How to Stop Some Wars

As you look around the world, do you notice how many conflicts are based on religious or ethnic differences?  In Iraq, especially, and throughout the Middle East, we see the Sunni and Shia factions of Islam killing each other.  There are the Hindus and Muslims fueling the India-Pakistan conflict over Kashmir, the Israelis and the Palestinians so wary of each other that they seem unwilling to negotiate.  We have the Hutus and Tutsis in central Africa, the Africans, Indians, and whites in South Africa.

And so it goes.   We tend to lump people together into groups and say, in effect, I don't need to know those people individually and personally because I know what people in that group are like.  But that's just what we do need to know.

My focus today is the little known, small island of Cyprus, in the news recently because of its precarious finances.  Reading the stories you'd think the Greek-oriented government was the government of all Cyprus.  In fact  since 1974, Cyprus has been a divided island with the Greek-Cypriots controlling the southern two thirds and the northern portion controlled by the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, protected by 30,000 Turkish troops.  There is a border between the two which is difficult to cross.

When I retired from the Foreign Service I had the good luck to get a job with AMIDEAST, a non-profit promoting educational exchanges.  I was assigned to the Cyprus-America Scholarship Program.   We monitored academic progress and visited several students twice annually.   But an important aspect of our program was promoting understanding between the two sides.   When I started on the program we had Greek- and Turkish-Cypriots on the same campus who didn't bother to talk to each other.

As a result we organized week-long conflict resolution workshops held at Coolfont resort in West Virginia.   The students lived in cabins in the woods and spent their time in a series of role-playing exercises run by the Conflict Management Group of Cambridge, Mass.   One game I recall: groups of Turkish Cypriots were asked the imagine they were Greek Cypriots, and a group of Greek Cypriots
were told to pretend they were Greek Cypriots.  Then the "Greek Cypriots"(actually Turkish Cypriots)  were asked to say what they thought of Turkish Cypriots and the reverse.  It was a way of seeing the others' point of view.

After classes the students socialized as one homogenous group, taking meals and playing sports and outdoor games together.   They formed a circle with a blindfolded student in the center.   He leaned back untl he started to fall, but was caught by other students.   He had trusted them.  then there were the high ropes with trip wires.   Below are two pictures of the students talking and listening to each other.

After a week together, the students were hugging each other and singing together.  The camaraderie continued back on the campuses where if a student got sick, he/she was sure to be visited by both Greek- and Turkish- Cypriot friends.  What the students had learned was that whatever cultural, ethnic or religious differences exist between people, their common humanity draws them together.  Before all, we are just people, wanting to make something of our lives, needing to be loved.



Adventures in Pakistan

After fourteen years in Africa, I returned to Washington where eventually I became Country Affairs Officer to South Asia, responsible for Afghanistan, Pakistan, Nepal, and Bangladish.   I supported and oversaw USIA activities in these countries and, once a year, I visited to check out their programs and meet relevant government officials.

Reading the newspapers these days, you might well conclude you didn't want to go to Pakistan what with suicide bombings and sporadic attacks by the Taliban.  My first visit to Pakistan was in 1993 when things were less volatile, but not without adventure.  When I arrived in Islamabad I checked in at the Holiday Inn, a familiar and comforting presence.  Around 5 p.m. a delicious looking spread was laid out in the lobby and where I, a vegetarian, tucked into the fresh salad makings.

A bad mistake.   In a few hours I came down with a major case of gastro-intestinal infection.   The next day wall to wall meetings with ministers and the like lay before me like an obstacle course.  The challenge was to try to focus on substantive issues all the while wondering if I could make it through an hour without needing the rest room!

I next went with some USIA officers to Peshawar close to the lawless west and various warlords.  I checked in at the Continental Hotel (since blown up by terrorists) where a large sign in the lobby read, "Gunmen!   Please check your weapons at the front desk."  What?   There were gunmen staying at the hotel?  I had noticed driving through town that almost everybody was carrying a weapon and recalled a US Consulate officer intoning that an armed society is a civil society.

After the usual round of meetings with Pakistani officials,l my hosts decided a trip to Khyber Pass would give me an idea of the section of the country not controlled by the central government.   Khyber Pass was officially closed but a special exception was made for the visiting Washington official.   The government assigned a soldier with a rifle and a sash of bullets, ostensibly for my protection, but possibly to keep an eye on me.   We drove up a long, narrow winding road past the fortresses of warlords to the top of the pass overlooking Afghanistan, which was definitely closed to us.   Large trucks, probably loaded with contraband, seemed to be crossing the border into Pakistan virtually uninspected.   As a momentum of the occasion, I was photographed with my protector.  Afghanistan is in the background.

In the picture directly above, he has handed me his rifle, presumably to impress my friends.  

The next item on my getting-to-know-Pakistan tour was a trip to a village, rural certainly, but the home of a rich man.  A nice outdoor lunch was spread out and we ate peacefully with our hosts.   But not for long.   The after-lunch entertainment was. . .shooting off machine guns at the sky to wild yelling and cheering..   I hate to think of where the bullets came down.

