Lost Together

Adieu 2011

2011-12-31T11:49:00.000-05:00

As this year comes to a close, I've been thinking a lot about journeys - mine and others. The theme of the journey is central to the way many think of their life writ large, i.e. - life is a journey, not a destination. It's a good theme because of how malleable it is in its application; in other words it can apply to the physical or tangible - getting from a to b, or it can apply to the spiritual and emotional.

2011 has been a year of many journeys and I consider myself so fortunate to have been allowed to share in so many people's journeys. Journeys are a sacred thing for the person embarking on it, whether willingly or unwillingly, because the journey always brings about a transformation of some kind.

I completed several journeys of my own this year. My Air Canada Super Elite status will tell you that planes were pretty central in my life. My new job guarantees they will continue to be so. I also completed my Masters Degree. It was a two year journey that had more than its share of challenges along the way. But as with so much of life, who you share it with defines the beauty and joy of it. I have made some wonderful friends through school, enjoyed some wonderful experiences (the j-bomb lives in infamy) and fell in love with a city.

I secured a new job - a promotion - and I'm excited to be starting that journey in the new year. But in order to start, I had to first bring to a close my previous job. My previous job was immensely rewarding and frustrating in equal parts. I had the opportunity to be on the inside of some truly fascinating situations, none of which I'll be discussing here, and I got to work with some truly extraordinary people. Don't let people tell you civil servants are just clocking pensionable time, my colleagues are dedicated, committed and hard working. They are also talented and compassionate and feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with them.

Many of my friends found themselves on journeys of their own. DB sent an email in October to a group of us letting us know she had breast cancer. Her email contained an admonition that there were to be no tears. I failed that request miserably as I read the email in my London hotel room. But her attitude is infectious - it always has been. One of the fascinating thing about this so far is that cancer is not changing her, it's DB being DB. She is blogging her experience and the posts have been some of the best reading I've enjoyed in the last year.

T&L became engaged this year and will be married in 2012. I've been asked to be the maid of honour (we are working on another title - like Rockstar in Chief or something) and I feel so blessed to share their joy with them. T and I have been friends for more than a decade and not only am I excited that he has found someone to spend his life with but I'm excited that it's L - because she's all kinds of awesome. How lucky am I that I can claim L as a friend of my own rather than my friend's girlfriend?

I only got to see Trixie once this year, which is oh so wrong, but something we will remedy in early 2012. But the absence of time together does not weaken the friendship in any way and once again, I am so fortunate to be able to share my journey with her and to be a part of hers. The universe works in its own ways to bring people together and for that I'm grateful.

Social media, in my experience, is a great enhancement to the journey we are on. In the last year, more than ever, I have enjoyed some terrific interactions and conversations with people that I have never met. I have shared moments - great and sad - with complete strangers but they have never once felt like strangers. There are a number of people I consider friends that I've never met in person but yet I talk to on a regular basis. Social media removes barriers, borders and in many ways can make the interactions more authentic. 140 characters is not a lot get your point across; how you choose to express yourself, what you choose to say in such a small space can reveal more about a person than hours of lengthy, long winded conversations can. There will always be people who lie, manipulate and use the inherent goodness of people to serve something ugly inside themselves but they are, thankfully, not the majority.

I would be remiss if I did not touch on the journey that Jack Layton took us on this year. I remember the morning when I found out he had died. Sitting in the office, scrolling through Twitter, I thought it was a bad joke at first. When I realized it was not, tears came unbidden. I didn't quite understand why I was crying - after all I only ever once voted for the NDP and while I admired Layton's tenacity, I didn't know him nor did I feel overwhelmingly connected to him while he was alive.

It was an email from Candice that gave me the clarity I was searching for. She said she couldn't stop crying because it felt as though a light had gone out exactly at a time when we most needed one. Politics is cynical business and it often operates in blurry, darkened area that intersects right with wrong and truth and lies. But Jack seemed to rise above that and that was not only admirable but necessary lest we all fall into the sticky grips of cynicism and apathy.

His letter, released after his death, was his final act of public service. It was also, in my view, instructions for the journey:

My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we'll change the world.

May 2012 bring love, hope, health and happiness to all of us. xoxo

Musings of the Season

2011-12-24T20:01:00.000-05:00

If you believe in the miracle of Christmas, then tonight is a night of great, wondrous anticipation. The celebration of the birth of Jesus is a celebration of lightness over darkness; it is a welcoming of love and all the possibilities it represents.

If your beliefs tend more to the Jolly Old Fellow with the red suit and sleigh full of toys, tonight is still a celebration of lightness over darkness.

Despite the crowds at the stores, the stress of trying to get the meals just perfect and find the right gift for everyone on your list, Christmas is still magical. It's the time of year when people allow their inherent kindness to shine through. I have noticed more strangers talking to each other in line ups, at coffee shops or in the white wine section at the LCBO. I saw Santa strolling through Terminal 3 at Heathrow a few weeks back and it wasn't just children waving at him, adults did too. They joked and teased and for a few minutes got caught up in it all. Christmas allows our humanity, our desire for connection to come through.

Regardless of what you believe, any time we choose the better angels of our nature over anything else is a wonderful, magical, glorious time.

Merry Christmas!

The Year(s) of Living Dangerously

2011-12-22T20:31:00.000-05:00

Being a woman is not easy.

Hell, being a human is not easy.

But there is something particular about being a woman that is more difficult, more complex than being a man.

I'm not talking about the inevitable requirement to shave appendages, apply make-up and use Spanx so that you look two sizes smaller than you are.

What I am talking about is the inherent danger being a woman represents.

The annals of history are loaded with examples of how women have been used, abused, tortured and killed because of what they represent. Women represent family, community and continuity for starters. And over the years women have been manipulated as a way to bring a husband, a family, a community, a village or a country to heel.

When wars are waged the first casualty is women, not truth. Rape is a weapon more powerful than any missile, than any tank, than any nuclear bomb. For when you rape a women, when you sexually assault her, you send ripples of destruction through the family and the surrounding community. You send a message to all those who may wish to rise up against you telling them: "we will humiliate you, we will break you, we will destroy the very fabric of everything you hold dear."

Why does it work that way? Because we still attach shame to the act of rape. Rape is so abhorrent we convince ourselves the victims must have done something to deserve what happened. For it is not possible for us to comprehend that you can be violated with no cause, no justification and no reason. It happens in Egypt, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, in Canada, in the United States and everywhere there is possibility to exert control through the violation of women.

In this year where the protester has been named Time Magazine's Person of the Year, we have overlooked the costs borne by many protesters. Women in Egypt have been subject to 'virginity' tests, they have been stomped on and they have been raped. Women in Libya, Syria and Tunisia can tell similar stories. Women in the DRC have been living in the rape capital of the world for a decade and a half. The women of Haiti are not strangers to rape either.There were even sexual assaults reported during the Occupy protests.

This year has been one of revolution. It has been a year of democratic uprisings throughout the world. It has also been a year of rape. It has been a year of sexual assault on women. Rape is not about sex; rape is about power and control. And there is much power and control being exerted around the world.

