Hi everyone,
I’ve got a new website up and running called Words With Purpose. I wanted to extend my stories with travel tips for asia, as well as stories from other bloggers. Please visit my new blog at:
http://www.wordswithpurpose.co/category/blog/
Please subscribe to this new blog so you can stay in touch with what I’m up to! I will be deleted claudiamegbailey blog in the coming weeks, and I’d love to keep you on board.
Wishing you a safe festive season.
Love,
Claudia xo
How did we let a nation suffer?
We turned our backs on a loyal friend,
And walked away when we were most needed.
Why are our allies our enemies?
The ones we are so deeply afraid of.
What happened to standing by the smaller man?
Or believing in the underdog?
How did we shut our eyes and defer our minds,
When we heard how loud they cried?
Was it easier to screen something else on the news?
Did we seek our own safety and deem it as more important
Than the freedom of this small, half-island?
We didn’t even have to fight.
We could have used our voices.
We could have told the perpetrators
No More
Stop
Enough
“Chega!”
But instead,
300,000 bodies lay underground
Or burned to ashes
Now small particles of dirt,
In the air that we breathe.
And when I breathe in,
On the land of the Forgotten
I breathe in someone else’s memories.
And My heart bears
heavy.
I want to tell everyone that I meet,
That I am sorry.
I am sorry that twenty-one years before my birth,
My government,
Acted so cruelly.
I am sorry that my parents,
My grandparents,
The little old ladies in my street,
Did not speak up.
But I am here now,
My eyes and mind cannot be deferred
From the atrocities that your country experienced.
And the loved ones that you are still laying to rest.
I am here now.
What do you want me to do?
The Australian Flag drawn by the Balibo 5, journalists who were murdered by the Indonesian Army.
I looked at him and I saw myself,
humanly features, characteristics,
movements between two limbs that are universally shared.
I looked at him and I saw myself,
how easily it was to picture
my own soul in his situation,
his family, abundantly caring,
abundantly alike mine.
I talked with him and I felt
the depths of his desires,
and they were no different
to mine.
You see, we live in a society that
relates to those just like us.
I met this man,
and I saw no differentiation.
Now when I hear stories of
children taken in Nigeria,
or communities bombed in Syria,
I ask;
“why were they not newsworthy enough?
Do they not suffer like we suffer?
Do they not feel pain like we feel pain?
Is it easier to hide the truth than to face the reality?”
For I once met a man,
who lived in a house made of straw.
I felt the depths of his desires,
and the pureness of his heart and I saw
myself.
I’ve visited Australian Aid Projects in Timor-Leste,
projects which are fighting against malnutrition,
I’ve touched the walls inside of a Maternal and Child Health Clinic
which has decreased the rate of infant deaths in the past 3 years…
by 40%.
I saw members of the community reach towards equality,
where women were being empowered.
I watched as clean water taps were being built,
children were being educated and
seeds were getting planted.
I went back in November,
excited to see the further change that these projects were going to make,
only to find that maternal and child health clinics,
amongst other successful development projects were
cut
because of the mid -2015 budget to Australian aid.
Numbness,
the feeling I felt
as I saw a community with such potential for growth,
was stripped of the ability to provide basic human rights to its people.
Go on,
tell me these stories are so different from ours.
tell me that our problems are worse,
or that they caused their chaos.
The only difference I see is
your blindness.
There is no depth to your desires,
no purity within your heart.
Open your eyes,
see the world.
See it for what it truly is.
If you did,
you’d see a child without reliable access to food and ask;
“how can I help?”
you’d see communities without access to water and say;
“something needs to be done.”
And even better than that, you’ll be the someone who will get that done.
Your words have the ability to change the world,
Jacqui Lambie, Malcolm Turnbull, Scott Morrison.
Do it with desires that are deeper than we can fathom,
and hearts that are more pure than Australian soil.
The Maternal and Child Health Clinic, funded by Australian Aid. Photograph: Lucy Aulich.
Rid me bare of my skin so I can breathe in
The sweet smell of Dichopogon strictus,
And remember the faces of the old aunties and uncles that once roamed this land
Foot after foot on red dirt
Who danced with the Dichopogon strictus in their long, dark hair
Rid me bare of my skin so I can ask you the questions my mind ponders of,
So we can sit together, hands entwined, on the grass in front of the art gallery
And you could tell me stories of how to make the soil bleed with colour
Rid me bare of my skin so I am no longer the reflection of the European settlers
The ones that took your land
Your children
Your culture
For I am not like my ancestors who robbed you of all that you knew
Unlinked by blood and skin
Rid me bare of my skin so you can see that I don’t judge
To see that I dream the dreams that you once had
When you were a little child
For I am still a little child trapped inside of this body,
Forever curious, inquisitive and wanting to know more about you.