Finally I arrived in Karachi, a violence plagued city.   I checked into an international hotel and thought what I really wanted was a cold beer.   I called room service and in due time a man showed up with a bottle of beer, a chilled mug, and a bag of potato chips.   First he had to inspect my passport to be sure I wasn't a Pakistani in this officially teetotalling country.   Next I had to sign an affidavit:"I certify that this beverage is for bone-fide medical purposes only."   But of course.   Welcome to Pakistan!



Village Life in Lesotho

As I venture on this topic, I'm keenly aware there are experts in Lesotho - Kaybee, Lineo, Lipalesa, and Sebitsa - my nieces and nephew, who know far more than I ever will and who may be reading my blog.  So, let's rephrase: these are the observations of someone who grew up in a suburb of Boston on the beauty of Lesotho's rural life.

We have gotten into the habit of dividing the world into developed and developing nations, implying that becoming developed is the goal of developing nations.  But this was not my impression after living in Lesotho, my second home, for nine years.

My wife, Qenehelo, grew up in the small village of Tsoe'ng.  As a young girl, she fetched water by walking a fair distance downhill to a spring, filling a large bucket with water, and carrying it back on her head.  During dry seasons she had to get to the spring before dawn because the spring dried up early.   She fetched cow dung from the fields and brush from the mountain for cooking.  So meals were cooked outdoors and water had to be used economically.

Most of the dwellings were mud huts (rondavels) with thatched roofs.    Qenehelo's family had a round house for cooking and a rectangular house for sleeping. There was no electricity.  At the top of a hill was a large building (mud walls and corrugated iron roof) which served as a school room during the week, a church on Sunday mornings, and a concert hall on Sunday afternoons.

Outside the houses chickens clucked about and in the kraals cows, sheep, and pigs mulled around.

Because the houses were small, people left their doors open all day and visiting neighbors was the main way of spending the day.   The contrast with my current neighborhood, where we speak pleasantries across the street and close our doors is striking.  Qenehelo's mother, 'Matiisetso, one of the kindest, most generous people I have known, was a wonderful example of neighborliness.   When she was cooking, village people might loiter about the door.  'Matiisetso would always bring them a plate of food.  Once a neighbor came saying she has no money for her daughter's school uniform; 'Matiiesetso without hesitation went to her teapot where she saved money for sugar, tea, and the like, and handed all her money to her neighbor.

At risk of over romanticizing, the village seemed like a family of two hundred people.  At weddings of village girls, everybody joined in the procession to share the joy; at funerals the whole village joined a procession to the church and then to the burial site to honor the person's life and to see he or she was buried with dignity.   After the funeral, everybody went to the home of the deceased, first to wash their hands (removing death), and then to join in a feast.

Even the names by which others are addressed reflect the sense of family: a woman is called "'Mme" (mother), a man is called "Ntate" (father), a girl is addressed as "ausi" (sister) and a boy a "abuti" (brother).   These names are for everybody, not just members of one's family.

I don't want to imply that there wasn't both good and evil in Lesotho.   There was.   But the societal norms favored sharing, neighborliness, and a sense of community.  The heart and soul of life in Lesotho lay in the villages, where most people live, where neighbors look after neighbors. 

Getting out of the Easy Chair

I know that lectures on the need for exercise are tedious and annoying, so you won't get any from me.   But have you seen the reports on the 102 year old man who still goes to the gym working on weights and the rowing machine?  Three cheers for him.   He may not be typical, but he's sure great..

 

I'm nowhere near his age bracket but I still go to the gym everyday.   When I wake up in the morning I sure don't say to myself "I can't wait to get to the gym!"  It would be much easier to loll in bed sipping coffee and reading the paper.  I go because it's time to go: I do it every day.  I keep count of the number of consecutive days I've gone as a way of motivating me.   (I'm now at 72 days , but  once made it to 259.)  Above is a picture of me on my way to the daily wortkout.   And hey the other day a woman at the gym asked me "Are you 70 yet?"   Oh yeah!   Never mind that I left 70 behind years ago.  It made me feel it was worthwhile.

There are plenty of other ways to get out of that chair.   From my teens on, I loved to go mountain hiking, an activity I had to give up a couple of years ago because of my stiff knees.

 

 

Here I am with my daughter Palesa in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park.



And here are wife Qenehelo, friend Jeff, and Palesa about to set off on a 5 km. race.

 

 

And here I was in the Colorado Rockies on home leave from the Peace Corps.   So my thought is, go hiking or running if you enjoy it or go to the gym to get yourself into shape, if you are so inclined.

My Friend, the Queen





My Friend the Queen:

I first met the Queen of Lesotho when I was teaching English at Moshoeshoe II High School in Matsieng, the royal village.  Everything about her showed she was a woman of the people: she got down on her hands and knees with the gardeners to weed the flowers; she invited all the village children to the birthday parties of Mohato, her son, and Seeiso, her daughter.   (Mohato is now in his forties  and is King Letsie III, but I remember attending his 12^th birthday party.)  The Queen was also famous for dancing with the village women.     There was nothing pretentious at all about her.   No wonder she was universally loved as a symbol of all that was good about the Basotho people.

