WHAT I DID LAST SUMMER; Liverpool(Summer 06)

Given the millions of pics I seem to have taken this summer, it seemed a pity not to splurge some on the blog. Especially since it is less pain staking than e mailing them all to people. So Enjoy!!!

Austin Summer BBQ!!

Angela/ Austin Team (L-R) Steven Panter (Austin Senior Student), Caroline Kewley (Angela Resident Tutor), ME (SRT), James Harding(Austin Resident Tutor), Cris Clayton (Angela Senior Student),

According to the grand traditions of the Christ of Notre Dame Halls we celebrated Austin Day (we can’t figure which St. Augustine the Hall is named after, despite my many e mails to the various orders connected to the colleges and hours spent researching old archives!!! so if any one remembers please let me know!!! The current favourites are Augustine of Hippo or Augustine of Canterbury!!) Despite the amnesia of its’ haloed ancestors it is a great reason for a massive piss up!! (or so some of my degenerate students would say !!) And a chance for students to have a day off from the revision before Finals!!!

It was also a chance to heave a sigh of relief for my Residential team!! Having lived through a colourful year, the team deserved more than a pat on the back. Despite the fact their jobs involved spending much of their time in the police stations and hospitals; we still managed to have enormous amounts of fun as a team!!! The many team meetings held at the many Chinese and Indian Restaurants on Allerton Rd, or over Caroline’s mums Sunday roasts, and the many working expeditions to the student union (obviously to make sure the degenerate students were behaving themselves) probably had something to do with it!! I even had fun at the fortnightly Dining in Nights (no don’t smite me! notice I said I rather than We!!!), where I had the pleasure of forcing students to appear before me at a formal sit down meal (in black tie- well the student interpretation of black tie) and listen to the Fellows of Hall talk about flesh eating bacteria (and you think I am joking- incidentally one of the best guest lectures we had). Despite the frenzied fun it was also a time to admit to ourselves that it was a privilege rather than a perquisite, a place where we can bring in our own idealistic vision in the attempt to create a collegial community. To drink deeply from the satisfaction of being in a profession that provides both fun and fulfilment, a position where we have access to the most fecund place in the human life span and a creative opportunity for change. Guys it was a fab year!!! Thankyou for EVERYTHING!!!

Austin 05/06

Angela 04/05

MY BEST FRIENDS’ WEDDINGS!! (Summer 06)

Clare & Mathew’s Wedding!!

One wedding in the girly gang is enough generally enough to keep me happy for the entire summer. But when Clare rang me at Christmas to gurgle that she and Mathew were engaged I knew this was going to a fabulous summer!! The wedding itself was again stretched over the weekend, as the traditionally Irish, O’Toole weddings are. The party continued till the wee (if 6.00 am can be described as wee) hours of the morning in the residents bar, accompanied by the O’Toole orchestra (4 guitars and an assortment of wind and string instruments led by Clare’s dad, cousins and uncles). Given the quality of the music by the end of the night, I had almost forgiven Clare’s dad for dredging up embarrassing stories of the University days (which unfortunately implicated a few more people than Clare) in the Speeches. All the O’Toole sisters (who formed the beautiful quadrate of bridesmaids) were almost as radiant as the bride. And I hardly recognised Clare, (in a simple but elegant full length dress and a frothing organdie veil) from the giddy and gurgling partner in crime who shared all my university adventures, from founding the Irish society, to all the various campaigns we were a part of (from friends of Ireland, completely lunatic Irish parades! SDLP, Tuition fee campaigns, Jubilee Debt to most recently war on Iraq research). Clare had been a member of the SU exec with me (till all the politics disillusioned her) as well as on the ‘Prophet’ editorial staff. When the union nearly went bankrupt we had stayed up late into the night debating over cutbacks for weeks on end, and when I ran for student Union President she had been there supporting my ludicrous cartoon campaign. Clare had kept my idealism alive and my taste for mad escapades satisfied. And now she had found someone equally idealistic to join her in her crusades to make the world a better place. I don’t know why I felt sad, or cried when they made their vows (the girly gang sniffling along side me didn’t help!!), but it felt like the end of an era, but certainly a crowning celebration of a fantastic decade!!