A curled-up shadow sits,
An old, sun-crinkled man,
Glossed dark eyes,
Glazed with
Fear
Weathered hands,
Only
One
Foot left.
His chest
Uncovered,
Ribs
Exposed.
I didn’t have to ask him about his life
His bones already told me
What
I needed to know.
When I travelled to Timor-Leste earlier this year in February, I was told that I would never meet this woman again. After spending my year sharing Elisa’s story, days which accumulated to thinking of her within my everyday tasks, I was determined to see her again. Ten months later, I’m incredibly grateful to say that I have overcome all the odds placed against me, and have been reunited with my friend Elisa.
Left: December 2015, crops have just been planted and waiting for the rain. Right: February 2015, crops flourishing after the rain.
Meeting Elisa again, felt unreal. When I saw her face, as she walked towards me, tears of joy filled my eyes. She was more beautiful than I remembered. I couldn’t believe that after all this time, I was finally with her again.
My whole year as a Youth Ambassador had been consumed around her, and my memory of her. Because of the distance which separated her, a lot of my memories became blurred. I began to question if she thought of me as much as I thought of her, and if our friendship was real. But it turns out that her year was consumed equally alike mine. Elisa valued my friendship more than I could have ever imagined.
After spending the past year learning the national language of Timor-Leste, I said to Elisa, speaking in Tetun,” I thought of you every single day this year”. She smiled softly, and replied, “I also thought about you every day. I missed you very much.” I moved my hand onto hers and our fingers interlocked. I asked Elisa, “did you think I would come back to visit you again?” And she answered, “Of course I did.”
“Why?”
“Because our friendship was so special, so real, I knew you would come back to see me again.”
After this moment we leaned heads against each others for what felt like a lifetime. It was like she was telling me, in her own special way, that she loved me, and that I loved her back. Being able to speak to Elisa in her own language was something very rare and very special. I felt a greater understanding of Elisa, her personality, her dreams and who she really is as a person. She is a devoted mother and grandmother, she is concerned about the future of her children, she is educated on climate change yet feels that is is out of her control, she is soft spoken – but doesn’t waste her words, she is optimistic and she is thankful.
Elisa and I looking through photographs of us earlier in the year.
I know now that I based my year as a Youth Ambassador on a friendship that is as real as the air that I breathe. And although it is rarely visible, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. It means that the friendship shared between Elisa and I is always present, she surrounds me with her love in my darkest of moments to remind me that there is always hope. She is a true and rare friend who I am so glad to share a part of my life with.
Earlier in the year I wrote a song about Elisa, (you can find it here), and whilst visiting her, I played the song for her. Firstly, I explained the lyrics, and then put the music to her ears. Elisa said that although she couldn’t understand the words, that she knew what the lyrics meant. She also said that she loved the song.
I also met two of Elisa’s grandchildren, whom she lives with, whose names I have already forgotten. The youngest girl, aged 3 kept crying until I picked her up and held her in my arms. I instantly felt a part of their family. I asked her eldest grandson, aged 11, “Do you have a backpack for school?” The little boy looked down towards his feet and said, “no”. Then I went to the car and pulled out some backpacks, backpacks filled with school supplies like notebooks, pens, stickers, and toys to share. I wish I could have captured the smile on his face. I’ve never seen a child as grateful as the little boy standing in front of me with his new red backpack. He pulled out the toy car and began playing with it with his siblings.
Elisa’s grandson and I going through the supplies inside the backpack.
Something which ate away at me this year was when Elisa asked me for some money to get through the hungry season. Representing an NGO at the time, we couldn’t support her financially, but instead with fresh vegetables. I can’t express how much I regretted that, even though it was beyond my control. However this time, I was able to help my friend and undo my wrongs. I was able to help Elisa’s family in other ways, by assisting with local food supply, new clothes, shoes and school supplies as Christmas presents, and financially supporting them to build a toilet and make much needed repairs to their hut.
Elisa told me that she thinks of me as her ‘Australian daughter’. She laughed, and said that when she meets new people, she tells them how she has a daughter in Australia. I love that she thinks of me as family.
I’ll never forget how happy this moment was. I’ll never forget how many smiles were shared, how many arms were opened wide, and how I realised the “two-way impact” that one person can have on another’s life.
As I left the village that day, the song ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon played in the car. I waved goodbye to my beautiful friends and thought about the lyrics. I imagined what life could be like with no hunger, and I smiled, because I’d seen how far they had come in ten months. I knew the kind of world I’d been wishing for wasn’t too far away.
Elisa, I and two of her grandchildren.
Day 14, Dili, Timor-Leste.
The air in Dili is hot
like a sauna you can’t stay in
ten minutes at a time.
But I’m still here
counting down the days
until I reach
Cooler, comfortable air.
Dili, Timor-Leste.
