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Blog Post:  Posted September 10, 2010, 7:26 am by Roger Burks

Standing her ground and springing back

Country: Ethiopia

Topics: Rural, Livelihoods, Hunger, Food/Nutrition, Economic Development, Agriculture

In many places around the world, drought withers lawns. In Ethiopia, drought withers lives.

"When I was young, I was beautiful," says 50-year-old Zesino Mohamed Shiro. "But years of drought and not having enough to eat makes you old."

I tell her that she's still very pretty. She scoots closer.

"I've had 10 children. Six of them are still living," she continues. It's a story that I will hear several more times today.

Zesino lives in the tiny village of Lakole, Ethiopia, a place where no cars come and the nearest market is three hours away on foot. Lakole — and hundreds of other villages in the country's easternmost reaches — has withered under unending waves of drought. And even when feeble crops survived to produce meagre grains, they were mostly stolen by swarms of birds.

But, even faced with such an overwhelming challenge, Zesino and her neighbors weren't about to give in. They're digging in and fighting to save the only place they've ever known as home.

Mercy Corps' RAIN programme is helping villages like Lakole improve their farmland — and their odds — through innovative agricultural techniques, erosion control, better livestock care and crop seeds that yield a better harvest, even in times of drought.

"Since Mercy Corps came here, we're protecting our farmland," Zesino says. "We've tackled the challenge, rehabilitating our fields, training us to vaccinate our livestock and planting forage for our animals.

"Even through the hard times, I've always been happy living here," she proudly states. "With help like this, we will soon turn this small village into a town."

That's one thing that drought hasn't withered in Lakole: the spirit of women like Zesino.

Blog Post:  Posted September 8, 2010, 7:58 pm by Roger Burks

What’s beyond Paradise

Country: Ethiopia

Topics: Citizen Involvement, Conflict & War, Displacement, Economic Development, Food/Nutrition, Hunger, Livelihoods, Marginalized Groups, Peaceful Change, Rural, Water/Sanitation

For the four days we were in Arbaminch — a southern Ethiopian city whose name means “Forty Springs” in the local language — we made our base at a local motel called Paradise Lodge. The moniker is pretty accurate: the city sits atop a hill overlooking lush jungle and two sparkling lakes. So, early in the morning and late at night, we were surrounded by all manner of backpackers and sightseers.

But for most of the day, we were well beyond that place, out in some of the region’s most rugged terrain and poorest villages.

Most of Mercy Corps’ work in Ethiopia’s Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Region centers on two particular woredas, or districts: Konso and Derashe. The region, which is home to more than 45 distinct ethnic groups, is as volatile as it is culturally rich. Disagreements between these ethnic groups have escalated into conflict in recent years, resulting in many deaths, villages burned, livestock taken and thousands of families displaced.

There are many reasons for these conflicts, but nothing looms as large as competition for natural resources. Poverty is absolute here: in a couple of the Konso villages, income per household is far below £60 per year. As a result, families must subsist on the meagre crops and livestock that they raise themselves.

And making those agricultural systems work isn’t easy: these areas are hit with frequent drought, large swaths are deforested and erosion is rampant. That puts good crop and grazing land at a particular premium, and pits herders and farmers squarely against each other in a struggle for not just resources, but survival.

Case in point: a village from one woreda had always led their livestock to nearby Lake Chamo to drink water and graze by the shoreline. But two years ago, the villagers from another woreda — farmers who didn’t want their croplands damaged by the cattle herds — blocked the path that the herders usually took to the lake. One side attacked and an especially bloody conflict ensued, in which dozens perished and hundreds lost their homes.

The combination of dwindling resources, contentious ethnic groups and different economic priorities may seem intractable — particularly in a place where villagers also compete for firewood and water. It seems like a disastrous recipe for more conflict, not less.

And yet the region is healing.