Christine’s & Steve’s Wedding!!

Given my secret ambition to become a wedding planner, this summer was a wish fulfilment where 2 of my best friends got married (among 7 other weddings- The world is going mad!!!). The weeks spent shoe shopping for Christine’s wedding itself was gala of girly giggles (sorry can’t help my self with alliteration). The unorthodox wedding shoes that went seeking all over Liverpool were finally found to the brides satisfaction after many an expedition (the groom nearly had a nervous breakdown- as he was dragged into EVERY shoe shop in Liverpool). Being the Brides best friends, it was our duty to aid and abet her to try every shoe in the shop on. Rachel and I helped ourselves to a few luscious shoes ourselves (as the photographs will betray!!) But more than anything else this pilgrimage to Chipperfield (a little village in Hemel) was a celebration of all the girly years of sharing our dreams and disappointments together. Having watched Christine and Steve muddle along over Oceans and mountains (quite literally) this fairy tale was truly a victory over distance and disaster.

MY MISTY MOSTY CORNER OF THE WORLD; Liverpool ( Autumn 06)

Diarrhoea weakened, travel weary and generally emotionally exhausted I was extremely grateful to be back in my misty mosty corner of the world!!! One of my favourite poems by Whatmore kept hysterically repeating itself in the last leg of the journey (from London to Liverpool, where we stopped literally every 5 minutes because Malcolm had a VERY bad case of the runs). And as I snuggled under the covers of my own queen-sized bed, and rolled around comfortably knowing I wasn’t squashing poor Ruth in my nocturnal struggles, it kept wafting back to me, the daft poem…

Not for me the far away places
Not for me the thirst to roam
The tug at my hungry Heart strings
Is the call of my island home!

(Ironically written about my native Sri Lanka- but home is, for the time being anyway in the Ivory towers of academia in the little misty village of Childwall.)

Having been globe trotting from Czechoslovakia to Pakistan this year, I thought enough is enough!!! I am going to lock that passport away and stay at home for a while, my wanderlust had been cured…. for the time being anyway.

Snatches from this summer

MEANING & MISSION, Islamabad; Pakistan (Sep 06)

Sit Smiling

I boasted among men that I had known you.
They see your pictures in all works of mine.
They come and ask me, `Who is he?'
I know not how to answer them. I say, `Indeed, I cannot tell.'
They blame me and they go away in scorn.
And you sit there smiling.
I put my tales of you into lasting songs.
The secret gushes out from my heart.
They come and ask me, `Tell me all your meanings.'
I know not how to answer them.
I say, `Ah, who knows what it means!'
They smile and go away in utter scorn.
And you sit there smiling.

-Rabrindanath Tagore

Dragged by Wild horses or not, I went looking for something in Pakistan, a purpose, a mission, a niche or even a monastic community. Many asked whether I found it, and if I am brutally honest, I didn’t. I found that I was not ready for the harsh realities that those in the mission field face; I found I was not mature enough or strong enough to cope with the challenges, I would have to handle; I found that despite the fact I would like to work within a monastic community, that it was not my calling (and that I was neurotically attached to things like personal space and an eccentric form of intolerant individualism which didn’t cope well with the reality of communal living even if the ‘hills were a live with the sound of music’). Did I make a difference to the lives of the people I met? Not really, this journey was an observational encounter more than anything else. So what was achieved other than diarrhoea and nausea?? Well...., I found tremendous beauty in the divine design; I found immense strength courage and warmth in the devastated and desolate fallen world.