Eve Ensler, the tireless activist, has reintroduced the term 'femicide' in to our lexicon. It is, in her view, the systematic destruction of women. And it happens everywhere.

A woman is stomped in Tahrir Square for showing up and protesting against the slow transition to real democracy.

A victim of rape in Afghanistan is jailed for being raped while her rapist goes free. Freed under international pressure she is first told and then cajoled to marry her rapist in order to restore her honour.

As if her honour is in question. As if it is reasonable to allow this continue. As if opening a handful of schools for girls in Afghanistan undoes the systematic and cultural oppression of women.

What is heartening is that the women continue to show up. They continue to defy those who think they should be shamed, or hidden or forgotten. They will not be controlled. They will not be owned by what others to do them. It all comes with a cost but the women continue to show up.

The Protester may be the Person. But it is yet another year of living dangerously for women.

A moment of learning

2011-12-12T12:46:00.000-05:00

There is nothing like hitting a milestone to give you a few life lessons to tuck inside the big book of experience.

Last Wednesday was a grand day as I was in Dublin to have my Masters degree conferred upon me. I was excited to see many of my classmates again and to have my parents present at the ceremony. Travelling to Dublin on a monthly basis for two years and writing the bulk of my assignments while on business trips was no small challenge; I felt and still do feel a huge sense of pride at what I have accomplished.

And so it would be reasonable to assume that the life lesson I took home with me on that sunny December day is that perseverance and belief in self can get you very far. And it's true.

But, hard as it may be to believe, there are two bigger life lessons I took home that day.

Life lesson #1:

If you are going to wear stay-up stockings, you should stick to a brand you are familiar with rather than chancing a new brand.

The stickiness of the stay-up is not equal in every brand of stocking and if you aren't careful, you may find yourself, for example, walking in a procession of graduates with the distinct feeling of one stocking slipping down your leg.

You will then find yourself subtly and not-so-subtly trying to adjust said wayward stocking while seated hoping not to flash the University President in the process. (Thank goodness for academic gowns that give coverage to wrap dresses that give access to wayward stay-ups)

Also, with these unknown stay-up stockings, you may find yourself fretting about the long walk across the stage to accept the diploma. You may be offering up small prayers to all kinds of deities hoping that the wayward stocking does not suddenly complete its escape all the way down the length of your leg.

Words cannot express the relief you will feel when you return to your seat with the stay-up having arrested its descent somewhere in the upper knee area and out of sight from prying eyes.

Life Lesson #2:

No one, but NO ONE looks good in those square academic caps.

To be forced to wear one is an unspeakable cruelty.

A Week of Discovery...Or Why I'm a Dork

2011-12-04T20:20:00.003-05:00

It's been a big week - actually a big couple of weeks. I went to Pakistan and Hong Kong and returned relatively unscathed, though I am still trying to block out the 2 hours of hard turbulence over the Pacific Ocean on my 14 hour flight.

But bigger than that are the two ~~life changing,~~ ~~monumental,~~ huge- erm, slightly curious discoveries I made about myself.

1) I am not a bath person.

I want to be a bath person. My dad is a bath person. I like the idea of being a bath person. I like the romanticism of a long, hot bath, with bubbles, candles, a glass of wine and some music playing softly in the background. I have tried to be a bath person and yet can never quite seem to make it work. My last, and I dare say, final attempt at being a bath person occurred in Hong Kong.

I was staying at the Conrad, which if you haven't, is a delightful five star hotel with great views of the harbour. The bathroom in my room was ginormous. It had a huge, deep soak bathtub. And a rubber duckie. Seriously. The Conrad Hong Kong provides its guests with rubber duckies and teddy bears. I once asked them when I first started staying there what was up with the Mrs. Tiggy Winkle's collection and they told me they had research that said business travellers are less stressed when they have something like a bear or a rubber duckie. Seriously.

I kind of like it.

So I poured myself a hot bath, complete with bubbles. I had my iPod on shuffle and my latest book that I was devouring. I slid in to the water and my muscles groaned with appreciation at being cocooned in such a lovely state. I leaned back, reached for my book and sighed happily.

I lasted nine minutes. NINE.

I started to fidget. I started to fret. I got irritated with the duckie and lost interest in my book. All I wanted to do was get out, dry off, and curl up on my bed with the bear and my book.

I am not a bath person.

Nor apparently am I a rubber duckie person. (the exception here is L&T's devil rubber duckie who is red and has horns and has his own song called Evil Rubber Duckie)

2) My second revelation is that I am (slightly) claustrophobic.

Thankfully, my second discovery is unrelated to my first.

Unfortunately, I made this discovering in the middle of a facial. Which is an odd time to discover a phobia.

I was lying back and enjoying the ministrations of the lovely Lina (at Holtz Spa) when she started to apply a mask. It involved putting a little cut out over my face but it left my nose and mouth free. She continued to apply the mask stuff, sealing it to my face. Over and over again.

My heart, strangely, started to pound. And race. It was kind of a racey-poundy joint activity. Which then made me want to throw up.

I contemplated trying to breathe my way through it. After all, I'm Canadian and we don't like to cause trouble. But as she moved the bed in to a sitting position and that whole racey-poundy thing moved to warp speed I suggested to Lina that I was a titch uncomfortable.

Thankfully, she had the stuff off my face in about 10 seconds. And then asked me if I knew I was claustrophobic.

I said no. But then I realized I like to sleep with my feet uncovered. And well, I have never been an habitué of small, dark, tight spaces. (get your mind out of the gutter, you pervs - you know who you are.)

So to recap - Pakistan, with armoured cars, armed guards and other stuff, no problemo. A long bath and a facial - huge issues.

I am, without a doubt, a dork.

World AIDS Day 2011

2011-11-30T19:42:00.000-05:00

And here we are, December 1st. World AIDS Day.

Every year I take the theme of the day and do my best to track how far we've come and look optimistically to the future at the milestones ahead of us. There have been heady articles of late talking about the end of AIDS in this generation.

What hope. What unbridled hope that phrase represents.

But the devil is always in the details and when we talk about the end of AIDS in this generation, we mean in the Western world. We don't mean Sub-Saharan Africa, home to the overwhelming majority of new infections. That's a bad news story and we need to focus on the good news stories. Even UNAIDS has declared that we must get to zero - zero infections, zero AIDS related deaths and zero discrimination. The beginning of the end in sight, they boldly declare.

Except not quite.

Not yet.

The reduction in funding of the Global Fund augers badly for the bold declaration. Barring a miracle Africa will miss the Millennium Development Goals. The continent will come no where close to meeting those brave goals the UN set 11 years ago. To be on the losing end of the goal to combat HIV/AIDS is a monumental failure.

Three days ago, Stephen Lewis, the loquacious truth teller about HIV/AIDS, gave a speech at Yale in which he wondered if the gutting of the Global Fund should be akin to murder. His speech is below.

Before we pop the champagne about the impending defeat of AIDS, let's all pause and remember this particular battle is being lost on many battlefields - battlefields populated by the most vulnerable.

For those who know the reality on the ground, this World AIDS Day is a sombre one indeed.