Through comprehensive, community-focused programmes, Mercy Corps is encouraging former enemies to meet, talk out their differences and propose solutions. They’re getting to the root causes of conflict — land and water rights — and letting us know the support that they need. We’re responding by building meeting halls, community health networks and clean water systems. We’re helping link both farmers and herders to local markets, where they can trade together and earn more money to sustain their households.

Because here, in one of the poorest yet most naturally stunning areas of Ethiopia, prosperity helps defuse conflict. Access helps defuse conflict. And, most of all, dialogue and understanding help defuse conflict.

Paradise seems an ideal more suited for tourism. But here in Konso and Derashe — where the views are just as spectacular and the people absolutely amazing — peace seems not only possible, but at hand.

Blog Post:  Posted September 7, 2010, 9:26 am by Roger Burks

The allure of arm hair

Country: Ethiopia

Some of the most important tools of my work as a Mercy Corps writer are curiosity, observation and conversation. But, sometimes, so much more can be communicated — and learned — by a simple gesture.

Probably the best thing about my job as is being able to travel to some of the world’s remotest places, see villages far off the well-worn path and encounter cultures that, for the most part, remain hidden. I love to sit in huts, examine household artifacts, try foods I could never have imagined and hear stories that might never have been told outside of the family.

I am fascinated by culture and always wanting to learn more about people. But what I rarely realize in my work is that the people I meet are often just as interested to find out things about me.

I don’t think I’m all that interesting. In fact, I try my best to move through the world unnoticed, more than content to make quiet discoveries.

But in some of the far-flung, tiny villages where assignments have taken me, I feel like some kind of magical creature. People crowd around and just look. Children approach with caution. Babies sometimes scream and flee in terror.

“They don’t often see white people in their lives,” said one of our colleagues from Mercy Corps Ethiopia. “Some of them have maybe never seen a white person in their lives. Except for television or movies.”

(And now I’m wondering, if I was to be portrayed in a film, what movie star would play me.)

So, in the midst of my travels here, I’ve come to expect — and appreciate — the looks with which people regard me. How near they want to get to me. That sudden movement inspires surprise. That nearly any silliness I perform, whether accidental or intentional, elicits gales of laughter that quickly cover the village.

But something altogether different happened yesterday at a traditional market near the small village of Gatto.

I think that markets are the best place to get a quick but sweeping sense of the culture you’re visiting. You can see and smell (and taste, if you’re brave) the food that they’re cooking. You can peruse the clothes and crafts being sold. All of the tools, household implements and artifacts are there on display.

That wasn’t the only thing on display, though.

As I moved through the crowd, I felt fingers and hands running over my arms and the back of my neck. It seemed at first like children eager to hold onto me, as sometimes happens in places I’ve visited. But then I noticed that everyone was doing it: kids, young women, men and old ladies. So I stopped to figure out just what was going on.

They were absolutely intrigued by my arm hair. They discussed it at length in their local language, gasped and giggled. Some even poked and traced my freckles.

I was feeling like a pet. Someone even handed me a cup of beans to eat.

Soon it was time to go, and the allure of arm hair only grew stronger as I was walking to the car. People darted up, gave me a stroke and ran back away. And then, as we drove off on our way to the next village and set of interviews, everyone stood there and waved.

My career is all about getting stories from places like this and telling them to folks like you. I wonder if, somewhere tonight, a child or old lady in a far-flung village is telling a story about how the white man’s arms felt.

Blog Post:  Posted September 6, 2010, 8:32 am by Roger Burks

What fell to Earth

Country: Ethiopia

I first felt the lure of Ethiopia in a theatre in Overland Park, Kansas in 1978. I was eight years old, sitting and watching the movie “Superman.”

Lex Luthor — the arch villain played by Gene Hackman — had found what he needed to finally best the Man of Steel: Kryptonite, fallen to Earth in a meteorite. And where had he tracked it down? Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital. It was the most exotic place I’d ever heard of, and I knew I had to go there.