I didn’t need to go all the way to Pakistan to find empathy in suffering & poverty, these were always on my doorstep whether in Colombo, Perth or Liverpool. But perhaps I had to go on an internal journey of physical discomfort (whether in diarrhoea, sprained ankle, continuous nausea) relative deprivation (from my personal space, comfort zone routine, food for satisfaction rather than hunger) fear (that the people I saw would never be redeemed from abysmal living conditions, and could never understand the concepts of Grace & Hope because it was outside their experience) pain (at the nature of poverty and this hell on earth) to eventually rediscover some meaning in my journey of faith. I found perfection and grace in his creation that had given humanity resilience and hope that survived despite the deception of the enemy.

The team at the Islamabad Look out point

I was beginning to understand that the original sin was not just disobedience, but arrogance; a rejection of our lot and a self righteous belief that we deserved better perhaps contracted from the deceiver himself. I realised that the difference in the many grass root missionaries that continued to protect and nurture the vulnerable, despite the desolate chaos, was that the driving force behind their mission was much more than a seething anger and empathy against suffering (as had too often been mine); they understood the nature and wonder of Grace, and found indomitable strength in Hope. I rediscovered the significance of Christ; we were not Christians because God redirected his creation and a few faithful through his personified Son. We were Christians because Christ was the very real, very simple and practical personification of Gods Grace and our calling to Hope, Faith & Love. The danger of having been brought up in a Christian tradition was that for too long these words had been mere buzz words.

I found that the charges in Isaiah to feed the hungry, to give shelter to the homeless, to set captives free and bring light to those in darkness and in the shadow of death, these lines which always burned holes deep in our conscience that are all too easily rejected as cheesy abstract ideals as we grew older, was the very REAL Gospel we were charged to carry. Gods Grace was mediated through these things, Hope Faith & Love were brought alive in it. You are never ready or strong enough or mature enough to do these things, but the flaws of the instrument had never prevented the creator from using them before.

SETTING CAPTIVES FREE, Islamabad, Pakistan (Sep 06)

The rank smell made approaching the area almost unbearable, and was clearly an effective deterrent to keep away nosy coppers. The rubbish clogging up the canal provided effective camouflage and only if you look closely (probably by clicking on the picture an enlarging the picture) can you see the huddled figures buying and selling narcotics. The idea that human organisms could even approach the bridge let alone hide in that mass or rotting refuse just nauseated me. The entire expedition to this particular drug spot made me feel ill, but the idea that this was the life that these people were captive in terrorised me. The time we spent with ICAN (Islamabad Christians Against Narcotics) had impressed on us that these addicts had much more than an addiction to overcome. Between the pressures of poverty and the vulnerability, of slum life and Christian culture in the very centre of explosively charged political atmosphere they had enough to deal with. When drug lords, pimps, corrupt police men and the other undercurrents of the underworld add to these, the escapism of another high is probably all too easy. The spouses of addicts (generally wives) too are locked into these shackles of unbearable survival eased only by a fear of death. Since the state approach to addiction seem to be a penalty of capital punishment or life imprisonment there is no redemptive hope other than these struggling small outposts of Christian clinics (possibly 3, 4 in the entire country housing not more than 20 patients at a time). The number of addicts and relapsed addicts on the other hand seem to be overwhelming. Female addiction doesn’t even seem to be a concept that anti narcotics services can begin to grapple with given the prisons of culture and penalty. Again I was filled with an impotent rage and pain that gnawed within the repetitious nausea; even though I was a mere tourist to this spectacle and in a few weeks would be safe in my comfortable and pastel world, the momentary perception assaulted my bubble of wellbeing. If we were called to feed the hungry, to give shelter to the homeless, to set captives free and bring light to those in darkness and in the shadow of death, here indeed was a place. A place that telling people of a loving father and a redemptive God would be a pointless exercise; where the semantics of Hope & Grace would be outside their experience, unless… unless some one gave meaning to those semantics. Seeing the ICAN commitment to do just that filled me with a new hope. There will always be places like under that bridge around the world barricading out the very air of freedom and Hope. And their will always, I hope… be enough people charged to set them free.