Five is the number
of fingers on each of my small hands
Five is the number
of people in my immediate family
Five is the number
of books I was read before bed
Five is the number
I was in my first year of school
Five is the number
of seconds that I was held in my parents arms before saying goodbye
Five is the number
of candles on the cake
Five is
temporary and
quick
leaving softly
barely there
making small imprints in my mind
only fast enough to instantly become a memory
If I shut my eyes when it happens,
just for five seconds
the pain goes away.
Five is her age.
Too young to be here.
This is my 4th week in Timor-Leste and it has so far been a very important learning journey. Before arriving, I wanted to come away with a greater understanding of myself, in the hopes of ‘finding who I am’. I’ve learned a lot about myself so far, and I wanted to share a few things along my journey.
I like being by myself, adventuring the city streets alone, going out for dinner alone, meeting new people (alone). I especially like having the ability to go places by myself (in my own car), and I have found this extremely difficult in Timor, as I have to rely on my host family to take me everywhere. In Timor-Leste, the ‘public transport’ is something I’d like to avoid for as long as possible. They stick about 15 people into a tiny mini-bus called a ‘mikrolet’, where there’s nothing to hold onto. Let me also add that the passengers on these mikrolets often don’t wear deodorant, in the Timorese sun it’s around 38 degrees here every day, and mikrolets also don’t have any air-conditioning or open windows. Another thing is taxi’s – sure you can ride them! But being a young, female, white traveler, I don’t feel safe enough unless I am travelling with someone else.
Right now I really wish I could catch a bus or ride to a café, or watch a movie, or just drive around listening to the radio.
Sure, I like being alone, but there is nothing better on a Friday evening than seeing my best friends, or cooking with my Mum, or hanging out with my boyfriend. I miss them so much, and I never thought I would miss them like I do now. My first two weeks here were spent crying almost every day on the phone to my Mum, saying, “I want to go home”. I missed being around familiar people who knew me really well, especially when I was sick.
Before I left, one of my closest friends, Kate, said something that really stuck with me, she said,“Best friends are so hard to find. That’s why they’re the best.”
She reminded me how friendships take time to develop into something so deep, and not to be worried when making friends in a different country doesn’t come easily. I always wanted to move overseas with my career, but through this journey I have learned that when I finish University, I’d like to live close to my family and friends in Australia; I can’t stand being away from them!
3. I love writing in a work environment:
I’ve always dissed office jobs – the thought of being kept in a cubicle inside an office once scared me. But after I’ve been working in one, working on designing Development Projects and writing Grant Proposals for funding from potential donors; I realised how much I love it. I love having my own little space where I can work effectively. I love being surrounded by a group of inspirational, hard-workers who want to see their country develop in the best ways possible. I love being a part of a collective where we are physically making a difference. I almost don’t even mind the fact that our air-con doesn’t work… almost!
4. I am a curious people-seeker
One of my favourite adventures on this trip so far has been meeting new people. I’m not talking about group environments where I have been introduced to people, but going up to them by myself, introducing who I am and finding out more about them.
I love hearing about people’s lives and the journey they have taken, especially in a country like Timor-Leste. I love learning about these situations so that I can grow with them a part of my soul.
Whether it was the beautiful, old, uncle, Sr. Domingus, who is the traditional community leader – he talks on behalf of the traditional beliefs of the land on behalf of his community in Aileu. His resilient pose and incredible traditional outfit drew me to work up the courage and ask for his photo.
The laughs were added when joking with him that if he didn’t smile I would come over and tickle him aha.
Another person that springs to mind is Elvira, a weaver from Maubara, who once I introduced myself to, printed photos of her beautiful self and gave them to her from my polaroid camera. She loved the photographs so much that she gave me a gift, a small hand-woven present, which I will cherish for forever.
I can’t wait to get home and see if there are any other changes when I am in a comfortable environment. But mostly, I can’t wait to be home for Christmas, to celebrate with the ones I love most.
That’s all for now,
Claudia.
Tuesday was
Tough as I saw
Traumatic eyes
What had they been through,
To take out the light?
Thinking about it now makes me,
Numb.
Like stepping into a frozen bath,
A bath their childhood was created in.
Blacked out eyes,
Broken bones.
These are not the structures of a home.
What do they think of me?
As I enter the room
How do they imagine my life?
Glamorous?
Luxurious?
Easy?
My eyes assure them it’s not
But I know, that is is.
What do they see?
When they look at me?
White skin
Blue eyes
Nice clothes
Clean.
Do they see my past?
The punches?
The screams?
The fear?
Or has my mask covered it all?
Do they see independence?
Happiness?
Freedom?
Self-contentment?
Good.
One day they’ll enter the same room
New girls,
Old stories,
Yet,
They’ll see what I see,
Hope.
Claudia Meg Bailey 