I first felt the deep culture and world significance of Ethiopia through my father’s fascination with history and books sitting on the shelf in our home. He told and taught me about Emperor Haile Selassie and the country’s unique religious history that dated all the way back to King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. It seemed a place that made the past present like no other, and I knew that I wanted to explore it.

I first felt the heartbreaking need of Ethiopia when I was 14 and saw unforgettable images of hunger and famine everywhere: on the news, in magazines, even on MTV. I listened to Live Aid, but I still didn’t quite understand why there wasn’t enough food for all those thousands of people, especially when there seemed so much everywhere around me. It was a crisis unlike any I’ve ever seen, and the first time I gave money for international relief. That moment changed me and — now that I’m in Ethiopia — I wonder where my donation went.

It took 32 years from the time I first learned of Ethiopia until I ended up here. And now, as a writer, I feel fortunate to explore villages in some of the country’s most rugged and rural areas, where Mercy Corps is helping farmers grow more food, creating systems that supply clean water and teaching mothers ways to keep their families healthier.

Here I am, having passed through Addis Ababa, among the unique cultures and picturesque villages of Ethiopia’s southernmost reaches. And to think it all started, for a wide-eyed young boy from Kansas, with a glowing green rock fallen to Earth.

Blog Post:  Posted September 3, 2010, 2:54 pm by Roger Burks

VIDEO: Empowering our African staff to be storytellers

Wednesday was the last day of our writing and photography workshop in Kitgum, Uganda — and it was the day that we learned the most from each other.

Throughout the course of the day, which wound from early morning well into the night, we edited and presented the stories and photographs we'd collected in villages on Tuesday. As an editor, it was a tremendous but wonderfully welcomed challenged: I went over stories with all 22 participants, sometimes more than once. It was an opportunity to give them advice on their craft and learn about their process. The pieces they wrote were astoundingly original, with clear and unique narrative voices. Most of the participants took chances with the framing, focus and structure of their stories, which was amazing to see.

In the late afternoon, each participant stood in front of the whole group and read his or her story aloud, then we projected a slideshow of their best photographs. I loved watching the expressions on the faces of their colleagues (now friends) as they told their tales and revealed their images. There was such pride and support in that room.

On Thursday morning, it was time to leave Kitgum and head back down to Kampala — and, from there, back to their 10 home countries. I am now on Ethiopia on another field assignment. I know that this is only the beginning of the work I'll be doing with each of these 22 talented writers and photographers. I feel very fortunate to have taught and learned from them.

We will be presenting all of their stories and a selection of their photographs here on the website soon! In the meantime, here's a short video to further introduce you to just a few of these newly-empowered storytellers:

Blog Post:  Posted August 31, 2010, 11:03 am by Roger Burks

An African kilometer

Country: Uganda

In most parts of the world, a kilometre is shorter than a mile — but not in Africa. Here, a kilometre feels many miles long.

Maybe it has to do with the condition of the roads: in northern Uganda, you mostly find soft-packed clay roads that devolve into deep mud with any measure of rainfall. Maybe it has to do with road width, often so narrow that tall savanna grass and scrub brush scrape your truck on both sides as you careen by. Or maybe it’s the unpredictability of what will cross the road —chickens, cows and goats are everywhere.

Whatever it is, I’ll tell you this: when you see a sign that indicates seven kilometers (a little over four miles) to your destination, you don’t celebrate and say, “Wow, we’re close.” Instead, you ponder and worry about what might happen over those next few kilometers to slow you down or, indeed, keep you from reaching your destination entirely.

However, as with most anything in life, overcoming challenges has much to do with the attitude you bring. And so it was today: we were two groups of Mercy Corps staff trying to get to villages where our programmes are underway, so that we could interview and photograph beneficiaries for our storytelling workshop. The roads didn’t make it easy. Those African kilometers seemed longer than ever.

Case in point: on one group’s way out to the village of Odoko Mit today, it took two hours to go 40 kilometers. That’s about four miles an hour. I think maybe people can walk about that fast.