***

On the Gutting of the Global Fund

The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria has been the international financial armada in the battle against the three diseases. The collapse of the next round of Global Fund grants, known as Round 11, is the most serious, catastrophic setback in the Fund’s decade of existence. Hiding behind the banner of the financial crisis, the donor countries have clearly decided that if budgetary cuts are to be made, the Global Fund can be among the first to go.

It’s terribly important to recognize the moral implications. It’s not just the fact that people will die; it’s the fact that those who have made the decision know that people will die. How does that get rationalized? How does that get dealt with in the inner sanctums of development ministries and cabinet discussions? What in God’s name do they say to each other?

They know, equally, that in the distribution of pain and suffering from AIDS, Africa is the epicenter. It has 68% of those living with the virus worldwide; it has 70% of new infections. They know that Africa is the one part of the world that cannot possibly reach the Millennium Development Goals by 2015. They know that many countries on the continent are reeling from poverty, conflict and disease.

What possesses the donor community to intensify the emotional and physical havoc?

Do they regard Africa as a territorial piece of geographic obsolescence? Do they regard Africans themselves as casually expendable? Is it because the women and children of Africa are not comparable in the eyes of western governments to the women and children of Europe and North America? Is it because Africans are black and unacknowledged racism is at play? Is it because a fighter jet is worth so much more than human lives? Is it because defense budgets are more worthy of protection in an economic downturn than millions of human beings?

I will never understand.

What happened at the Global Fund last week is of course merely the latest episode in the unvarying history of betrayal. Do you remember the G8 Summit in Gleneagles in 2005? The most solemn commitment was made to provide an additional $50 billion in aid to the developing world by 2010, $25 billion of which was destined for Africa. Come the Summit in 2010 (in Canada you will recall), the G8 was between $10 billion and $15 billion short of the target.

Prime Minister Tony Blair’s words on the $50 billion pledge at the 2005 Summit are memorable: “This is what we declare. We are going to be held to this; we are bound by it; we are committed to it; judge us by it.”

What a craven politician.

But of course, he’s not alone. Let me remind you that in June of this year, there was a High-Level Meeting on AIDS at the United Nations. It was the tenth anniversary of the UN Declaration of Commitment on HIV/AIDS, and the fifth anniversary of the UN Political Declaration on HIV/AIDS.

The commitments, the promises, the undertakings, the passionate affirmations of reaching the targets suffuse the newest document to emerge, titled “Political Declaration on HIV/AIDS: Intensifying our Efforts to Eliminate HIV/AIDS.”

Please forgive my cosmic cynicism, but these international expressions of intent, repeated ad nauseam on every obligatory anniversary, are the ultimate frauds of multilateralism. Why in the world numbers of well-meaning NGOs support this kind of intellectual drivel is beyond me. We didn’t need the inheritance of Tony Blair to know that the sanctimonious pledges would be rendered unto tatters as soon as the delegations left the confines of the UN. And it is surely worth noting that June of this year falls well beyond the financial downturn of 2008/2009: the pledges were made with full knowledge of fiscal austerity.

Listen to the language: “(We) recognize that HIV and AIDS constitute a global emergency, pose one of the most formidable challenges to the development, progress and stability of our respective societies and the world at large and require an exceptional and comprehensive global response … (We) note with deep concern that … the HIV epidemic remains an unprecedented human catastrophe inflicting immense suffering on countries, communities and families throughout the world … (We) recognize that Africa, in particular sub-Saharan Africa, remains the worst affected region and that urgent and exceptional action is required at all levels to curb the devastating effects of this epidemic … (We) express deep concern that funding devoted to the HIV and AIDS responses is still not commensurate with the magnitude of the epidemic … (We) note with concern that while the pledges (made in 2010) represented an increase in financing, they fall short of the amounts targeted by the Global Fund, and realize that to reach that goal it is imperative that the work of the Global Fund be supported and that it be adequately funded—let me repeat—that the work of the Global Fund be supported and that it be adequately funded … (We) commit to accelerate efforts to achieve the goal of universal access to antiretroviral treatment … with the target of working towards having 15 million people living with HIV on antiretroviral treatment by 2015 … (We) commit to supporting and strengthening the Global Fund … through the provision of funds in a sustained and predictable manner … (We) appreciate that the Global Fund is a pivotal mechanism for achieving universal access … (and) encourage Member States … to provide the highest level of support for the Global Fund"—let me repeat—"to provide the highest level of support for the Global Fund.”

There you have it. And there’s so much more of equally devoted fealty, inscribed with an almost religious fervor. So what do these honorable member states then do? They leave the meeting and gut the Fund.

It must be emphasized again that the Fund is the most important and effective financial facility addressing the pandemic of AIDS. It has saved and prolonged millions of lives. Millions. Admittedly, there have been instances where governments, in receipt of Global Fund grants, have abused trust, and some of the politicians and bureaucrats have engaged in corrupt practices, siphoning off the funds to enrich themselves. But in every instance where this has been discovered (primarily by the Global Fund itself), the Fund has transparently identified the malfeasance, and gone on a virtual crusade to recoup the money. And it must be pointed out that the amounts that were purloined are microscopic compared to the overall disbursements.

If the donor governments were as scrupulous with taxpayer money, we would be living in nirvana. The United States alone could sustain the Global Fund in perpetuity if a mere fraction of the money lost to corruption in Iraq and Afghanistan were recovered. The self-righteous claptrap that flows from the donors on the issue of corruption is disgusting. They know it and we know it, but they’re never called on it. You can be sure that no one at the Global Fund board allowed the word "Halliburton" to cross his or her lips.

It’s hard to find the words to characterize what the cancellation of Round 11 will mean. Quite simply, without adornment, people will die in large numbers. The Fund will attempt to sustain the programs presently in place, but the opportunity to enroll others who need treatment—and that number is 7.6 million—will be lost.

Apart from struggling with every means at our command to reverse the decision, what does one do with the people responsible for the decision? There is something called the International Criminal Court. It indicts people for war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide. So far, those charges have been seen to flow exclusively from conflicts. But is it not a crime against humanity to abandon tens of thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands of people to a certain death, after promising a stay of execution? Why should the leaders who make those decisions escape justice?

True, merely to put the proposition is to induce incredulity. But as I stand here I believe that one day the ICC will have the power to extend its reach beyond the purview of conflicts. That’s the way the application of justice works: one step at a time. And the next step to be taken is to see that crimes against humanity are applicable to the gross criminal negligence of the donors. It’s a principle of justice whose time is coming.

Curiously, unconscionably, there are voices from whom we have not yet heard, but should have heard the moment the ugly decision was made. Where is the leadership of the United Nations in the wake of the dismantling of the Global Fund? Why hasn’t a press conference been called, led by the Secretary-General, to denounce the donor decision and to demand a reversal? What about the ten United Nations agencies that constitute the committee of cosponsoring organizations that comprise UNAIDS? Where are their voices? Yes, UNAIDS has issued a guarded statement (God forbid the donors should be offended), but that’s to be expected. What should also be expected, but almost never happens, is that the cosponsoring agencies band together and mount the barriers to sound the alarm. It is the nemesis of the United Nations that the self-interest of the agencies is as bad as the self-interest of sovereign states.

What kind of conspiracy of silence is at work?