http://webarchive.cms-uk.org/exodus/action.htm

THE PROBLEM OF POVERTY, Islamabad (Autumn 06)

Tent City & ICAN

We were sitting in the ICAN head quarters, as the ICAN Director described the nature and challenges of the Islamabad drug culture. Living in a hopeless ecology of abject poverty and impregnable socio-economic challenges, substance abuse seem an entirely obvious form of escapism. Having seen the conditions of the busthi’s and heard the many stories of despair and dejection, I wasn’t surprised that many poor Christian slum dwellers give up and attempt to escape this life of incarceration. When we lose Hope, Sanity and grounded Senses are no blessing. The drug problems in Joondalup and other aboriginal ghettoes in the outskirts of Perth (Western Australia) came back to me. Places, faces, and national borders change, but the stories of hopelessness & misery seem to compose a global chorus. The problems of poverty, dismal living conditions, tangles of socio economic, health, justice other humanitarian issues seem to have no solutions. It seemed fruitless to even attempt to fight this black death of despair, and I couldn’t begin to understand how these struggling missionaries kept going. All I wanted to do was escape to my cosy corner of the world and forget all I had seen and heard, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what most of us living in relative comfort would want to do. Empathy costs too much.

On our 1^st expedition to a drug spot, empathy was the last thing on my mind. As Carol embraced prostitutes and addicts I cowered behind the gallant human fortress that Ben & the Driver/Guard afforded. My already exhausted gagging reflex (because we have all been throwing up a great deal by this time) was working overtime; the rank smells and approaching mob nauseated and terrified me. ‘I wouldn’t survive a day out here’, I confessed to Carol as we struggled into the safety of the air-conditioned car, to escape the mob of beggars that had engulfed us. ‘You will!!’ She said confidently, ‘when the time comes you will.’ (And I sincerely no such time will ever be,, that’s one calling I would rather sit out). On our way home I wondered about the resilience of these ageing missionaries. They were hardly at the prime of their lives and yet they fought this famine of hope and compassion like a young tigress. I envied her immunity to despair and misery, and watched in wonderment as she (and other missionaries we met like her) fought on despite the odds; not by preaching the gospels but by living them. Politicians, Philanthropists, Academics, and Economists all stood around and shook their heads in despair at the problem of poverty, and these fragile old women were busy changing lives one at a time.

Please take a moment of your time to click on the link below and in one click take a step towards change. Indomitable challenges are faced and resolved successfully only when enough people intervene and care.

http://www.makepovertyhistory.org/

Make poverty History Campaign

'THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE PATHANS’, North West Frontier Province, Pakistan (Sep 06)

We had all (almost all) been eager to visit Khyber Pass. The ancient gateway between civilisations had an exiting and adventurous attraction. But between the contemporary regional political climate, and Pakistani, British & CMS risk guidelines, it was not meant to be. (Even though we debated long and late into to the night to defy risk assessment policy). So we had to be satisfied driving through the FATA (Federally Administered Tribal Areas) Pathan Valley on the way to Bannu, and admire the barren beauty of the arid deserts we passed. The FATA no-mans land inhabited by the Pathans, the fierce Pushtu speaking hill tribes who in their day had defeated the armies of Alexander the Great among others, was famous for its Opium smuggling, arms dealing & kidnappings just to put our minds at rest. Despite cartographic claims that it is within Pakistani National borders (On the map, it is a part of Pakistan), the Pakistani government has never really controlled it. The Pathan tribal chiefs run everything. The government plays complex games of bribery, threat and divide-and-rule with those chiefs to maintain its nominal authority. In the heart of Taliban country where Bin laden was rumoured to be hidden, photography wasn’t permitted and for once we didn’t dare to override common sense and risk assessment protocol.

