01-04 is seventeen months later too late?

Visiting hours.

It wasn’t visiting hours. So when she showed up I told her “just wait here until 1130”
Only a 90 minute wait.
I just had gotten to the hospital. I didn’t know.

At 11am “we need a farsi translator in MEθ»

Good. She’ll visit her son. The doctor will explain all about the surgery he did last night.

“Can you tell her her son died a few minutes ago please?”

The translator tried making friends with her first. Salam. Khoobi.  After 39 seconds I said “Reza. You have to just say it that he’s dead”

She started slapping her face. Fell into the floor. Onto and into. Slapping. Hair pulling. Gagghhhhh.  That was the noise.

Here’s a Xanax.

Nope.

Let’s go see him.
Pull the sheet. Blood everywhere. A catheter bag full of clumps of blood. And blood everywhere. Legs. Face. Stomach.  No one cleaned him. I didn’t see him.  Barely.  I tried to focus on something I could recognize. Had I seen him around? He’s 15. But had I seen him?

Mama has to be quiet. There are three others in the one-room icu.

Screaming. “I’ll call the Afghan community leader to inform her husband”

We drove to Moria. When we got there she exploded out of my car screaming what had happened. More fights broke out. Four kids came to EODY. Went on lock down. Everyone wanted revenge.

Four more stabbings. Two to the hospital. One into surgery.  This one has no mum.

Why did we come here
Why did we come here
Why did we come here

Over and over and over in Farsi

He’s a martyr for the family. They’ll get transferred to the mainland.

To a closed camp.
Maybe they’ll die too.
She was sitting twenty feet away while he died.

It wasn’t visitinghours.

01.03. on travel

i started this blog to go personal. my personal experiences right now pander to a wider audience and so before i acquaint myself with people, i just need to tell my story from the past week, not the past several decades.

i'm at ground zero of humanity. and yet, i'm at the apex. it's delusional.
the most exquisite food, the most tempting vistas, the most astonishing architecture, the remarkable weather.
it's an angry paradox.

surrounded by old olive trees, gnarled like old world grape vines, with histories to tell, there is a road. a windy road. its  made up of concrete and white lines, and on its sides are fenced off estates of dried foliage. this could be southern australia in a heat wave.
but it's not. it's prime real estate overlooking the aegean sea that began by housing hundreds and quickly turned into thousands. when you turn off the highway, there's nothing obvious that you're approaching a cesspool. by all accounts, things look and feel normal. nothing out of place. there are a few people jogging by the dusty roadside. there's some random litter scattered about - chip bags and plastic bottles. always plastic bottles.
you go fiftykilometresanhour and take the curves going thirty. it is normal. it is normal. it is so fucking normal.

and then the joggers turn into small groups, the fenced off estates give way to fenced off areas with white tents and train storage boxes. familiar acronyms jump out to even the most unsuspecting. and then you're in the thick of it - the literal thick of it. it could be kampala on market day. bodies everywhere. horns honking. it doesn't matter where you look because everywhere is lost, losing. there's no right direction. all you can do is slow -- but not too much. if you slow too much, you get lost in the murmur of a melee.

and the smell. the open, raw sewage. it isn't only excrement. it's dignity. dignity drowning through burst pipes and nearly up on to the road. piss and shit and bottles. always bottles. diapers, always diapers. and people everywhere.

here, you either have permission or you do not. today, i do not.
turn around.

back to civilization. what does that mean. back to the upper echelons of humanity. the less gaunt. more flaunt. i park the car. i walk the boardwalk and take photos for my instagram. i think about throwing my phone in the sea. i think about throwing myself in the sea. just to see.

i arrive at work. up the stairs to the back. everyone knows how to - and does- roll their own cigarettes over croissants. i watch. i used to scoff when someone asked me to roll a joint.
roll your own i'd laugh.

i never knew how to roll a joint.
i don't know how to roll a cigarette.
i don't do drugs and i don't know how.
i nibble at croissants. listen to the plan for the day. go across the street and start opening up. this is where i'll spend my next eight hours.

only women allowed. only those who are registered. imsorrywearefullandregistrationisclosed. a line that people have been hearing for years now.
our space is divided by region, unintentionally. afghani women in one area. african women in another. french-speaking african in yet another. lone wolves who travel in packs. who wait. that's what happens. we make the waiting more bearable.

