Essays

Standing for What I Believe
By Diana Somerville

For nearly two years, I’ve been standing with Women In Black, a weekly vigil for peace, justice and human rights. I remember years of joining anti-war demonstrations. I’ve marched, lit candles, chanted, sung, danced and clapped, shouted, carried placards and a huge paper mache’ puppet on a pole. To make things simple, I settled on an all-purpose protest flag – a picture of Earth as seen from space.

But this is the first time I’ve stood for what I believe in.

The turning point for me came just before the U.S. attacked Iraq. Millions of us took to the streets from London to Lisbon, from Sydney to Singapore in a massive peaceful protest of the impending war. I wept as I watched the images of one protest after another, proud to have been a part of such a clear global outpouring of anti-war sentiment. With a sort of hopeful certainty, I trusted that such worldwide unanimity would at least give the White House pause.

Then we attacked Iraq anyway. I felt the shock and awe in different way: Shocked at the ineffectiveness of all the skillfully organized protests. In awe at the stubborn indifference of the American war machine, at the breach between those wielding weapons and the people bleeding and dying in Baghdad.

The blank, mask-like faces of indifference strike a particular note of terror in my heart. I quail at this coldly murderous manifestation of fear; my mind goes blank as I contemplate trying to transform it.

I slowly realized that transforming that indifference is not my task. Mine, as Gandhi pointed out, is to be the change I want to see. And the change I want to see is Peace. But what does peace look like? How can an ordinary woman in everyday America embody peace?

Gathered with my women friends, we began to discuss the power of being for something, of standing for peace instead of marching against war. One inspiration was the powerful images of La Mujers, the women who stood silent in the streets of towns and villages around Chile, holding photographs of their sons and nephews, husbands and brothers who had been “disappeared.” That idea, that movement spread to women in Israel, in Palestine, in Ireland. Women stood quietly in public squares and plazas, dressed in black.

Exploring the history of Women In Black, it became clear that calling it an organization was mostly a linguistic convenience. Instead, these were women who spontaneously accompanied one another in grief, women who longed for peace. They simply trusted people to understand their grief and longing, to see their open hearts through their black garments.

And so our local Women In Black was born.

At first, some protested our wearing black: Too depressing, they said, too ominous. “Are you in mourning?” “You look so gloomy no one will want to join you.” As the negative comments increased, we questioned wearing black as well. A psychologist in our group observed, “The response that black evokes encourages one to look deeply within, fearlessly facing the shadow. This is the work that we must face. This is where we, as the human race, have mistaken our identity and have come to believe that we are unworthy, unlovable, unacceptable. Facing these shadows, we befriend ourselves.”

Some women dropped away, others saw people’s misgivings as a reflection of the power of our presence, of our ability to make people feel uncomfortable.

Our own physical comfort is another issue and some of the women who stand are in their 70s and 80s. As the winds of our first winter whipped around, I bought some black fleece and cut it into mufflers to protect us from the cutting winds. There’s no way to soften the pavement we stand on, so some of our elders bring a folding chair to sit on. Many Saturdays we compare notes on deciding on how many layers of clothing to wear. I now own an umbrella, winter and summer hats and black garments for all seasons, thanks to the local thrift shops.

We began by standing in silence, creating a public island of quiet while the cacophony around the war in Iraq increased. I treasured this way of rising above the increasingly divisive political discourse while also making a statement for positive change.

By simply standing and reflecting in silence and peace, only our inward lights shone outward; we confront every passerby with a striking image. It’s so powerful that a local photographer took picture of our vigil and transformed it into an art piece contrasteing our stark blackness with the lush natural beauty of the Olympic Peninsula depicted in a wall mural behind us.

Ruth, my psychologist friend, said, “I believe that what we are doing is assisting others to face their dark side, to feel their inner sorrow, and to know that you can face the shadow and stand in peace, stand in love, stand in unity.”

Maybe so. But for me, it’s the diversity I appreciate so deeply: Women In Black has no rules. You can be silent. Or not. Carry signs or pictures. Or not. Our only common belief is in the power of peace. We choose to offer flyers rather than carry signs. Sometimes our group is silently contemplative; other times we share experiences. Lately we’ve been waving the peace V sign as cars drive by, counting it a plus when someone responds in kind. Supportive honks and enthusiastic waves are big victories.

Globally, Women In Black have been nominated for the Nobel Peace Price, first by the Danish and Norwegian Parliaments and then by the American Friends Service Committee. Women In Black - Belgrade received the Millennium Peace Prize for Women in 1991 from the United Nations and International Alert, a global women's awareness program. All I know of them is that they all stood for peace.

Meanwhile in my little town, I love the freedom to choose how to respond as I take my stand for peace.