The only compelling UN-related voice has been that of Jeffrey Sachs, the advisor to the Secretary-General on the Millennium Development Goals. Knowing that all of the goals are put in jeopardy by the crude fiscal brutality of the donors, he wrote an eloquent and unanswerable column in The Huffington Post. It was directed primarily at the United States, but it has equal application to all the other western donors who have defected from the humanitarian imperatives. Yet, as powerful a force as Jeffrey Sachs is, he can’t go it alone.

We simply have to find the money. There are, I would submit, three possibilities.

First, there’s no earthly reason why money couldn’t be redirected from defense budgets. Taken collectively, we’re talking of trillions of dollars. Whenever there’s an Iraq, or Afghanistan, or Libya or soon-to-be Syria, money is found. Why is war the only surefire call on the public purse?

Second, there are the profits of the banks and multinational corporations. If governments claim they are running out of money, the answer lies in the failure to adequately tax corporate profits. It’s enraging to think of the penury of the Global Fund in the face of the staggering profits of multinationals whose greed nearly brought the world to its knees.

Just think of these figures: The third quarter profits for Morgan Stanley $2.2 billion; for Wells Fargo $4.1 billion; for J.P. Morgan Chase $4.6 billion; Bank of America $6.2 billion … these were the banking outfits that helped to fashion the near-depression. Remember all these figures are this year, well after the fiscal calamity of three years ago. Or take the oil companies in the third quarter of 2011: BP, despite paying out billions in compensation for the oil spill, made $5.1 billion; Shell made $7 billion; Mobil Exxon came in at $10.3 billion. And we can’t find money for the Global Fund? Is there any better definition of the 1%? And I haven’t even enumerated the restoration of corporate bonuses.

Do you see what’s at work here? In the reckless haste to coddle the multinationals, global public health has taken a merciless hit.

And here’s something else to think about. Not a one of these companies has given a direct nickel to the coffers of the Global Fund, despite endless requests that they do so. And BP, Shell and Exxon Mobil are all members of the Global Business Coalition Health (GBCHealth), successor to the Global Business Coalition on HIV/AIDS.

But if it’s too much to ask that capitalism re-direct priorities, there is one avenue that has been embraced by virtually all of Europe with the exception of the United Kingdom. It’s called the Financial Transactions Tax, or Robin Hood Tax in the vernacular. Even the IMF has given the tax a cautious stamp of approval, and both President Sarkozy and Chancellor Merkel have become champions. When Bill Gates appeared before the G20 last month, he energetically advocated a 0.1% tax on security transactions and a 0.02% tax on bonds that together would yield, in Europe alone, some $9 billion annually.

So I have a suggestion. Given that the United States, Canada and Japan don’t fancy the tax—heaven forfend that corporate profits should be infinitesimally reduced—let it be implemented in Europe. The FTT, from the earliest days of discussion, was always intended to finance development aid, and what better example than the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria. If the European economies are confident of raising $9 billion—and I would think that Bill Gates’s calculations could be relied upon—then let them replenish their contributions to the Global Fund out of the current central treasury and restore those funds from the first returns on the application of the FTT. Why not? It becomes a simple book-keeping exercise … there are many more balance sheet entries that are far more complicated.

It just takes political will, and the will appears to be bankrupt.

The most disappointing manifestation of that reality is the United States. Let me quote Jeffrey Sachs: He writes that the Global Fund has saved “more than 7 million lives and (protected) the health of hundreds of millions more. Yet now the Global Fund is under mortal threat because of budget cuts approved by President Obama and the Congress. The Obama administration had pledged $4 billion during 2011-2013 to the Global Fund, or $1.33 billion per year. Now it is reneging on this pledge. For a government that spends $1.9 billion every single day on the military ($700 billion each year), Washington’s unwillingness to follow through on $1.33 billion for a whole year to save millions of lives is a new depth of cynicism and recklessness.”

Three days from now, World AIDS Day on December 1^st, President Obama will speak of AIDS. He will probably promise no new money. He will probably argue that the United States will do more with what is already committed to be spent by PEPFAR, the President’s Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief. Parse the words of the speech carefully. This is a tremendous opportunity for the President to come to the rescue of the Global Fund, an opportunity to go down in history—much as George Bush has gone down in history for creating PEPFAR—as a President who grasped the nettle of the greatest humanitarian emergency of the last half century and said to his country and the world “we are bringing this pandemic to an end. We will not allow more death from AIDS to stalk the planet.”

There is no time to lose. As things now stand, the Global Fund will not accept proposals for Round 11 until 2013, to take effect from 2014 to 2016.

In the intervening period, unless there is a dramatic intervention, the graveyards will burgeon again.

Just listen to Bill Gates once more: “One stark way of looking at (the funding) is to consider the death toll from AIDS. It costs approximately $450 per year to treat a person for AIDS. A donation of $450 to the Global Fund, for example, keeps someone alive for a year and helps prevent the disease from spreading. Conversely, every $450 that isn’t forthcoming represents a person the world is willing to let die from a treatable disease. Sometimes it’s just a question of money.”

Precisely. Sometimes it’s just a question of money. That time is now. Thirty years into the pandemic, after 30 million deaths, we know how to subdue the virus. We know the treatment and preventive interventions that work. The carnage can cease. That’s why, just three weeks ago, Hillary Clinton spoke, for the first time, of an “AIDS-Free generation” (and then—if I may be permitted a cantankerous aside—pledged an additional paltry sum of $60 million with no indication where the money was coming from … an almost certain sign that it’s not new money, but internal financial juggling).

I’m not allowed to characterize the desolate sabotage of the Global Fund as murder, but in the private depths of my soul, I really believe it is murder. There, I’ve said it. But rather than be discarded as some rhetorical extremist, let me simply assert that we have no right, by any measure of human decency, to allow people to die, in huge numbers, unnecessarily. That’s exactly what’s at stake.

I detest the brutal cynicism and behavior of the western governments. I spent much of the last decade watching people die, and to think that it could happen again is unbearable. People living with HIV/AIDS fight with such uncommon courage, intelligence and resilience … they have no right to be faced with grotesque betrayal.

The Bard wrote that “The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.” I ask: what has happened to mercy, to compassion, to generosity, to justice?

Community

2011-11-20T09:56:00.000-05:00

I am blessed with a wonderfully interesting job. It can also be horribly frustrating at times but on balance I feel blessed. Over the course of the last three years I have had the opportunity to visit countries on every continent and be part of some truly special moments.

This week, I find myself in Islamabad, Pakistan. Now, if you had ever asked me to list the countries I am sure I will never visit, said list would look a little something like this: Iran, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and Afghanistan. The four countries on my list have much in common: difficult security situations and some views about women that are directly opposed to mine.

However, a rather critical work situation has brought me here to Islamabad and so with a healthy amount of disbelief, I found myself landing at Benazir Bhutto International Airport. It is as different a situation as I have ever been in. There is little doubt that security is upper most in everyone's mind here and I see evidence of it everywhere I go. I even heard machine gun fire in the distance last night, causing me to stop walking for just a moment. It's jarring when compared to Canada. It's even jarring compared to some of the other places I have been that are considered risky.