sip on coffee. sip on tea. eat some fruit. scratch bug bites. do hair. pass the time. just wait.

one girl sticks her tongue out at me when i stick mine out at her. i wonder if it is culturally appropriate. i wonder who cares. she giggles. she wants to play but there is a psychosocial group upstairs and i'm tired. it's friday and i'm tired and i don't want to play. so i sit and stick out my tongue, flippantly. it's time for her to go. they waited and now it's time to leave back to the camp. she is holding a stuffed toy that belongs at my work. i wag my finger and say 'that isn't yours'. she doesn't understand my words. she understands my intention. she throws it down and starts crying. she stands on the road and keeps crying. not wailing. she's sniffling and her tears are brimming over her eyelids. she's the saddest girl in the world. i stick out my tongue at her. she turns away. i am just another person who has destroyed her happiness, fleeting as it was. imsorrywearefullandregistrationisclosed.
i ask for a hug from her. i gesture. is this culturally appropriate. fuck it. it doesn't matter if it is because she won't hug me anyway. she cries as her mum zips up her jacket. she won't look at me. she won't look at her mum. i think to myself that she is at least showing some emotion, and showing some emotion is better than showing no emotion.

because that's the other option. if you are not mad, raging, screaming in fits, throwing your arms around, then you are gone. you are checked out. you aren't even going through the emotions anymore. that must be why we are told not to react when we see children throw themselves onto barbed wire. tell someone. there are officials to deal with that sort of behaviour.

imsorrywearefullandregistrationisclosed.

i say to someone, take it minute by minute. if you don't leave the camp you'll never leave your head, and here it is impossible to know who your enemy really is.

& climate change.
& plastic bottles.
& extinction.
& policy.
& midterms.

maybe it's better to stay in your head, after all. keep things micro. stay small-minded. just get through this, moment by moment. because if you try to take on the world, too, you'll throw yourself back into the sea.

there's no end in sight. there's no solution. there's nothing long-term. there is no thriving.
there is only the most basic of survival.

the sip of a shitty glass of wine.
the slurp of a delicious coffee.
the first bite of spanokopita that costs less than a euro.
you stick out your tongue.
you touch someone's arm to remind them they're human.
is it culturally appropriate?

sorry we are full and registration is closed.
sorry we are empty and resignation is close.

this is humanity's ground zero; hope is obsolete, and absolution is extinct.

01.02.

i have things to say about returning to the scene of the crime.
about how three years ago i couldn't leave my bed and now i'm taking the world on.
about being uncomfortable and scared.

about love and possibility.

i'm not religious. i don't really live with intention. i don't have a very inspiring message.

three years ago i had a nervous breakdown. except i wasn't nervous. i was terrified.
i had a terrified breakdown.
an out-of-control breakdown.

a break from reality.

i want to tell that story next. about how i went from screaming at a drunk paramedic in the bush of east africa to insert an iv into me, to returning to the same place and thriving, making connections, feeling calmer than i've ever felt.

does that sound ok?
can i tell that story next?

01.01 on starting.

i have long wanted to get back into blogging. the last time i had a blog, i was living in montreal. my final entry was only days after an assault that changed the course of my life (more on that to come, later. maybe.)
the truth is, i wanted a place where i could put the words i have out there. instead of hastily searching for conversations, scraps of messages, scrolling through social media feeds to find some comment i wrote...
i wanted to start a dialogue again. but i couldn't keep up through the go-to social media realms. so i am re-starting, which is an oxymoron to me. is there a re-start? once you've started (this thing called life), can you really "re-start"? so maybe it's just, re-introducing. or re-evolving.
i hope to explore lots of different themes: phobic-based panic disorders, compassion, humanitarianism, trigger-warned content, politics, addiction, love.

my last blog had cute alliterations, polka dots, and an affinity for DSLR selfies.

another definition of "starting" is of course not beginning, but startling. causing surprise. flinching. wincing.

i think i'll start there. with starting.
this day six years ago, i re-started.
today, i'm doing the same, in a very different way.

i'm off to the other side of the world for a while.

let's start.

katie.