Displaced Misery

Newspaper articles, prime-time stories, and movies all focus on the drug-related violence taking place in Colombia. A cocaine drop-off was intercepted by the Coast Guard in Miami. More kidnapped victims were released after spending six years chained to a tree in the jungle whittling rosaries out of seeds. Obama's administration applauds Plan Colombia's success at fumigating 100,000 hectares of coca fields along the border with Ecuador in 2008 (which was less than the 120,000 hectares of new fields planted during the same year). Does it ever seem strange that the people at the forefront of the information about Colombia involves paramilitary, guerrillas, and government officials? What about all the other (innocent) people involved?

The majority of Colombians have probably never even seen drugs before, let alone become involved in them in some way. But they do know that foreigners from the US and Europe consume large amounts of the cocaine and marijuana that feeds the violence affecting their country. It isn't the fault of Colombians that drugs are addicting and white people can afford them. Yet they still suffer the consequences of the growing demand for such stimulants.

A hidden and very serious effect of the narco-trafficking and resulting drug wars is the second-largest population of internally displaced peoples IN THE WORLD. Sudan, with over 5 million internally displaced people (IDPs) is first, IDPs making up 14% of the overall population. Colombia has around 3.5 million IDPs, constituting 7.8% of the population of the country and 1.5 times the population of Medellin. People have fled from over more that 90% of Colombian municipalities, either in response to or in anticipation of violence targeted against them by armed groups. But when you think of the Lost Boys and UN refugee camps set up for displaced Sudanese, you also think of some schools, clinics, and services dedicated to people fleeing violence. It makes them a much easier group to count, access, and to whom international organizations can administer aid. In Colombia, displaced families flee to the large cities, other rural areas, and sometimes across international borders into Venezuela or Ecuador but in general are so dispersed throughout the country that it is impossible to keep track of them all.

As the second-largest city in Colombia, Medellin hosts over 110,000 displaced people. They come mainly from the nearby district of Choco, are disproportionately Afro-Colombian, arrive without anywhere to stay and without knowing anyone, are unaccustomed to city life, highly uneducated, and more likely to end up living on the streets than anywhere else. Because of the intrinsic complications of secretive groups inflicting violence on civilians, it is too confusing to try to figure out whether the paramilitary or guerrillas are the primary cause of displacement, but at this point there are too many problems to undertake with this population that pointing fingers is the least of any one's worries.

When IDPs arrive in the city, they are encouraged to register their situation with UAO, an over-worked sector of the government set up to aid displaced people. However, because many people have been horrifically threatened and fear being discovered in their new location by entering their name on a national list, they do not register for the services of which they are in dire need. This serves as a problem because the majority of them aren't even entered in the national SISBEN registry and effectively invisible as far as the state is concerned--they do not exist. However, everyone, unregistered as it may be, are referred to one of four 'albergues', or shelters set up by private organizations, where they live while trying to acclimate to Medellin, find work, and contemplate their dire future.

Like in every other place in the world, women carry the burden of inflicted violence. One in every three displaced Colombian girls has a baby before she reaches 20 years of age, and one in five displaced women will be raped during their lifetime. What happens to these babies and what are the government or other entities doing about this huge problem? As a researcher, I have undertaken this difficult question but have yet to come up with any definitive answers. What I have learned so far has been through working one to two days at one of the shelters that can house up to 80 displaced people for a maximum of 3 months.

Most of the people living there are single mothers with anywhere from 3 to 8 children, although some come with spouses in complete family units or as a couple having left children behind. The environment is of idle fear, board children, and a sadness so palpable that every time I breathe I feel like I could drown in each person's sad story.

Rather than getting caught up in the past, I try to help the adults focus on their future by offering literacy classes. Most women haven't received an education past 1st grade; their children are better than them at arithmetic and spelling. I also try to the best of my foreign knowledge of the Colombian system try to research technical training programs available to them, and give classes on the correct way to dress and act when approaching a fast food restaurant or vendor of cell phone visits asking for work. Despite my best efforts, they seem so lost in their hopelessness that very few have responded with any action.

Sometimes I find myself wishing that I could only work with the children--at least they apply what I teach them during art classes and singing games and have more hope for their futures. But I know that several other people come to play, wooed by their sly smiles and ever hug-ready arms, leaving the adults abandoned and feeling even more despaired. In return for this work, they are also more willing when I ask if I can interview them for my research.

