this virus. They have the helicopters. It is my prayer – no – there must be a different word. I cannot find it. The suffocation of cells in my very bones cries out for the wealthy to understand: in order to truly live during and after this, they must learn of their connection to the whole. It will never, ever be enough to protect your own family and interests alone; the suffering on humanity and on the soul will be incalculable. I promise.

Between that sentence and this, magenta fully fills in all the space between pine branches. More bird song is being added to the morning chorus daily now. Dawn marks the time when I no longer have to wish I was asleep. But robins and red wings!

Also poet, there is a soundtrack to all the places we wanted to visit – to try – to linger. Gifts given and received. And those songs play when I least expect. Beck asked me about R.E.M. and I talked to him about Stipe and his music and that book written by a lover. The National, Dylan, Sia, Cohen, U2 . . . The past slips away but the songs remain. I remain. Don't send helicopters. I'm not leaving.