The other group’s bus got stuck in a morass of mud. But neither the mud nor sun nor long kilometers kept these workshop participants from action: they filed out of the bus with determination to get it back going again. All of a sudden, there were determined men and women from several African nations trying to dislodge several tons of metal from some of the stickiest mud in the world.

The mud won that round. But the participants had someplace to go and work to do, so they found and mounted motorcycles for the last few endless kilometers to the village. For some of them, it was their first time ever on a motorcycle. The smiles on their faces showed that neither the mud nor the road had defeated them.

And so maybe that’s one thing that those long African kilometers: fellowship. Teamwork. Building friendships. Because I know that, long after everyone returns to his or her home country, they’ll be talking not only how long it took to reach those villages, but how we laughed along the way and the work we did together once we got there.

Blog Post:  Posted August 30, 2010, 8:24 am by Roger Burks

Three days, 22 people, 10 countries and many untold stories

Country: Uganda

After a long day of traveling almost the entire length of Uganda — from the shores of Lake Victoria nearly all the way north to the Sudanese border — we arrived in the sweltering city of Kitgum last night. This is where, for the next three days, I am teaching a Mercy Corps-sponsored writing and photography workshop with my colleague Thatcher Cook.

The 22 workshop participants with whom we shared a bus on that upcountry ramble, on dusty roads through bustling towns and tiny villages, come from all different parts of Africa — 10 countries altogether. Two participants came from West Africa: Liberia and Niger. Another came all the way from Zimbabwe. The rest are from Mercy Corps offices in East Africa: Central African Republic, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Ethiopia, Kenya, Sudan, Somalia and Uganda. None of them are full-time writers or photographers; rather, they are programme officers or field staff who are out on the front lines of our projects every day. Most of them were born in the countries where they now work for Mercy Corps. All of them are deeply committed and connected to the work they're doing and the people they're helping.

So Thatcher and I are here to help empower them as storytellers, to give them practical and philosophical advice on how to take more compelling photos, conduct more in-depth interviews and write stories that connect the work they do — and the people they serve — to the wider world.

Over these three days, we will lecture in the classroom and take tough questions from very enthusiastic participants — in fact, in the writing session I taught this morning, I fielded a couple dozen questions that had me really thinking. We will travel to villages to interact with Mercy Corps programme beneficiaries, which will help participants hone their documentary field skills. They'll write stories from their notes and choose their best photographs to share with these newly-met colleagues. Then Thatcher and I will help them edit and polish that work.

And in the coming days, we'll share all of that work here, on this website: a portfolio from 22 participants who hail from all across Africa. I'm anxious to help them bring you their stories — both from our work together here in Uganda and when they return home to some of the world's most challenging and fascinating places.

I hope you'll come back soon to check it out.

Blog Post:  Posted August 28, 2010, 8:56 pm by Roger Burks

Moving all over the place

With Labour Day fast approaching, I’m sure many of us are wondering where our summers went. I know exactly where mine has been spent: all over the place.

This has been my family’s nomadic summer, and here’s how it started: with the help of very friendly neighbors in Orem, Utah, we packed all of our belongings into a 17-foot moving truck and headed eastward, me driving that gigantic thing while my wife and son followed in our car. We made it over the Rockies and onto the Great Plains, where we spent a week with my parents in Kansas. There, we unpacked most everything we owned into a smallish storage unit and turned in the moving truck – even though Kansas wasn’t the end of the line.

Leaving our 12-year-old cat with my parents, we packed up our little car as best we could and continued due east. We rolled across eight states before arriving in Baltimore, Maryland, where we’d be spending the next three and a half weeks for my wife to finish her Masters degree. And, after that, it got even more complicated: my wife and son headed south while I flew west. During a 15-hour stretch back in Kansas that included unloading the storage unit, loading the truck, reuniting with the cat and briefly visiting my parents, I was on the road yet again — on my way to Atlanta, Georgia to move into a house where we’d never been before.