Redefining Potlatch
By Diana Somerville

Some three hundred townspeople filled the gym at the Lower Elwha Tribal Center. The occasion: a “thank you” dinner to honor those who had volunteered to assist when the small Tribe hosted the 2005 Canoe Paddle Journey, a multi-Tribe celebration that attracted more than five thousand visitors to their reservation on the Elwha River outside Port Angeles, Washington. Most of the townspeople sported tee shirts with the Tribal Paddle Journey logo on the front and “VOLUNTEER” across the back. These lime-green shirts had served as a sort of uniform and ID badge as we cooked, served food, and helped thousands of tribal members from as far away as Alaska who’d come to Port Angeles to launch a multi-stop canoe journey to reconnect with their cultural roots.

A week after the journey, I already felt “thanked:” By the tribal woman who’d hugged me, exclaiming, “We’re so glad you’re here” as I ladled out spaghetti sauce for some 3,000 dinner guests. By the smiles from the vendors in booths outside the big rented tent where the ceremonies or “protocols” took place. By the bountiful meals laid before us.

I, like other volunteers, had been lavishly feted at a special dinner before the journey and treated like a special guest every time I showed up at the Tribal Center for my day’s assignment. Warm smiles, great food and bottles of cold drinking water seemed to appear whenever needed.

Although feeling more than acknowledged for my little contributions, I decided to go to the “thank you” dinner to reconnect with some newly-familiar faces and to honor the Tribe for putting on the event. A bit of closure, bracketing a week of big events with get-togethers, might be nice, I mused.

I had no idea what a heart-and-mind-altering experience lay ahead.

Tribal Chairwoman Frances Charles began by thanking all of us gathered at the tribal center that evening. To make doubly sure everyone was included, the Tribe had ordered the huge dinner catered -- so the Tribe’s own hardworking employees could experience the Tribe’s gratitude as well.

Such a successful event could not have been created without everyone’s help, Frances stressed, introducing the troupe of tribal dancers who drummed, sang and danced as a gift to us. Then everyone lined up, elders first in the time-honored tradition, for a catered Mexican food banquet.

After the feast, all the volunteers were asked to come stand in front of the dining tables. Everyone was encircled by the Tribe, flashing faces of the singers and dancers whirling round and round, embracing every one of us in a gigantic hug, filling us with caring and gratitude and thanks and fellowship. Each face passing by, smiling or serious, touched me as I felt my heart begin to open in the same lovely way it opens in Sufi dancing –- part energy, part closeness, part intention.

We returned to our seats to watch as each volunteer group was again called up front: Those who’d cared for the Tribal elders; those who’d kept the grounds clean; those who’d helped with preparing and serving food during the week-long event. Tribal members presented every individual in every group with a red canvas bag with the Paddle Journey logo. Then they shared a song the Elwha people had been given by the Suquamish, a song linked to their ancient, recently uncovered village of Chi-whitsen, a song that hadn’t been sung for 180 years.

Songs of thanks and speeches of gratitude celebrated those who’d taken leadership roles. Especially hard-working volunteers were called to the front and ceremonially wrapped with the traditional gifts of blankets. More songs. More dances. Then young tribal members moved through the crowd handing out more gifts: Hats embroidered with the journey logo. Sun visors. Cushions. Necklaces. Kerchiefs. An embarrassment of riches, all presented with smiles and courtesy and thanks.

I felt everyone’s heart opened by the shared abundance and by the simple human joy born of giving and receiving. Our intangible contributions were being honored with a ritual hundreds, maybe even thousands of years old.

Coaxed by the drumming and dancing and celebrating, I opened up to re-evaluating my part of this exchange of energy. What I’d given had value, too; I’d contributed something intangible and irreplaceable: My personal energy, my time, my caring were gifts I’d thoughtlessly devalued. The gifting ritual filled me with an expansive joy, celebrating everyone’s contribution to an experience larger, richer and deeper than anything else I could have done with the hours I’d spent with the Tribe.

And the gifts kept pouring out to everyone: Backpacks. Beaded key chains. Water bottles. More necklaces. I felt the joyful sense of abundance shared, of the heartfelt gratitude from the Tribe.

As the drummers drummed and we all, tribal folks and townspeople, became one joyous, undulating circle dancing through time A continuous circle singing that a potlatch is about opening our hearts to the richness of the life we all share, about exchanging gifts to celebrate that abundance, a richness that has nothing to do with money but everything to do with living with joyful, open hearts.

Returning home, I remembered that the Europeans had prohibited potlatches, as well as tribal languages and drumming, Writer and word-lover, I decided to look up the definition of a potlatch. Hauling out my trusty Webster’s Third I read this definition: “A ceremonial fest or festival of the Indians of the northwest coast given for the display of wealth to validate or advance individual tribal position or social status and marked by the host’s lavish destruction of personal property and an ostentatious distribution of gifts that entails elaborate reciprocation.”

The disparity between my experience and the negative judgment in those words spun me into an emotional whirlwind. Disbelief and anger at seeing the Tribe’s intentions misconstrued; Sadness the distortion of a vibrant, nurturing cultural tradition. Then I felt a rising sense of glee -- from glimpsing the strength of their traditions, their perseverance, their courageous drumming and dancing in the face of it all -- and simple, deep gratitude for the chance to share their celebration.