A Way of Looking at Interconnectedness

i.

If you open a map, you will see a web of roads, all leading to Krakow. I can easily see why. The fusion of medieval fairy tale and present-day living is a story filled with vivid hues, a tapestry of cultures, and an insatiable sense of wonder. This city beckons you to come in.

ii.

Krakow brims with places of great importance. Even though slow travel means staying longer in a place, making thoughtful decisions about what to see and why remains crucial.

iii.

I hear of a place where saints, ghosts and demons, each go about their mysterious affairs. Some claim this underworld reaches depths of over 200 kilometres. The legend captivates me until I realise I prefer not to uncover all the hidden secrets in this place, so I only scratch the surface.

iv.

The goal is not to accumulate more knowledge, but to understand what lessons we’ve overlooked from history. ‘Cause each day, we awaken to a world that is extremely disturbing; old war, new war— To what extent can evil and crime thrive?

v.

Beyond the rich artistic life and cocktail drinks, there’s a place both sacred and haunted. A place that both questions and answers. I settle for it.

vi.

My understanding of the holocaust comes from books, movies, and glimpses of archival photographs I once saw at a museum in Cape Town. But “Seeing Auschwitz” or rather the idea of visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau in person is deeply unsettling. That’s why I’m up in the middle of the night, googling what to wear when visiting a concentration and extermination camp. I fuss about showing up appropriately.

vii.

Daring, but not yet brave, I set off to a place of silent contemplation. The sombre bus ride to the memorial site makes me question my choice of places to visit. Then I have a moment of insight: I will not complain about my discomfort; these people endured the most extreme conditions.

viii.

The answer to the question, to what extent can evil and crime thrive, stares back at me. Portraits of men, women and children with names, who were baptised in numbers, hang on the walls. A particular face, Martha’s, a young woman with her chin slightly tilted upwards as she looked straight at the camera, captures my attention. It’s a combination of grace and defiance, acting normal in these abnormal circumstances. It’s almost as if she’s refusing to let her challenges define her or to be seen as a victim. She brings an awareness to the good qualities and values of others around her, even in these dehumanising conditions.

ix.

As I walk through the gas chamber ruins, crematoria, and barracks, I carry Martha’s strength with me. This is neither to minimise their extreme suffering nor accommodate the holocaust, but my way of asset framing. Because in the end, everyone who survived or fell victim to the holocaust, re-emerges as a victor. Even today, we’re still eager to learn about or from them.

x.

Beyond race, class and other social identity markers, we are all human. It shouldn’t be difficult to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes.

xi.

A way of looking at interconnectedness is to see our own reflection in others, witness our humanness, the basic goodness that connects us all. And being interconnected doesn’t mean losing ourselves, because we each have individual strengths, hopes and dreams.

xii.

Beyond the profoundly moving and educational experience, Auschwitz reveals a shocking truth. It’s possible to be involved in genocide without harbouring hatred towards anyone. Think Hedwig in the movie, The Zone of Interest, who dedicates her time tending the garden of their idyllic home right next to the camp, pretending not to hear the gunshots, screams, and the sounds of trains bringing more people!

xiii.

Auschwitz-Birkenau is not a must-see or a place where one visits to pose for selfies. Being confronted with that kind of human suffering is an out-of-body experience. But it is a place everyone should visit, at least once in their lifetime. It is a reminder to view the world through the lens of interconnectedness, the state of being mutually related or connected.

Memorial and Museum Auschwitz-Birkenau in Krakow

PS. A new post “A Way of Looking at a Mountain” is coming up next Sunday. If you’re new to this series, A Way of Looking at Autumn’s First Breath is a good place to begin.

A Way of Looking at Boldness

i.

As I venture off-the-beaten-path, heading south, I throw away the mussel talisman around my neck. Instead, I rely on a bottle of Black Balsam I dragged all the way from Riga earlier in the week.

ii.

Along the Baltic Sea, I position myself just a mere 211.8 nautical miles from Kaliningrad. Audacious is my move; it makes me sick. And two days in, I’m a horse tethered to a post. I’m so sick even the sun shining through the window is bothersome.

iii.

Trips to the chemist, the bearer of good health, are beneficial for me but prove exhausting for my travel companion. When exhaustion turns into a toothache, our host recommends vodka to ease the pain. Six days in, we are both tethered horses immobilised by a violent flu.

iv.

Forced to stay longer than we wish to, we reluctantly extend our visit. I’m unsure if I like this place, and as my mind has to contend with the endless worst-case scenarios. It appears to be indifferent too.

v.

But Bolt is a Samaritan who runs around bringing us sustenance and takes us to the sea to bathe. And the salt water breaks the wicked spell.

vi.

Feeling relieved and with a clearer mind, we rely on a ferry to cross a body of water. Because I’m determined not to leave here without finding beauty.

vii.