That’s another thing about our nomadic summer: we sublet a row house in Baltimore and this bungalow in Atlanta sight unseen, except for a few pictures that those respective landladies sent us. We had no time to travel to either city beforehand, so we just had to hope that the photographs were fairly accurate when we walked through the door (they were).

This summer felt all kinds of crazy, but of course there was a goal to it all: we moved here because of a school for our son’s special needs. I am relieved that we were able to pull it off because, at some points along the way, I honestly didn’t know if we could. But we had three things working for us this summer: choice, opportunity and planning.

And that’s more than millions around the world have going for them.

Over the course of this nomadic summer, I’ve often thought about families — and entire communities — who’ve had to move under much more difficult circumstances, often at a moment’s notice. And I realize, as challenging as my family’s move might have been, there were two very important and fortunate facts:

1. Despite not knowing exactly what it would be like, I did know the precise address where we were going.
2. I had just about everything we owned in the back of those trucks — everything we needed to remake a home.

That’s very different than the reality faced by more than five million flood-displaced people in Pakistan, most of whom have no idea of when they’ll be able to return to their villages —or what they’ll find when they return.

It’s very different than what happened five years ago to thousands of families along the U.S. Gulf Coast as Hurricane Katrina neared.

It’s very different from what happened to Majok, a young Sudanese man who I sat next to on my plane flight yesterday from Washington, DC to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Like many of Sudan’s orphaned and displaced “Lost Boys” who sought to survive civil war, Majok walked hundreds of miles through Hell to safety and then — in 2001 — boarded a plane to Atlanta, Georgia to begin a new life. That’s sight unseen. That’s truly starting over. This is only his second trip back to his homeland, to see his remaining family, in nearly a decade.

And my family’s nomadic summer is very different from the daily realities of life in northern Uganda, where I will be spending the next several days on assignment. The last time I was here — four years ago — millions of people were displaced from a generation of conflict and terror. Since then, most of them have returned to what was once their home villages to try rebuilding a life from scratch.

All moves are hard; they truly uproot us and we have to plant ourselves back on solid ground to begin growing again. But, in the case of my family’s nomadic summer, our move was a choice to go somewhere where all of us — especially my son — could flourish. Every day, in all kinds of places around the world, millions are moving to simply survive.

I know I will meet many of them as I travel through Uganda and then to Ethiopia during these next two weeks. I will let you know what I find over the course of this most recent trip.

Blog Post:  Posted July 3, 2010, 6:29 pm by Roger Burks

Thoughts on Independence Day

Country: United States

Today, while eating breakfast at a corner coffee shop here in Baltimore, we saw a business owner across the street hanging up an American flag. He took much time to carefully smooth out the flag, place it in the holder beside the front door and adjust it to make sure it hung just right. Then he stepped back and took a few minutes just to look at the flag.

I wondered what was going through his mind in those moments. There had been both method and reverence in the way he placed and unfurled the flag. And while I couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face, I feel like I might have known some of the feelings in his heart.

Tomorrow, July 4 — the 234th anniversary of America’s separation from Great Britain — is a day when many Americans take a little closer look at the flag, as well as think about our country’s history and what that means to them. And, despite prevailing political squabbles or opinions on issues of the day, it’s also a day when most Americans set aside their differences and celebrate the birth of our country.

Every year, as far back as I can remember, I’ve taken time to read the Declaration of Independence on July 4. I wrote about it here on the blog a year ago. And, even if I haven’t agreed with the prevailing policies and feel disillusioned with the way the country seems headed, I take solace in the stirring words of that document. To me, this is one of the greatest sentences ever written in any language, in any country:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

The sight of a flag being raised and the sound of “The Star-Spangled Banner” have never failed to stir me. This was especially true a few days ago, when I took my five-year-old son to Fort McHenry — near which Francis Scott Key composed the poem that would become our national anthem — and watched a flag-raising ceremony.