My project focuses on the experience of pregnant women during displacement. This involves how their lack of permanent home affects access to maternal services, what effect displacement has on family dynamics, and their worries about bringing a new child into such a difficult situation. It is heartbreaking to listen to a 22-year old girl younger than myself explain how she is pregnant with her 4th child fathered by a man who was drafted by the guerrillas and she might never see again. The other children all have different fathers and are living with her mother. She had her first sexual encounter at age 11 with a man who was 30, then pregnant by age 12 from a different partner. When I asked her why she doesn't use any sort of family planning she said she got pregnant again so she could be sterilized by PROFAMILIA, the national branch of Planned Parenthood, because they won't perform the procedure on anyone with under 4 children. Luckily, that same PROFAMILIA offers excellent, *free* maternal services to displaced women and so the actual pregnancy should result healthily for mom and baby alike. But what happens after the child is born, she moves out of the shelter, and again has no future?

I am trying to learn from my informants what difficulties displaced women face in Colombia in order to internationally make people aware of this issue that otherwise is undetected on the radar of human rights and health organizations. I wish that I could come up with some sort of solution, but the main problem that needs attention is education--the solution for many of the world's suffering people. As one foreigner I cannot override an entire system, but can elucidate the experience of IDP women by sharing it here and hopefully publishing a book on my findings after I complete my research term. Please interact with my postings to help me discuss and expand my research in forums other than those available to me in Colombia, and would appreciate any feedback readers might have.

Ciclovia Sundays

Running, biking, rollerskating, rollerblading, patinando, paseando, strolling, strutting, scooting, swishing. On Sundays between 7am and 2pm, Medellin brings out its best as over 37.000 people get outdoors to enjoy 29 km of streets-turned-pedestrian runways. Luckily the route starts right outside my front gate, and I can join the troops on the large loop around the stadium. Entire families will come out while young children wobble on training wheels while parents tug along a dog or grandma. Hairy men by themselves will sweat more liquid than I drink in a week as they slowly jog by. Young couples will never let go of the other's hand as they talk and stroll along. Each week presents new obstacles as I run at my own speed; avoiding older women learning how to ride a bike, kids in speedos running across the track to swimming lessons, puppies on the loose, sunglasses vendors, and your usual oblivious children. After anyone finishes their exercise, they will slump into plastic chairs around the fruit vendors and munch on a yellow hunk of pineapple or scoop out their salpicon (fruit salad with ice cream on top), drinking fresh-squeezed oj. Ahhhhh. The pleasures of living in the tropics.

Despite the city's horrible pollution, I am impressed with the local/national health-promotion programs in Medellin. The institute of sports and recreation, INDER, organizes lots of events to get the population out of their apartment blocks and moving around. Other countries could learn about disease prevention from the ciclovia, mass aerobics classes they offer throughout the mornings and evenings in different parks, sports clubs, portable gymnastics classes for children, etc. etc. It seems like everyone does some sort of exercise at least once a week, no matter how old or young or in shape or lazy. I guess the wonderful weather here supports outdoor activity, but it is great to live in a place that encourages physical activity.

Another preventative aspect of the country is that all (national) health insurance companies are required by law to offer a certain number of recreational locations throughout the country. Members pay a ridiculously low entrance fee such as 1.000 pesos, and non-members pay a slightly higher but still economical price. This includes water parks (think water slides and massive pools), nature parks with camping and boating, endless tennis courts or soccer fields, and perfect picnic destinations. It means that if a family is traveling anywhere in the country, they have affordable access to the outdoors. No wonder why there are so few overweight, unhappy people in this country. The majority of Colombians exercise!

Ambassadorial Duties

As a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, I am required to participate in my host Rotary club (Club Rotario Medellin), make 10-15 presentations throughout my district to other clubs and any other group of people who would be interested, partake in Rotary events happening throughout the city, teach people about Rotary and my scholarship, and spread 'peace and goodwill' throughout Colombia. All of these activities require a large amount of self-motivation and confidence since I frequently have to walk into a room of the wealthiest, most influential, and intelligent people in Medellin inspiring them to continue putting 'service above self'. For those of you who knew me before I went to Italy on the Rotary Youth Exchange, I could barely look my relatives in the eye and have a normal conversation I was so shy. Although remnants of that anti-social girl still poke through my current personality, constantly representing my sponsor Rotary District 5300 and my entire country has been a great exercise at not only being comfortable with but actually enjoying public attention.

