Freedom of Opinion (part two)

The giver of blows forgets,
the bearer of the scar remembers.
- Haitian Proverb

When Rasta and I got back to the American Residence, there was tension in the air. The parking lot was full of security people shuffling around nervously, glaring angry eyes that I avoided. Falcon, the chief, had appeared on the scene. His face was tight. We looked at each other in silence. He was doing his job and it was none of my business. What had taken place while we were gone? The party had cooled down but the guests seemed to be at ease. No sign of an attack or danger. Mother and I left soon thereafter. Rasta's path and mine never crossed again. This is not unusual in my life. I've had countless momentary friends, encounters that last a day, a few hours or minutes. They're meaningful nonethelesss, and I cherish every one.

The next day, Falcon told my mother everything. She confronted me after lunch.
"What did you do with him out there?" she asked in a tone that almost made me feel bad.
"We had the best conversation ever!" I told her enthusiastically.
"Did you have to leave? It caused a lot of upset. There was a huge drama."
I was astounded. "Why on earth would it be a problem? This is a free country."
My mother sighed. "Because a black man leaving with a white woman is not seen well by some people."

It turns out that smoking wasn't the worst thing that we could have done. In the dirty racist minds of some men, us having sex was the most wretched thing imaginable. Luckily, Falcon had been able to mitigate the situation.

I guess no one is immune to prejudice. The American Ambassador was a gay man and very likeable. We loved him. But someone decided to gender shame him by spraying hate graffiti on the Embassy walls downtown. I asked my mother why someone would do such a thing. "A political statement," she replied in her customary cool, detached, rational and compassionate diplomatic way. She meant "political smear".

What did I know anyway? I was nothing more than a philosopher doing what philosophers like to do: tackle the phenomena of the world in discourse head on, leaving room for the unknown but unafraid of going there. Diplomats are kind of like that. Except, they must be selective in their expression and often keep their true heart to themselves. Philosophers are free. Socrates, Ancient Greek philosophical legend, clearly undertood this. He drank the poison put before him and chose death, rather than to be restricted in his Meinungsfreiheit (freedom of opinion). Of course, freedom of opinion is a double-edged sword. Bigots exercise it, too. However, Socrates, unlike many of us, had carefully crafted, through humble and consistent efforts, an authentic and compassionate opinion. He created an art of perceiving and made philosphy. On the path to enlightenment, bigotry is dispensible and love of all inevitable. No one can call themself a philosopher who is a bigot.

The last time I saw Falcon was in Monterrey, Mexico, thanks to a nice coincidence. He was transferred there as Consul General for the U.S. I moved there to pursue a master's degree in the city where my mother had studied, where half of my Mexican family resides. First, I met with him at the Consulate when I went to get my laser visa at his office. About a year later, I'd aborted my master's abruptly half-way. Mexico was a tough no-bullshit teacher and I'd gotten myself into some serious trouble. That piece of humble pie still sits in my throat almost 20 years later.

Before leaving Mexico for good, Falcon and I had lunch one last time. Steaks and red wine. He was already at the table when I walked in encircled by a frantic, bruised and nervous aura. He stood up to greet me.
"You seem different," he remarked as I sat down. "What happened to you?"
Of course, he'd pick up on it. A man of his experience, profession and training. He wasn't the Falcon for no reason.
After staring into his eyes for what felt like an eternity, I decided to be, at least, as blunt as I'd always been with him. I mustered up the courage to tell him the details of my most recent odyssey. That fatalistic opinion I'd offered to him back in Haiti, that he didn't like, had been a manifestation of my undoing. I had no idea at the time. Falcon was an agent of free will with the balls to make difficult choices. Now, I had become one, too.

It was just the two of us in the elevated restaurant room sitting at a round table clothed in white with a view of the mountains. Black and white servers holding water, napkins and other things, surrounded and occasionally approached us. When I finished talking, I was a dam of held-back tears. He told me that he had been in a similar situation, which was of some consolation. Our paths never crossed again. But he flies through my memories and I hold him dearly in my heart.

I went back to Haiti to live with my parents and figure out my next steps. It sucks to fail. But life goes on as new friendships, experiences and adventures unfold. A philosopher's work is never done.