As we drove through the heart of Bannu, we noticed that Sharia culture was firmly established, as women glided in traditional Burkas and the explosive heat frissoned off the multicoloured afghani styled caravan/lorries. Mules and horses panted through the dust and the heat, and we gratefully collapsed into the air conditioned comfort of the uncharacteristically luxurious lodgings. The diocesan accommodation provided by the Bannu Parish was in a compound that was adjunct to the Pennel (founded by the great adventurer missionary of the last century Dr. Theodore Pennel) School & the Bannu mission hospital. The Christian compound was a retreat from the veiled outside world, and had been one of the places that were attacked during the Dutch cartoon controversy. After spending some time with the Bannu youth group we attended a busthi church that welcomed us with garlands of roses and jasmine (a tradition of hospitality that was practiced everywhere we went) after sharing a communion service in Pushtu with us. Then we spent some time visiting the little beehive of slums that housed the Christian population of the city. We had almost grown accustomed to the tragic stories and abysmal living conditions after having seen the state of abject poverty of the many slums in Peshawar. The extreme conditions of our encounters as well as our own living conditions (which was still luxurious in comparison) had left us teetering in a surreal world of desperate survival as impotent observers. Life was fragile and uncertain here, but weary of seeing and hearing bleak stories of misery, poverty and tragedy we were settling into an uncomfortable tolerance of this hopeless ecology.

When we got back to the air conditioned comfort of our flat in the sweltering night, Murphy’s Law had been at work again, and the team had, each individually, more complications to deal with. If it was a battlefield we were on, we were losing and we weren’t even sure what we were fighting, but the carnage was evident. I had to make a difficult decision to leave the mission, ahead of the team, to get back to Liverpool to resolve some problems with my PHD progress review. Exhausted, discontent, diarrhoea weakened, and nauseas (as a side effect to our daily malaria tablets) we staggered into our rooms to await a turn for the shower. Since Ben was taking forever to knock on my door to let me know he had finished, I tottered into the kitchen to retake my malaria tablets (I had thrown up the last batch) when I heard a loud rumbling noise and what sounded like distressed screaming from the boys. Since boys will be boys, (a generally easily excitable gender) I didn’t really take too much notice. But as the rumbling was reaching an explosive crescendo I poked my head round to see what was going on, to be enveloped in a bear hug by Malcolm and Ben clearly distressed and relieved to see me. Since physical contact was a-cultural here, group hugs had been left behind in Liverpool; so I was mystified by their distress.

The bedrooms (connected to that bathroom) meanwhile were filling with steam (that was seeping from the firmly closed bathroom door) and the rumbling now (that I was nearer the source) was ear splitting. Eventually it came to light that Ben had knocked on my door and heard me go into the shower only to hear the steam explosion. Judging by the melted remains of my toiletries I wouldn’t have survived if I had been in their. Since I arrived on the scene post-event I wasn’t particularly upset or fearful and didn’t understand why people continued to be distressed. After everyone had gone to bed (except Ruth who insisted I used her bathroom and was trying to convince me not to sleep alone in my bedroom) I finally went for my shower and was violently sick in the sink, purging the discomfort and hysteria of the day (along with the bitter malaria tablets).

There was something about the dark empty desert that night, which kept me awake deep into the oppressive night and overwhelmed my puny attempts to count sheep. Life was fragile everywhere; whether starkly obvious as in this turbulent valley of the Pathans, or cleverly disguised in the comforts of post-modern western society. Survival was important, but our journey in time and space should be more than that. Life was about (if popular culture was anything to go by) Love, Hope & Purpose (or as the Gospel prioritises Faith, Hope & Love); necessarily interdependent elements that breed other ingredients such as joy and contentment. I was beginning to see that there was something in that. If we felt impotent and didn’t see how we could really make a difference to these cesspools of suffering, we could at least offer a pinch of these ingredients of rejuvenation & life.

http://www.afghanwelfare.org/prod02.htm

http://www.economist.com/displayStory.cfm?story_id=5636190

http://wikitravel.org/en/Peshawar

http://www.khyber.org/publications/016-020/colonialencounter.shtml

http://www.pakistanlink.com/sah/04-07-2000.html

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