The ferry deposits us at Smiltyne, a village that houses a nature museum. Our attention is on the UNESCO site, the narrow and vulnerable sand dune peninsula. peninsula. We opt for the easier path and hike to the beach.

viii.

In the forest, we encounter cheerful second-graders who have escaped the confines of a classroom. After passing them, I feel eyes on me and say, “We’re being watched.” As we turn around, we find the entire group staring.

ix.

At that instant, one girl’s eyes light up as she exclaims, “Hello, girl!” I can’t help but burst into laughter, thinking no matter where you go, there you are! “Hello, girl,” I reply. We share a smile and part ways. “She’s bold,” says my Mr Right, who appreciates that people here rarely greet or make eye contact.

x.

A way of looking at boldness is through the actions you take, the willingness to take risks, and trust your gut.

xi.

In Klaipeda Old Town, we run into a middle-aged couple giddy like a pair of teenagers. We ask about this fountain of happiness. Without hesitation, they point us to the precise spot where happiness is served on a plate and in a glass.

xii.

After an evening of abundant happiness, I bulk up my boldness muscles and pack my rucksack, preparing to move forward. As we journey to the capital in the morn, we’re restored enough to tally all the beauty we leave behind.

xiii.

Vilnius is bold. There’s no time to hem and haw, but to take swift steps off the fence. We hold our heads high, for God is perched high up there alongside justice.

Amberton Hotel in Klaipėda boasts an impressive panoramic view

PS. A new post “A Way of Looking at Interconnectedness” is coming up next Sunday. If you’re new to this series, A Way of Looking at Autumn’s First Breath is a good place to begin.

PPS. The featured image is the Church of St. Anne and Bernardine Complex, a magnificent gothic church in Vilnius.

A Way of Looking at Kindness

i.

Clammed up, I’m an uncooked mussel as I board the bus. The lingering scent of passport checks fills the air, for we’re about to cross imaginary man-made borders.

ii.

Like a Latvian summer morning rain, I’m persistent. I insert myself into spaces and force people to make room for me, for I have packed enough cultural diversity to fill my days with nourishment. ‘Cause travelling while Black is an adventure on its own.

iii.

I’m fallible— I expect the worst, when people mean the best.

iv.

It’s not even Thursday, yet the storm rages all night and the next. All trees bow. The pine kneels before the God of Thunder, and waits for the oak’s plea for mercy.

v.

Lielupe river cries floods and Jūrmala roars accusingly, demanding I let my guard down. But I am a traveller; I have neither a goat nor a rooster to sacrifice.

vi.

I once heard milk is the food of the gods. So, my companion and I embark on a late-night quest for the fabled elixir of eternal life, only to find most shops closed. With determination, we intercept a man just as he is about to lock up for the day. We plead for a drop.

vii.

Alas! We have not the coins, for they are too heavy to carry. With our hopes dashed, we leave the place empty-handed.

viii.

Three, four steps away, we hear a voice calling. Convinced it’s not after our attention, we continue on our way, unaffected. Another couple steps closer and the voice louder, “Hello, friend!” My companion and I come to a halt, exchange a knowing glance, and prepare to be scammed.

ix.

Jurmala! I keep tripping myself, expecting to find deliverance in this place because Jumala means God in Finnish. Instead, I stumble upon kindness. “Here, friend! I trust these few droplets will suffice for your morning coffee,” says a stranger in the night, handing me a half-litre of milk.

x.

Shame remains vigilant, and early in the morn, I rush back to the shop to pay for kindness. No, the cashier won’t have it! “That was a gift from our chef,” she explains, “he overhead your pleas from the kitchen last night.” I’m at a loss for words. So, I absolve myself by stealing repeating some wise words I once heard, “My sincere thanks to the chef, who distributes the milk of human kindness. I hope he spills a little on himself.”

xi.

The smallest acts — the greatest impact — we are strangers no more.

xii.

A way of looking at kindness is through an open heart — And cultivating openness to kindness requires us to acknowledge that our personal experiences are not unique.

xiii.

Now, I’m convinced kindness is a universal language. Perhaps, we should use it more to communicate. ‘Cause it’s through the lens of kindness, the world takes on a more compassionate and understanding tone.

Jurmala Beach, Latvia

PS. A new post “A Way of Looking at Boldness” is coming up next Sunday. If you’re new to this series, A Way of Looking at Autumn’s First Breath is a good place to start.

a special note (regarding the previous post): Thank you to everyone who reached out or left a trace here. I appreciate all your comforting words and support.

This past week, I revisited one of my poems, Nomads’ Song, which feels so relevant and comforting as I hold both autumn and spring, right now … Listen to a fellow poet, Michele Lee, read the poem on her blog, “Serving iced-tea and poetry (w/audio).” The audio file is just below the second image. Thanks again, Michele, for your kindness.

Happy Autumn Equinox, Everyone! Let’s create our gratitude lists and embrace the season.