Freedom of Opinion (part one)

"In the West we cling to the past like limpets. In Haiti the present is the axis of all life. As in Africa, past and future are but distant measures of the present, and memories are as meaningless as promises."
- Wade Davis (1985), The Serpent and the Rainbow

Mother, as the Mexican Ambassador, was invited to a party honoring one of Haiti's leading thinkers, a renowned intellectual, writer, historian, professor and activist, at the US-Ambassador's Residence. In the world of diplomacy, an ambassador's residence functions as a home as well as a private public place for international relations. I was Mother's plus one. The Ambassador was a kind host who threw great parties. So did the French. So did Mexico. Haitian parties were the best.

The official driver, a local Haitian man in his seventies who had worked for the Mexican Embassy for decades, took us there. The parking lot was large enough to fit a lot of security personnel (military), their many vehicles, as well as the cars of guests and their drivers. Most of the foreign cars were near-too-big for the small half-island roads. It made no sense to me that the United Nations private taxis were so monumental. Shouldn't the MINUSTAH (MIssion des Nations Unies pour la STAbilizacion en Haiti) of all players be sensitive to the country's geography? Well, the Mexican SUV was jut as big. I know Germain was proud of the red-wine-colored carrosserie. He took meticulous care of it. He drove like the devil to get us out of danger when violence broke out in downtown Port-au-Prince. Shots being fired around us, he slammed on the gas while I crouched in the back between the seats, and he got us the hell outa there. Nobody knew the roads better than him.

One late night, I was driving around with one of my Haitian friends after partying until the clubs, bars and restaurants had all closed. The Petion-Ville Plaza was quiet but for the few brave souls who refused to go to bed, like my friend and me. So we'd roam around town or cruise around the hills just for fun. It must have been around 4 in the morning. Parked in the middle of the plaza was the Mexican limousine with Germain leaning gleefully out of the driver's window talking to someone. I smiled and waved at him though I'm not sure he saw me. In a few hours, hang-over fumes would hang in the air as my mom stepped in to be chauffeured to work. She'd complained about the strong smell of old alcohol to me before. Now I knew where it came from. With only a couple of hours of sleep in the car and blood-shot eyes, Germain would kindly step up to another work day. Neither Mother nor I ever said anything to him about it, nor to anyone else. We loved and respected him.

Petion-Ville, Ayiti in June

I had noticed at other events, that the local chauffeurs would hang out together and, maybe, chat while they waited. But they would not interact with the officials around them, except to follow up on an official request, of course.

Inside, the American Residence was charmingly candle-lit for the hot, humid and salty Haitian night. Like a cozy fire burning just right and welcoming you to relax. What is your high du jour, dear guest, this evening? Cocktails, maybe? Beer or wine? Champaigne and cigarettes? 

Mother and I shook many, many hands during the greeting rituals. Diplomats love to shake hands and have other inter-planetary gestures, signs of peace and truce and hope and negotiation. And signs of conflict, too. 

Once, at a Mexican Independence Day celebration at the first Official Mexican Residence before it burned down. . . I must say, Mexico isn't the only magical, witchy vibing country out there. Haiti's voodoo vibe, its fateful power is inescapable. Mother, of course, threw a huge party with food, drink, music and dancing. A live Haitian Latino band entertained and enchanted all guests. Only, the American and the Cuban Ambassadors were supposed to never face each other, as diplomatic relations between their respective countries had frozen. Mother invited both men, of course, both friends. And they came and had a good time like everyone else. But the powers that be, kept them apart. I'd been chatting with the Cuban statesman at one of the long tables draped in white cloth and decorated with themed lanterns that were lit by candles. I was trying to show off by smoking a cigar. It tasted horrible. Hovering gently above our end of the table, hung a white candle-lit paper dove. To my surprise, the American Ambassador approached and joined us at the table. He took a seat opposite and slightly diagonal from the Cuban Ambassador. Yes, everybody is friends in Mexico, I thought. But what would happen next? A face-off? Or better yet, reconciliation! How poetic, I mused. The white dove is a symbol of peace, after all. But suddenly, before an exchange between the two men could even take place, the paper dove above our heads started on fire. Flabbergasted, all of us stared up in a strange state of fascination. The dove literally burned to the ground as it flew down in flames to the middle of the table between the two men. Then it was splashed with random drinks. No phoenix rose from the wet ashes. Each man took a separate way. Indeed, diplomatic relations between the US and Cuba were not restored that night in Haitian Mexico.