But what I've discovered in my short time here is that in spite of the security situation, or perhaps because of it, there is an enormous sense of community here. Yesterday, one of my colleagues spent the afternoon with us shopping at some select markets and we ended the day enjoying tea in the garden of the Serena hotel. Today, I had the pleasure of meeting some truly wonderful women as we attended a wedding shower. It mattered little that I didn't know the bride to be; I was invited regardless.

I spent the afternoon speaking with international development professionals who had amazing, inspiring stories to tell, I spoke with immigration professionals whose work is complex and difficult but who love what they do. Laughter echoed throughout the garden and rose petals were tossed, showering down on all of us and with their fragrance perfuming the air around us. Someone had made a cake, someone else had made cookies. Everyone brought something to the occasion whether it was baking, gifts, or the simple pleasure of their company.

I will not see many of these women again and yet on a sunny Sunday in Pakistan, they invited me to be part of their community and share in everything they have to offer.

I am truly blessed.

Failure

2011-11-08T20:44:00.000-05:00

The news out of Penn State University this weekend is sickening.

If you haven't read it and you have the stomach to do so, you can read one story here or google it.

Sex scandals are, unfortunately, not new. In the last 20 years newspapers, magazines and television news programs have been filled with the horrific stories of victims coming forward. Some were victims from long ago and some were very, very recent. As a society we have invested time, effort and money in educating children about good touches and bad touches; we've tried to empower them to protect themselves and to tell when they know of abuse happening.

It is a pity then that we never invested the same with adults. What Jerry Sandusky is alleged to have done while a football coach is unspeakable. And how I wish that was the only unspeakable action but it isn't.

According to Grand Jury testimony a graduate student came across Sandusky (allegedly) raping a 10 year old boy in the Penn State football team shower.

And what did the student do? He called his father. And then some time later he informed Joe Paterno, the head coach.

What didn't he do?

He didn't call the police.

He didn't attack Sandusky in the shower and pull him off the 10 year old boy.

He saw a child being raped and he walked away.

Frequent readers of this space know that I advocate on a regular basis regarding the sexual violence being waged against the women and girls of the Democratic Republic of Congo. It is the rape capital of the world. And in the time that I have been fundraising, awareness raising and trying to get people to get engaged on this issue, I have struggled with how people do not seem to connect with it.

To me, it's simple: it is a moral imperative and therefore you must act. There are no shades of grey when it comes to the DRC.

And yet, to my ongoing frustration, it remains on almost no one's radar.

Reading the accounts related to Penn State and how every single adult who had knowledge of this situation chose to protect a university, a football program and reputations over children, a light bulb went off for me: people don't take action when it comes to rape because they don't want to know.

Rape is a volatile issue. It's an uncomfortable topic for conversation. And there are large segments of our society, some well educated, affluent and in positions of power, who believe on some level that the victim did something, must have dome something to deserve what happened to them. Or they must want it. They must have led the perpetrator on, given off signals, dressed provocatively. Whatever caused the rape to happen, the victim must have some responsibility.

That belief holds true for the women and girls of the DRC, it holds true for Sandusky's alleged victims, for every child who has been victimized by a predator and every woman who has experienced date rape.

Following that thought through, if the victim has some responsibility then these bystanders, these observers, these people who know about the crime, feel absolved of their responsibility to do something - to do anything.

If you saw a person on fire, you would try to douse the flames. If you saw a dog locked up in a car on a sweltering day, you would call the police or you would break the window and rescue the dog. But you see a child being raped and what do you do?

Rape is a crime of power, not of sex. No one wants to be raped. No one deserves to be rape. The victim is not responsible for being raped. And anyone who continues to perpetrate those beliefs is guilty of contributing to an environment that allows rape to happen and allows it to remain woefully under reported.

There are eight victims in the Grand Jury indictment and one defendant. There are likely more victims. There should be more defendants.

This is a heartbreaking, earth shattering, life changing failure by everyone involved.

The long arm of the universe turns slowly towards justice. And those who failed will face justice eventually.

How did you get here?

2011-11-04T21:55:00.000-04:00

Blogger has some great tracking functions: I can see how many people have viewed a certain post; I can see from which country they viewed it; I can see which operating system they used to view it. Also, I can see which web sites linked the reader to my blog and more interestingly - much more interestingly, I can see what people typed in to their search engine to get here.

So how did you get here?

Were you the one looking for Rex Murphy's recent-ish comments on Canada-US border?

Or perhaps you were looking for info on Father Joe Leclair?

Not you, you say?

Were you the one who Googled Giada DeLaurentis and wrestling? (I'm not clear on why that brings you here but whatevs). More importantly, what kind of weird cooking/wrestling fantasy do you have and does it involve Italian food?

Are you the one who was looking for 'weekend in bed'? It's one of the more popular search terms for my blog. I'm curious, are you looking for a how to? (my experience it involves the flu, kleenex, James Bond movies and a lot of cold medication.)

There have been several searches for elephant kisses. I wrote about that. Being kissed by an elephant is a little like having your cheek hoovered. It's fun and strange and leaves behind a lovely present of sand and snot on your cheek!

And then there are the voyeurs. Oh yes, you know who you are (throwing sideways shade). You're the ones searching for nudie photos. Specifically, photos of two particular people naked.

Person number one:

DAVID SUZUKI NAKED (I'm pretty sure it's just JT searching this blog over and over again because she can't get enough)

Well search no longer - here he is, in all of his environmental glory!

And the second person?

SEBASTIAN ROCHE NAKED

Dude. I wish. If I had photos of Sebastian Roche naked, this blog would not be called Lost Together. Nor would it be about Random Musings. I would rename the blog Sebastian Roche's House of Hotness. Muse on him.

What? What's with the judgey face, McJudgey?

As if. As if you wouldn't do the same.

I did find a nice photo of him in a suit.

He wears the hell out of the suit, n'est-ce pas?

Ah well.

However you got here, whatever caused you to stumble on to my little corner - Welcome! Glad to have you.

xo L.

ps - why, oh why, does no one google DANIEL CRAIG NAKED to get to my blog? 'cause I could probably help with that *wink*

It Gets Better...But How?

2011-10-20T20:24:00.000-04:00

Last weekend brought the news of another teen suicide here in Ottawa - Jamie Hubley, son of an Ottawa Councillor, took his own life after being bullied.

I cannot conceive of or imagine the pain that must possess your body, your mind and your heart that results in choosing to end your life. But I do know it's happening more frequently. I still think of Daron Richardson and the pain the Richardson family must still be dealing with. I also think of how the Richardsons and now the Hubleys are taking their pain and turning it in to something positive.

But what's clear to me is there are a number of people - our neighbours, our children, our friends, our family and our colleagues - who are carrying blinding pain with them and are being pushed to the point where they feel the only solution, the only way to end the pain is to end their lives.

There was a great effort put out in the last two years - the It Gets Better Campaign. It's a wonderful effort by members of the LGBT community to let others know that whatever pain they are feeling, whatever hardship they are enduring, it will get better. It is a positive, strengthening message. And it's a message to goes far beyond helping gay teens. I would say any teenager struggling with who they are on any level needs to know it won't always feel like this.