Those symbols, songs and words speak to me of potential and perseverance. Of opportunity. And so, on this eve of America’s Independence Day — with deep pride in my own country — my thoughts turn to those I’ve met in far-flung lands.

Because even though many of the countries where Mercy Corps works face dire challenges, some seemingly insurmountable, citizens also hold deep pride for their homelands. They draw inspiration from their rich histories and identity from their vibrant cultures. They hope for a better future.

I’ve sat many times in homes and huts and heard something like this: “We have so much potential here. If we’d just set aside our differences and work together, we could do just about anything.”

That sounds familiar. Almost two and a half centuries ago, many brave people with some new ideas about how people should live took on the world’s greatest military power — and won. They believed. And of course they didn’t do it alone.

And so, to me, July 4 is about how change can happen — despite the odds. When I see the American flag and read the Declaration of Independence, I think of potential and hope.

Blog Post:  Posted May 24, 2010, 9:31 pm by Roger Burks

Stand up for their rights, too

Topics: Marginalized Groups, Disability

The last time I wrote here, I talked about the stripping of dignity through exploitative photography. Today, I’m going to write about the widespread abuse of a very marginalised group – as crystallized in a repulsive occurrence earlier this month.

You may have read the news: on May 10, a group of four young men — whose ages ranged from 18 to 20 — bullied a 14-year-old boy. They threatened him with beating if he tried to run. He didn't. And so they victimized the boy, tattooing him with vile imagery and words.

The boy that suffered this indignity — and, doubtless, dozens of other humiliations over his short life so far — is learning disabled. He was targeted for that reason. Unfortunately this kind of abuse happens every day — and, perhaps unknowingly, many of us help perpetuate the mindset that allows it to happen so often.

I acknowledge that I am more vigilant and sensitive — perhaps overly so — to this that almost anyone I know. I’ve walked out of movies when I’ve heard the word “retard” or something similar spoken in dialogue. I’ve lost friends when I’ve confronted and asked them to stop using derogatory language when talking about mentally challenged classmates. I’ve even gotten into fights over this kind of thing.

I think that casually tossing around words like “retard” or scripting entertainment that treats developmentally disabled people as punch-lines is nothing short of abuse. It violates human rights. It further isolates and dehumanizes an already-marginalised population. It reduces people to stereotypes and gives more opportunity to bullies.

I wonder why, for the most part, our society is so nonchalant about making fun of those who are mentally challenged. Is it because so many of them can’t speak for themselves or stand up for their rights?

The thing is, most of us are very concerned for the rights of certain marginalised ethnic or social groups. Honestly, one of the reasons I got into this kind of work was to — figuratively — get between bullies and their intended victims. We rightfully pour our time and resources into supporting the causes of the world’s most vulnerable people. So why do many of us laugh at jokes about one of the most vulnerable groups around — those with developmental disabilities?

I think we can all agree that everyone should have the right to dignity. That we shouldn’t consciously do anything that strips away that dignity. And so, if you haven't already, I’m going to ask you to do two things that might be harder than you think:

1. The next time you hear someone say the word “retard,” or refer to something as "retarded," or otherwise use those words in a derogatory way, call him or her on it. Words matter.
2. If you’re thinking about seeing a movie or watching a television show that explicitly makes a joke out of someone who’s mentally challenged, make another choice. Don’t support that kind of exploitation.

Change can begin with the words we choose. The choices we make. Small but significant stands that add up to shared action.

You might have guessed that I have a deep personal commitment to this issue: I do. My brother, Danny, is developmentally disabled. And I read this disturbing news story on Saturday — Danny’s 35th birthday.

We all care about human rights and dignity. Together, we do a lot to advance the causes of the vulnerable. So let’s change our minds, then change our words and see what can happen.

If you agree with me, please think about putting this sentence on your Facebook or Twitter: "Words matter. I’m standing up for the developmentally disabled, and against jokes and stereotypes. Stand with me: http://bit.ly/cxerFQ"

Thank you for reading.