At the American party, a rasta stood out to me immediately with his long dreadlocks and casual dress. He was the son of the guest of honor, the Haitian intellectual. We hit it off right away diving into a deep existential conversation. Both of us were the children of public players on the complex Haitian political stage. Both of us had been raised Christian but were seeking alternative lifestyles. I loved listening to Bob Marley, but knew nothing of Rastafari. He was kind enough to describe its meaning to me, and to tell me about the way he lived as a rasta. Unsurprisingly, his father and my mother were caught up in converstaion, too. 

After a while and a few drinks, we decided to take a break from the party and go out for a roll around the hills. If our parents noticed, they took a risk by letting us go, I realize now. Or, they genuinely thought nothing of it as well. Nobody forbade our exit nor said anything. We got into his old casual car and told security we'd be right back. They opened the gate for us. I noticed wierd looks, but played it cool like always. The first man in charge had become a good friend of our family. I called him Falcon. He was a former marine and had overseen tough missions in his lifetime. Now, he was a high-ranking diplomat. He collected military items. I gave him my Swiss Army knife from bootcamp, which was slighty bent at the tip. He gave me a red German fountain pen like I had used in school growing up. We talked a lot. I felt safe and a touch self-conscious. Falcon was the head of security. Surely everything would be fine.

Rasta and I took off, found a cool spot, and got caught up in the awesome conversation we had begun at the party. Time flies when you're having fun. We were solving all sorts of philosophical problems. I felt jealous that he had a normal car to drive freely, while I depended on a chauffeur. Eventually, I would resort to walking in order to affirm my independence. Most Haitians walk or use public transportation, busses called taptap, scooters, or the back of a truck. I tried it all. 

to be continued

Lost in Translation

 "The roots of physics, as of all Western science, are to be found in the first period of Greek philosophy, in the sixth centruy B.C., in a culture where science, philosophy and religion were not separated. The sages of the Milesian school in Ionia were not concerned with such distinctions. Their aim was to discover the essential nature, or real constitution, of things which they called "physis." The term "physics" is derived from this Greek word and meant therefore, originally, the endeavor of seeing the essential nature of things.

This, of course, is also the central aim of all mystics, and the philosophy of the Mileasian school did indeed have a strong mystical flavor. The Milesians were called "hylozoists" or "those who think matter is alive," by the later Greeks, because they saw no distinction between animate and inanimate, spirit and matter. In fact, they did not even have a word for matter, since they saw all form of existence as manifestations of the "physis," endowed with life and spirituality. Thus Thales declared all things to be full of gods and Anaximander saw the universe as a kind of organism which was supported by "pneuma," the cosmic breath, in the same way as the human body is supported by air."

- Fritjof Capra (1977), "The Tao of Physics"

SwissMexican in Haiti

The Argentinian Consul was a jolly fellow, raised Catholic, a self-proclaimed atheist and great conversationalist. I liked running into him at the diplomatic cocktails my mother took me to in Haiti's capital Port-au-Prince. I enjoyed having philosophical exchanges with him. He had a passion for languages and translated for fun. He agreed to translate into Spanish a few chapters from my favorite book, The Serpent and the Rainbow by Wade Davis.

The Consul seemed open-minded, intelligent and interesting. He was charming and twice as old. An unmarried, childless middle-aged man. I was a recently corrupted young twenty-something with nothing to lose. I loved to argue with stately gentlemen about the meaning of life, the human condition, and, sure why not, politics. I put out my point of view shamelessly. I thought the US-marines were the most stubborn interlocutors. They were also kind hosts with patriarcal protective impulses that pissed off the feminist in me. I never changed their mind on anything, and we had a good time.

The Consul asked my mother, who was the Mexican Ambassador, for permission to take me out. We agreed. I was excited to spend a friendly evening of fun conversation. He took me to a popular French restaurant owned by the parents of one of my friends. Petion-Ville, the elevated fancy end of town, was a teeny tiny world, which was experienced under a magnifying glass on the small Caribbean half-island nation.