My question is, what's next? What comes after telling them it gets better? Those of us who are no longer teenagers - gay or straight - know that the awkwardness, the loneliness, the uncertainty ends and life continues. We know that as we get older we are not who we were in high school.

It does get better. But how?

How do we make it better for those coming behind us?

The It Gets Better campaign is a great first step. But if we are ever going to address the pain that people are living with we have to do more than tell them it gets better, we have to help them make it better. We need to turn it in to action.

I will be the first to admit that I don't have the solutions. Every time I think about this I am left with more questions than answers. But we do have to keep trying. We do need to figure out how to make it better.

What are your ideas to make it better?

The Kindness of Friends and Strangers

2011-10-08T06:36:00.000-04:00

I was robbed.

In London.

My purse was stolen from the chair I was sitting in at the time and I lost everything: wallet, iPhone, Blackberry, passport.

To say I was in a state of disbelief would be in an understatement. I am, by anyone's definition, a seasoned traveller. I have travelled to some dodgy places and learned long ago not to be careless. I was not careless last Sunday night either. And yet it happened.

When the reality of it hit, I was angry. And sad. And worried. And frustrated.

I was out for drinks with two friends and we looked everywhere around us but returned to the truth that my purse was long gone. The management of the pub could not have been bigger asses. They refused to help and told me the customers ordering drinks were more important than the customer who could no longer buy another drink.

Fine. Karma is a bitch and she knows where you live.

We went back to our table and took one last look. I wandered over to the table and asked an older couple enjoying a bottle of wine if they had seen anything; if they had seen anyone wander off with my purse. They were horrified at what had happened. They offered me the use of their phone. And then they offered me money.

They didn't know me at all. But they offered to give me money and help me in anyway they could.

I thanked them profusely but told them I was in good hands with my friends. My friends came back with me to the hotel and I presented myself to the concierge. I promptly blurted out that I had been robbed and I didn't know what to do.

The concierge desk went from having one person at it to having three people. They asked me what credit cards I had and someone looked up the phone numbers so I could cancel them. I was offered the use of their phone to make the calls. They asked me if I was hurt. One of them went to my hotel room and ensured no one had attempted to break in. They gave me a new room key and reassured me on several occasions that even though someone had my purse with my room key there was simply no way they would be able to gain access to my room and that I was completely safe. Then they directed me to the nearest police station so I could file a report.

Sure I was a guest in their hotel and so it was incumbent upon them to help me but I know, from the hotels I have stayed in, the staff went above and beyond. And I was and remain very grateful.

My friends stayed with me at the police station even though it was late, it took 2 hours and they had to work the next morning. We had missed dinner as a result of the robbery and they walked with me to McDonald's which was the only thing open, and then we had a picnic on the floor of my room.

Over the next few days as my corporate credit card company failed to act in a timely manner, I was reliant on my colleagues to pay for things - like coffee and water. Never once did they complain or hesitate. They offered me money and took care of me for the whole week.

When I posted on Facebook what had happened, friends from all over the place offered help, money, a place to stay if I needed it. I was inundated by goodness

Over the course of a five day period I saw some of the worst of people and saw some of the best. I am grateful and infused with warmth at the kindness I received from so many people - some of whom I know and some of whom I had never met until that night.

Being robbed is not a blessing. But much of what came after was.

Random Musings

2011-09-25T12:19:00.000-04:00

I feel like I should apologize for the length of time between posts. My writing mojo, steadfast and stalwart, has gone, as they say in Oz, walkabout. I have sat down several times in the last few weeks to write but alas the words danced tantalizingly out of reach.

I chalk it up to a few things - I finished school and poured probably every last ounce of energy I had in to my thesis. Now with a sudden abundance of free time on my hands focus is hard to come by. I've never been very good being idle. For laughs, you should ask Susan about the day I took her to Bondi Beach in Australia. My inability to just lie on the towel and chill nearly drove her to offer me up as an offering to any nearby sharks.

Also, with the completion of any major accomplishment comes a need to take stock of where I was, where I am and where I want to be. There has not been a lack of well-meaning people offering their opinions on any of the above. The thing with taking stock is, it's an internal exercise, not an external one.

So now I find myself in London on a lengthy work trip and am grateful to be here. I have been visiting this city since I was 19 and in many respects it feels like home. Or feels like a home. I have a few cities where the minute I touch down and breath the air a sense of peace and familiarity come over me. It's an extraordinary gift, I think.

I've spent the weekend doing touristy things. It's been ages since I've had that chance. A lingering visit to the Tate Modern yesterday followed by a much longer than planned walk back to Mayfair (thank you Thames Footpath Diversion for making me walk what felt like to Scotland and back).

Today was a long overdue visit to the British Museum. If you have never been, add it to the list of things you must do. First of all, all those great Greek artifacts that people travel to Greece expecting to see but don't, can be found here. Apparently black-hearted Tony Blair ignored the wishes of thousands of Greek school children to return the Elgin Marbles to Greece in advance of the 2004 Olympics. No worries, everyone can see them next summer here in London for the 2012 games. See? Everyone wins!

Of course what visit to the British Museum would be complete without a near-death experience in the toilets? side note - on a side by side comparison, the toilets at the Tate Modern beat the toilets at the British Museum hands down.

Large, heavy wooden doors the go seemingly from floor to ceiling offers the user an exceptionally private experience in the privy as it were. Also, there's a huge lock. There is simply no one who is getting in your stall once you are...erm...installed, as it were. There is even a fancy sensor flush. No need to get the hands dirty. Huzzah! A quick turn of the lock and you're out. Only, the door won't open.

No worries. Turn the lock again and pull.

No dice.

The care and thought to the privacy of the privy makes scaling the door and tossing oneself over the top out of the question. Also, no crawling out underneath. And the blasted hand dryer is so loud one could be singing Tosca at full operatic voice and no one would hear it.

A quick check of the purse reveals 1/4 of a bottle of water and one piece of Dentyne. If I had a shoe lace and Richard Dean Anderson with me I might be able to fashion an escape but no dice on either front.

Dammit.

I'm going to be stuck here and no one will hear me over the blasted dryer that seems to run non-stop whether people are using it or not. Have these people not heard there is an environmental crisis afoot?? Could we not have a little more thought to the dryer? And it's volume.

It's simple. I'm going to be stuck here. The water will run out. The gum will only keep the hunger at bay for a few hours and then I'm going to die. It'll be days, weeks - years even before anyone finds me. By then, I'll be mummified in my purple Gap shirt with the large pink lips on the front (hey, don't judge mcjudgy - it was an HIV/AIDS charity shirt) and my Michael Kors slip-on python print shoes.

Damn slip-ons and their lack of shoe laces.

They'll find me mummified and assume I'm some wayward exhibit gone astray and next thing anyone knows I'll be in one of the halls with a small plaque entitled "Touristica Assinus". I'm beginning to think this is all part of some nefarious plot by the British Museum to bolster its collection. After all, times are tough, there's economic trouble lapping at our shores, don't you know. Culture is always ripe to be cut from the great funding pie and so they have to make ends meet somehow.

How did I fall in to such a trap? HOW?