When I returned to Lesotho later as a Foreign Service officer, the ambassador decided she should go to the United States under our international visitor program.   When the two of us went to the palace to invite her and before we could say anything, she smiled broadly and said “I accept!”

The picture above shows us in Matsieng in front of the king’s village house.  I had gone thereto discuss her U.S. program focused on meeting groups that promote women’s issues.   As we were talking, she blurted out, “Oh, Ntate Bill, I’m losing my hair!”   “Well so am I,” I replied.   “But you’re a man.”  Can you imagine any other queen in the world making such an unpretentious comment?

Her visit was covered by the Voice of America and when she returned she invited Qenehelo and me as well as several women friends to the palace for dinner where she excitedly recounted her adventures in the US.   A true woman of the people.

The Unfamous Meet the Famous

Like most people, I'm not famous. I can walk down the street and nobody, except for an occasional friend, recognizes me: no hands to shake, autographs to sign. In the Foreign Service, however, we sometimes get to meet the truly well known; they're visiting our country and we in the embassy orient them, set up appointments, provide transportation, and so forth. It's a brush with fame without the inconvenience of fame. Here are some that I've met.







In 1988, around Christmas time I was de facto chief of mission in Gabon: the ambassador was on vacation deep in the bush, and the Deputy Chief was on home leave. One day I received a call from the Foreign Ministry asking what were my plans for the Jackson visit. What Jackson visit? It turned out that Jesse, unannounced, would be arriving in three hours. I called all the embassy staffers who were around and we quickly arranged a welcoming party in coordination with our Gabonese hosts. I managed to contact the ambasador who asked me to set up ma reception while he hurried back. Jackson turned out to be most gracious, patient, and knowledgeable. In the picture above, I'm posing with Jesse at the ambassador's residence.



In 1982, when I was Cultural Affairs Officer in Zambia, then Vice President George H. W. Bush visited the country. One of his events was a reception and talk at the American Cultural Center. I asked Jonathan, our staff photographer, to be sure to take a picture of me shaking hands with the Vice President. I greeted Bush as he came in, but Jonathan was looking in another direction. I again shook Bush's hand at the reception, but, alas Jonathan had been distracted. However, I was in charge of Barbara Bush's program and here we are at one of her events. I'm at the right, confirming that indeed my hair was receding.

And who is this gentleman that I'm greeting effusively? It's General Kekhanya, head of the army of Lesotho and leader of the coup that elevated my friend the king as head of state. I talked about this on my post about the king and I.

Finally in Gabon, where our American Cultural Center library was named after Martin Luther King, I welcomed Coretta Scott King where she donated a collection of books on her husband. I'm not in the picture, because I took it! Some fond memories of my transitory brush with fame without any of the inconveniences of actually being famous.

Gospel Music in Gabon

One  of the really good activities of the US government is "Arts America," a program sponsored by what was then the US Information  Agency.  American musical groups, one of the most popular of which were gospel singers, were sent overseas as a way of sharing our culture.

 

While I was in Gabon, I learned via cable that a group called the Stars of Faith would be arriving in a month, giving me four weeks to turn a hitherto unknown ensemble into national celebrities.  I did this via TV (I had a sample tape) and radio interviews.  I persuaded our ambassador, Warren Clark, to propose to President Bongo a concert in the presidential palace to which ministers and other dignitaries would be invited.   When the idea was accepted, I knew we had a first.

 

On the evening of the event we were all gathered, Ambassador Clark,embassy officers, ministers, generals and the like with the president's daughter acting as hostess.  The Stars of Faith came on stage: four women singers and a male pianist.  But when they started to sing, it became obvious something was wrong with the pianist.  Whereas he had played well during rehearsal, he was now banging out irrelevant and discordant chords.  While we wondered what was going on, he fell off the piano stool and crawled on all fours off stage.

 

The Stars of Faith quickly switched to a Capella songs.   Then, towards the end of the concert, the pianist reappeared on stage dragging a chair and resumed "playing."  As the group stood to bow, pianist and singers, the pianist fell off the stage to "oohs and ahs."   It turned out he was full of drugs and alcohol and there we were, the ambassador and staff, to absorb the embarrassment..

 

The Gabonese carried on with an after-concert reception, complete with Dom Perignon, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, ministers and generals shaking hands with us.   In the picture above with me smiling and bowing obsequiously, I'm shaking hands with the president's daughter (the lead singer is on the right) with Ambassador Clark in the background and Deputy Chief of Mission Ken Scott on the left.  

 

In the aftermath, I sent cables to all the posts on the singers' schedule describing what had happened, the pianist was sent back to Paris, and the gospel group, all professionals, completed a very successful stay in Gabon, relying solely on their a Capella repertoire. 

 

We were fortunate to have had such gracious Gabonese hosts.