The front door by the parking lot was locked for some reason. We stepped in through the patio entrance. I was delighted to see two of my friends ready to dine as well. I knew they were dating in "secret". We were seated at the table across from them. We didn't greet formally. No words were spoken. I mean, they weren't supposed to be seen like that together. In silence, we kindly aknowledged each other's presence. Who knows what they thought of my companion.

The rich, flavourful, refreshing and creamy delicious French Carribean food was to die for. I would have loved to eat there all the time if I could have. But I didn't return to the place again after that evening. You see, people don't want to frequent a public place and be caught with certain company. Like the cheating chief of mission with one of his many secretaries. Or the divorcee who felt ashamed to have a lover. Or the old friends who started having sex. Yes, Petion-Ville was like a magnifying glass and you had to watch out.

The conversation with the Consul, of course, quickly turned deeply philosophical. I trusted sincerely in the Atheist's ability to reason freely, detached from expectations. Just for fun, maybe. I imagined naively that deductive games would be as delightful to him as they were to me. Or, at least, that he might understand how they're played. His wit and humor had been palpable in our previous exchanges. Was it all just a facade? What was really beneath it all? What was his philosophical heart? I wondered.

Things began to get tense as I made critisizing remarks of the Catholic Church and shared my own personal Jesus. I was surprised. Hadn't he argued he was atheist? As the subject of God got slapped onto the table, the tables turned. "There is nothing." He insisted there was no force nor any other universal phenomenon omnipresent and omnipotent that flowed through everything for that matter. In fact, all matter was proof, as it was dead and not alive. He pulled physics and other science, as he understood it, out of the hat. "Let's call it energy, then." I insisted. What flows through everything, is in everything, and is "alive"? Particles are alive, atoms are alive. They move, don't they?

At some point he grabbed his head with both hands and ten tense fingers like he wanted to pull out his hair. He'd been getting louder and louder for a while. My friends at the table vis a vis looked at me strange, like "What is wrong with him?". Or, what is wrong with me for freaking out this poor man with diabolical notions? No, my friends knew well enough how I talked. 

The Consul used the word "devil" towards me, amongst other things. It didn't bother me, I'd been called that before. 

"Take this spoon, for example," I tried to explain to him visually, after having failed with other metaphors, so he might calm down. "It has energy. Thus, it exists..."

"Whaaaaaat!!!?" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "You're saying the spoon is aliiiiive?!!! That God is in the spooooooon???!!!!" Some people's heads began to turn uneasily. No one wanted to look.

"I'm saying that it, too, has energy, or whatever you want to call that which exists in everything in the universe. Look, from holding it in my hand it has become warm..."

His face was red, and he was shaking. I stayed cool and collected, in disbelief at his unfolding. Felt shock and awe all at once.

The Consul had an anger attack. He threw his napkin on the table and stood up so frantically that the chair almost flew into the patio window behind him. He got out of his seat cussing and cursing. My friends glanced at me desperately with big eyes. I silently shrugged as I turned my attention back to the Consul's disgruntled circus of public rage. He stomped off with big short-man steps to the front door leading to the parking lot.

The door was still locked. He danced around the empty entrance violently attempting to force the door nob open. To no avail. It all happened fast. He threw a fit like a toddler and almost kicked in the door. He made me think of Donald Duck's legendary tantrums, and I laughed inside. One or two heads turned ever so slighty. Most ignored him. Why would a diplomat behave in such a manner? Nothing to see here. Nobody knows anything about anything in this place anyway.

When the staff threatened to approach, he appeared to come to his senses. He realized that there was no way out the front. He had trapped himself in a dead end.

The Conscul decided to come back to the table and sit down. He stayed mad at me. There was no dessert. Awkward silence on the drive home. He dropped me off. I thanked him. We parted ways diplomatically. And never talked again. In the name of diplomacy, he would engage with my mother. But now he seemed to be afraid of me. I stayed at a distance. Didn't mean to upset him. Did my compassionate smile ever reach him?

Weeks later, I received the promised translations in an unaddressed envelope from my mother's hands. It touched my heart.