I won't let it happen. I REFUSE! For I am an Aeroplan SuperElite and I have travelled round and round and round. I will NOT fall victim to such madness.

Taking a deep breath, I close my hand around the lock and try once more, praying that it works because I don't want to be a mummy. Also, I would have chosen different underwear if I knew what the day was going to entail.

Miracle of Miracles, the door opens.

Ha! Not this time British Museum. Not this time.

I gave the whole place stink eye as I made for the exit.

10 years later - Part Two

2011-09-11T10:54:00.000-04:00

Wednesday September 12th 2001 was a date with a huge circle around it in my agenda. I would be flying to Greece that night for a 5 day cruise around the Greek Islands and then for a 3 week trip around some parts of Europe I had yet to see. It was a vacation that I was so excited for - it had been a long, trying summer where I produced two events for the National Capital Commission and I was exhausted and desperate to feel the sand between my toes.

Tuesday September 11th, 2001 was going to be my last day at the office for almost a month. I skipped into work, under a bright blue sky, and spent the first half hour chatting with colleagues. I had just sat down to my computer when one of my colleagues from the call centre called out to me and urgently asked me to come in. They had a television in their section and when I came in they were all staring at those horrific, shocking, unreal first pictures of the plane flying in to the first tower.

One colleague said "What an accident!" And I turned and told her it was no accident. I was no expert but I knew enough to know that pilots of jet liners do not fly in to buildings by accident. Pilots would sooner crash the plane in the water or a field to reduce the number of casualties. It was no accident.

I ran back to my office and tried in vain to call a friend in Boston. I was probably one of a million phone calls being made in that moment. I sent her an email and sighed with total relief a few minutes later when she replied back that she was fine as were all her colleagues and friends.

And then I ran to another friend's office to tell her the news. She had a great office overlooking the corner of Elgin and Sparks. We could see Parliament Hill from her window. I don't know if it was 10 minutes or 20 minutes later but as we sat talking we watched as bomb squad units rolled up on to the Hill. The Hill back then was hugely accessible both to cars and pedestrians - it was a welcome, open space symbolic of our democracy. Ten years later it still is, mostly, but like many things it's changed.

A larger group of us got together in front of another television and watched the news. I remember Aaron Brown from CNN doing his very best to bring order to chaos, in real time. We gasped and yelped and cried as the first building imploded. One of my friends got up and left. I found out later he had simply left the building, got in his car and went home to his family.

Several requests were made to managers and directors as to whether or not we could go home. I think this had been prompted by the sight of the Ottawa Police putting up tape from the War Memorial to Queen Street, blocking off huge sections.

Bureaucracies are slow, lumbering entities and a decision such as whether to send your employees home when it seemed like the whole world was under attack is not one they are built to take quickly. When the second tower came down I went to see my manager and told him I was going home. He informed me that no decision had yet been taken by management and if I left I would have to claim annual leave.

Rather dramatically I told him I didn't give a damn but if Ottawa was a target I wasn't going to sit in the shadow of the Peace Tower like an idiot. I grabbed my bag and headed outside.

Once outside, I saw my friend Jeff whose pub was situated under our offices. I can't explain the relief at seeing him other than in those hours when we didn't know what this was, it was good to see friends and know they were okay.

There was a memorial two or three days later on Parliament Hill. I think the crowd count was near 100,000. And it was completely silent. Again under a bright blue sky and completely silent. If you've ever seen a crowd on Parliament Hill for Christmas Lights or Canada Day or Winterlude or the Changing of the Guard you know that silence is a rarity. And yet there it was - very public, very shared grief.

I did get to Greece. The lovely folks at British Airways put me on one of the first flights out once the air space reopened. It was an extraordinary time to travel as people - strangers - who perhaps wouldn't engage other strangers in conversation did. I never sat alone at a cafe during the entire trip - people made an effort. Why? Because we all shared in what happened that day. It happened in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania but it happened to all of us. To each of us. And for a few weeks through September and October we united. We were not strangers during that time, we were a community.

10 years later - Part One

2011-09-10T16:42:00.000-04:00

There have been, over the last few weeks, a crushing number of reflections on the tenth anniversary of September 11th. Many have been the personal reflections of where people were when they heard the news and I am always fascinated to read those; I have my own recollections that I will share tomorrow. Others have been how much the world has changed (or not) ten years on.

At the moment, I'm still remembering the first few weeks after that terrible Tuesday. There were some heart-warming moments, those moments that reaffirm your faith in humanity after it has been shaken to the core - the passengers who brought down the flight rather than have it crash in to a building, the residents of Gander, Newfoundland who opened their homes and hearts to more than 6,000 stranded passengers. The sound of the Queen's Guard Band playing the Stars and Stripes during the Changing of the Guard ceremony at Buckingham Palace.

And then there were the moments the exposed the uglier side of things. Terrorism gave us a vocabulary whose underlying theme is one of hatred and fear. Mosques were firebombed, Muslims were attacked, people who looked as though they were from the Middle East were attacked and we entered a world of no-fly lists, watch lists and colour coding threat levels. We learned about renditions, CIA prisons and Gitmo was no longer the answer to the trivia question: 'What base did Jack Nicholson's character command in A Few Good Men?' It was now a prison where the US held people without trial, without due process, outside the rule of law and where people, actual living human beings, were tortured. And we let it happen with our tacit consent.

There was also the fracturing of the Canada/US relationship. President Bush, addressing Congress and the world left Canada out of the list of thank yous. It was a terrible affront and many on this side of the 49th felt it was deliberate. David Frum's news today that it was simply an oversight, does not make it any better. It was Canada who took in hundreds of planes and thousands of confused, scared and worried passengers on a moment's notice that sunny Tuesday in September.

From there the US went to Afghanistan and then to Iraq - the ultimate target all along. We did not go to Iraq as our Prime Minister rightly understood the people he represented wanted no part of a war that had nothing to do with 9/11 and where the intelligence driving the invasion was questionable at best and outright lies at worst.

For our efforts at maintaining our sovereignty and independence we were rebuked - heavily and loudly - by the President's representative in Canada. In the world of diplomacy words are not accidents and the United States tried to school us as though we were an errant child rather than a nation with its own fully functioning democracy. The rebuttal written by Silver Donald Cameron had people cheering from coast to coast to coast.

A myth emerged that some or all of the 9/11 terrorists had accessed the United States via Canada. The myth was a comfort to some south of the border as it allowed them to say 'See? It's not our fault - it's someone else's'. The truth of course is that every single one of the 9/11 terrorists entered the US via the US and not Canada.

And yet shortly after assuming her cabinet post, Janet Napolitano repeated the accusation and even when told she was wrong, no apology was forthcoming. Just this week President Obama wrote a letter to the Prime Minister thanking him for all the service and support Canada gave to our greatest neighbour in those confusing, disorienting days after 9/11. The sentiment is appreciated even if it's a decade late.

My reflection on 9/11 ten years later, from a global perspective, is that in the face of an enormous tragedy the world got busy trying to find people to blame rather than trying to understand why it happened. And in the rush to blame relationships of all kinds were damaged. As the horrific cheering and excitement after the death of Bin Laden showed, ten years later we are still more focused on the who rather than the why.