One of the most helpful factors is the result of the energy I invested during my first months here meeting as many Rotarians as possible. It means that whenever I attend the meeting of a new club to make a presentation I am greeted by familiar faces who are always friendly and supportive. Moving to a foreign country on one's own could be a lonely experience, but Colombians and specifically Colombian Rotarians are some of the most welcoming people I have ever met and have never once felt excluded.

My presentations usually consist of a brief introduction to where I come from (Encinitas/Southern California), my family, my sponsor club, and then I explain my experience with Rotary through being a member of Interact in high school and going on an exchange to Milan. I then move into how I developed an interest in public health, starting with working in the Peruvian Amazon with an indigenous community, conducting diabetes research at the LA Free Clinic, and interning at The Carter Center. I emphasize the efficacy of projects with simple solutions such as filtering water with a cloth in Africa to prevent Guinea Worm, and how while internationally Rotary is one of the most successful organizations in this sense, local clubs should use similar tactics when developing community projects. Usually my presentation ends with thunderous applause and Rotarians coming up to me with business cards offering me access to the country club, a tourist agency to plan my next trip, visits to prisons, a weekend getaway to a finca, among other random opportunities. Rotarians help me keep a fairly busy schedule, to say the least.

Two weekends ago I participated in a seminar given by the district governor-elect and her club on the district's goals for the upcoming Rotary year (starting July 1), and it was more fun for me to float around between clumps of Rotarians visiting with people from all over the city than it is for me to go out to a discotec with young paisas. The minimum age to become a Rotarian is 30, but the average age of my host club is about 72 and most other Rotarians I know are around my parent's age, meaning that the people who I hang out with most in Colombia are double, triple my years. I find that they always teach me something new about Colombian culture, engage me in interesting conversations about politics or globalization, and are interested to hear about my opinions of the country.
Of course the Rotaract (18-30) and Interact (high school age) clubs help keep me up-to-date with the latest trends among Colombian youth. Last Saturday I worked with the Rotaract Club of El Poblado to organize a blood drive in the center. We thought that the location, at the base of the most important financial building and near a shopping mall, would be a difficult place to attract the 40 people we hoped would donate because of the fast-moving pedestrian traffic all around, but were proved wrong. As I stood outside handing out pamphlets and trying to entice people towards the gurneys and needles, I was surprised at how many people not only were aware of the benefits of donating blood but routinely offered up their veins. Compared to the blood donation culture of which I am aware in the US, Colombians are extremely well-educated on the difference it makes. By the time I left for lunch at noon, our slogan "Give blood, give life" had yielded us a line of people waiting to be attended by the nurses.

I have also enjoyed sharing the Rotary culture here in Medellin with my many visitors. My grandma and her new husband, farmer friend MK, and boyfriend James have all attended a meeting with me and been wooed by the gumptious old Rotarians over typical food and interesting presentations from outside speakers. As an ambassador, I feel like I am successfully accomplishing the task of serving as a liaison between US and Colombian culture, creating opportunities outside of myself for everyone to participate in cross-cultural experiences. If only I could be an Ambassadorial Scholar forever...

Living my own Short Story

In 'Cien Años de Soledad' (One Hundred Years of Solitude), written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and that takes place in a mythical Colombia, the handsome, rough character Maruicio Babilonia is constantly surrounded by yellow butterflies. A symbol for love, they flutter around Macondo even after his death when someone is reminded of his effect on the endless family line the novel follows.

When I take the eleven flights up to my apartment, large, black moths the size of my open hand nudged into the corner of the stairwell often startle my ascend home. I worry that the same persistance of such a symbolic creature might present some ominous augury. Although not superstitious, if I were to ever write a fictitious autobiography the character charading as myself would be pursued by the same dark creatures.

Lifting. Twisting. Pushing. Jumping. Resist.

Capoeira.

After an impromptu invitation one night, I am addicted. Twice a week I throw on my exercise clothes, trot the two blocks to the athletic compound near my house, run around the stadium a few times, then duck into class. The teacher is a chico my own age who works in a circus. The students make up the most multi-national crowd I have seen in Colombia: estadounidense, four Germans, Korean, and Swiss. And despite years of learning how to play and challenge my body through Karate, Gymnastics, and Yoga, each new activity combines my knowledge into practice and leaves me sore until the next session. I love hanging out upside-down, watching the masters twirl in the air effortlessly, and stading around in the roda clapping to the beat of two instruments. It's the perfect way to work off the stress of a long day. Capoeira offers an social, inexpensive, healthy alternative to going out for a drink at a bar with friens. And it makes me want to go to Brazil.

