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Early morning walk near Yonghegong. Thank god for cellphone cameras.
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Just walked into a little tea place, looked up at the TV and saw THIS. Coverage in a Chinese news channel of the liberation of 10 military hostages that FARC has been keeping in the jungle for a decade . This unexpected bit of news from home, so out of context and so very far away made me start crying. Still trying to figure out what kind of tears those were.
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A wallet made out of a Harvard diploma! (hey, that’s more use than I’ve gotten out of MY diploma so far)
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These are some of the playing cards designs available at Panjiayuan, an “antiques” market (more like “fauxtiques”) and one of my favorite places in Beijing. Perfect for my collection of real life super villains. Which should I buy to impress my future guests at dinner parties?
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And I think my helmet is cumbersome…
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This is my friend’s building, not mine. Mine is too dark for a picture, as it has no windows. Should give you an idea of what Chinese lobbies are like.
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Obama dressed as Chairman Mao. Insult or compliment in China? (answer: whatever you want it to be, tourist, so long as you buy it)
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Pretty sure this was the hardest picture I’ve ever had to take.
This past Tuesday I was part of a “march against FARC,” a hastily organized protest in reaction to FARC’s execution of four Colombian soldiers during a failed rescue operation.* The soldiers had been captive in the jungle for nearly fourteen years and were found dead next to their chains, shot to the head. I joined thousands of people dressed in white as they made their way across the city center chanting for the end of the FARC, demanding that remaining kidnapping victims be freed, demanding peace.
These types of protests are common in Colombia, I remember them since I was a child, a sort of outlet for the collective outrage over a war no one knows how to fix. The mood was not somber. It was a sunny day, and people waved flags and sang along. But it was much harder for me than I had expected. A little girl walking next to me, about nine years old, clutched a yellowed picture of a woman holding an umbrella. Maybe her mom. Maybe an aunt. Tears came down her face, and when I finally gathered the courage to ask, I just got a number: eight. Eight years, “disappeared”. God, I don’t know how to deal with this. I cried the whole way.
It’s easier now, to forget we’re in the middle of a war. Ten years ago, before my family left Colombia, war was everywhere. My school bus had armed escorts. We never left the city because FARC roadblocks made it was too dangerous to travel by land. One of my classmates saw his grandmother kidnapped on Christmas eve, when guerrilleros just walked into their country house holding machine guns and tied everyone as they took her away. Today, the war has become more of an abstract concept. Something you see in the news. Something you argue about how to fix after two beers too many at family gatherings. But not for that little girl, and not for that old woman with the big picture of John Paul II. Not for millions of Colombians that still live it every day.
Tuesday’s march was a sobering reminder that our war is very much still here. We have a long way to go.
*There’s a big controversy about what was actually going on, the Army denies there was a rescue operation underway. Blame’s in the same place regardless, if you ask me.
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Reason #1256 why it’s nice to be home: doodling like a middle schooler counts as “helping the family business”. (These were made entirely in Sharpie)