Move over boyfriends, it's Valentine's Day in Colombia!

It's that time of year: romantic colors spice up dreary winter grays, cupid lurks along the ceilings, chocolate invades every store (although I can't complain), and 'love is in the air;' sigh... Although I commonly shirk the consumer-driven celebration of Valentine's Day, this February finds me embracing at least one of the traditions.

I cannot count how many people, throughout my dating history or otherwise known, of whom I have warned the perils of buying imported roses. Who has seen 'Maria Full of Grace? Don't you realize that 16-year old pregnant girls work in the greenhouses cutting off thorns all day for bosses who won't let them take five minutes to go to the bathroom? Think of all the pesticides to which they are exposed, not to mention the exorbitant amount of refrigeration and fuel used to transport bundles of flowers that arrive at your local grocery store without a bruise! How could you support such nonsense?!?

But this year is different. Colombia just so happens to be the world's largest exporter of flowers. Which means that pretty much every store, household, restaurant, and roadside corner is filled with large sprays of birds of paradise, lilies, azaleas, orchids, oh I could go on forever. Everything that is not perfect enough to send to pining girlfriends in the US gets sold here in Medellin, at a ridiculously cheap price. Although those same pregnant girls are picking the flowers sold locally, at least I don't have to pay for the consumption of fossil fuels and import taxes. My guilt has abated and I succumb.

MK and I decided that since we will not be able to spend Valentine's Day with our respective boyfriends, why not treat ourselves to a bit of color around the apartment? So this morning we woke up at 6am, hopped into a taxi and brushed through the drizzly streets (rare on a Medellin morning) to the famous 'Plaza de Florez.' Although not quite the magnificent selection I have seen in the past, we were able to find a dozen of magenta roses, blushing pink lilies, several stalks of my favorite heliconia, and these weird conical flowers called 'maracas' for $5. If I owned more vases large enough to fit the 3-foot bouquets, I might have bought enough floral decadence to create my own personal botanical garden!

Although not much can dampen my flower-high spirits, I am somewhat disappointed that despite the fact that Colombia also grows and exports a sinful amount of chocolate, Nacional de Chocolate, the main company making edible chocolate (they usually drink it for breakfast) has a monopoly over the entire industry. I guess their candy bars aren't that good anyway, and instead of gaining weight this V-Day I can satiate my senses with the smell of guilt-free roses next to my bedside...

You gain some, you lose some

I have always been weary of changes I cannot control. Who isn't? But like most people, I acknowledge change as a necessary part of life so accept it with more than a hint of remorse. So I knew that a new year, new semester, and new schedule were bound to reorganize my Colombian existence, bringing with them a flurry of unexpected social adjustments.

In the past month, two of my best paisa friends have left Colombia to study in Europe. One is off to London on an year-long English adventure, the other to Holland pursuing graduate research in mechanical engineering unavailable in Colombian universities. They were the people I called at night after a long day, the friends who invited me to interesting cultural events of which I was never aware, corrected my Spanish, and gave me the best hugs when I was missing home. I am so happy that they have the opportunity to expand their educations abroad--a luxury most Colombians dream about their entire lives but never have the visa to finalize, but miss the way their friendships made me feel at home in Medellin. Because the majority of the people I know are traversing their "odyssey years," I consider myself a pro at saying "see you later" to friends with whom I am required to make a huge effort to reunite with in person. Though just because I am accustomed to such goodbyes does not mean that they are ever easy.

Luckily, life is a balancing act and as soon as Medellin (and me with it) lost Carlos Angel and Esteban we gained two equally worthy friends. The first is a paisa who I met in Atlanta right before I moved away. He worked with CNN Movies for a semester, spending several months in LA...meaning that we have both lived a significant amount of time in the same cities. Just knowing that he is back in Medellin sends me into fits of nostalgia for a southern accent and Hollywood lights. Second is my dear friend MK, with whom I interned at The Carter Center. She is using her vacation from sustainable farming to traipse around Colombia for 10 weeks studying Spanish and posting on her blog what she learns about local food production. Together with her host mother, we have spent a weekend at a finca battling dragons in guava groves (along with an eight-year old friend), baked a GF rhubarb and mora streusal, and attended the first performance of the Medellin Filharmonic's season. It is wonderful to have a good friend around who understands my sense of humor and asks challenging questions about Spanish syntax while teaching me new phrases she learns in class.

No matter what quantity of friends surround me each day, I am constantly reminded how lucky I am to know so many amazing people all over the world.