If we don't start looking at why things happen we will never stop them. And thus will be setting ourselves up to repeat all the mistakes of the past.

Grace

2011-08-22T20:02:00.000-04:00

It is a testament to the youth of Canada as a country that it has been almost a century since a political leader died in office.

The news of Jack Layton's death today was stunning. Not so much because he died of cancer - anyone who saw his press conference in July was left with little doubt that he was dying. News of his death is stunning because Jack was probably the most optimistic person in Canadian politics. And to accept that he could not bend the universe to his will on this is heartbreaking for his family and for the country.

If one wants to be cynical, and heaven knows I have advanced degrees in cynicism at times, one could de construct the success of Jack Layton and pinpoint every earnest or less than sincere moment, every contradiction and every evidence of strategic advancement.

But for today I reject cynicism. I choose to recognize the public service that politics really is. I choose to admire the way that Jack Layton played outside the gutter rather than in it.

Canada is a social democracy; at our core that is who we are. We have, invariably, ebbed and flowed with that identity over time but always seem to find our way back to it. Jack Layton spent a good number of years putting up directional signage and leading the way back to our core when we ventured too far in another direction.

Admiring Jack, remembering him and being sad at his death is not about agreeing with his politics. His politics, in fact, don't really factor in to this conversation. The motivation for today's outpouring of grief is the recognition by so many that he was a person who was committed to making his country better, in big ways and in small. Politics can be a blood sport and in recent years many good people have turned away from it because of the toll it can take on a life, a family and a career. But politics remains at heart a public service. Choosing to stand for election, wanting to represent your countrymen and women, vowing to work for the betterment of a nation and its citizenry is service.

Mourning the loss of someone like Jack Layton is neither over the top nor inappropriate. Indeed it is how we should be coming together. It is a mark of our Canadianism that we express our sympathy and our compassion at times like this.

Those who choose cynicism look at the letter Jack's family released to the public as a political manoeuvre, they look at it as one final strategic move. And maybe there is something to that.

But in choosing not to be cynical I look at the letter as a final act of service. It may be a blueprint for the NDP to go forward. It is certainly some gentle advice for all of us as we go forward as individuals.

For me, the letter is an act of grace. And I, for one, am grateful for it.

"My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

All my very best,

Jack Layton"

Home

2011-08-03T21:20:00.000-04:00

Several years ago I was part of an international conference being hosted in Canada. The conference was held at the resort in Kananaskis, Alberta, truly one of the most spectacular places in Canada. Our international guests were suitably impressed and many commented on the grandeur and beauty of Canada.

I was chest-puffed proud because this is my country. My home.

During the conference, one afternoon, we attended a talk by a gentleman who gave us the history of the area. I couldn’t tell you most of what he said in terms specific dates or events but there was a theme to his talk that has stayed with me ever since. Our lecturer spoke of home. He talked about home being a feeling rather than a place.

Home is a feeling.

In the five years since that talk, I have amassed more than my share of air miles. I have circled the globe probably three times by now, touched every continent except for Antarctica and developed a deep and lasting love for a small green island over the pond. The theme of that talk has resonated with me more and more with every trip I take.

I have spent many weeks far from home and yet I so very rarely feel homesick. Sometimes it’s seeing pictures from friends on Facebook, a conversation with my parents on the phone or an email from a friend just checking in to see how things are going. I send notes and tweets, I comment on Facebook and I share pictures so that my friends and family can feel like they are with me.

Home is a feeling.

Through the grace and kindness and love of my friends I take them with me wherever I go and yet I also feel like a part of me stays behind with them. I feel at home wherever I am because home is a feeling created, shared and given by all of us.

It is easy in the day to day to get dragged down, to get mired in details that seem so important but really aren’t. It’s easy to remember hurts that still need apologies or slights that have yet to be forgiven. It’s easy to see home as the place where you live, as an address and to be dissatisfied by it.

But if home is a feeling then you carry it with you in good times and in bad. It’s somewhere you can turn to, to seek solace, to seek strength, to seek comfort. It is a somewhere that holds joy and happiness in large and small ways.

The heart is a bloom, it shoots up from the stony ground. And home is the feeling that allows it to do so.

Everyday that I remember that is indeed a beautiful day.

When Good Intentions Are Not Enough

2011-07-30T21:56:00.000-04:00

There has been much debate on social media over the last year on the benefits and drawbacks of voluntourism.

Voluntourism is a noble idea held by a number of people from first world country, mostly driven by a desire to do good, who head overseas to Asia or Africa to spend part of their holiday volunteering. There are a number of companies who offer programs ranging from one week to one year. Tourists are placed in development projects or orphanages where they are given the opportunity to roll up their sleeves and get to work.

The results are often two-fold: the tourist leaves with a sense of accomplishment, having felt as though they made a direct impact. Also, they come home with amazing stories to tell. The project or orphanage is often the recipient of further donations and promotion from the tourist upon their return to the comforts of home. Twitter and Facebook are filled with post-trip pictures and requests for further support and donations.

But what if in the rush to do good, we are doing greater harm?

It’s a question I have asked myself on numerous occasions. I have long considered doing a stint as part of a voluntourism project but every time I came close to signing up, I couldn’t bring myself to complete the registration. I have no fear of travelling – having touched every continent on this planet other than Antarctica more than once. My hesitation came from this nagging feeling that I was about to embark on a trip of exploitation disguised as benevolence.

I know a number of people who work in International Development. They work for Non-Governmental Organizations and Multilateral organizations. Some work on the ground, in the field; others at headquarters around the world. Any time I have broached the subject with them they have all, to a person, encouraged me not to go through with it. Instead, they suggested that I concentrate on advocacy. I have a background in activism and international issues stretching back more than two decades now (I attended my first rally on Parliament Hill in 1984 and a picture of me with my sign made Chatelaine magazine – hung in my school locker with pride).

In its best interpretation, voluntourism is a desire to do good beyond writing a cheque. In its more cynical interpretation – and perhaps realistic – voluntourism is a ‘hug-an-orphan holiday.’

In fact, last summer the South African Human Sciences and Research Council issued a report about the ‘thriving industry of AIDS orphan tourism’ and the damage it was doing. The report found that both local workers and the children in the orphanages were adversely affected by the increasing number of westerners coming to fulfil their personal need to do good.

Programmes which encourage or allow short-term tourists to take on primary care-giving roles for very young children are misguided for a number of reasons. Volunteers come at a cost: institutions frequently provide voluntourists with accommodation and meals, and staff are allocated to guide volunteers around and organise their activities.

Given the level of unemployment and poverty among young people in many parts of sub-Saharan Africa, and their desperate need for training and work skills, these opportunities should best be given to local youth, many of whom would be grateful for regular meals, some training and a testimonial to their work experience.

Aside from economic and employment questions, there are serious concerns about the impacts of short-term caregivers on the emotional and psychological health of very young children in residential care facilities. The formation and dissolution of attachment bonds with successive volunteers is likely to be especially damaging to young children. Unstable attachments and losses experienced by young children with changing caregivers leaves them very vulnerable, and puts them at greatly increased risk for psychosocial problems that could affect their long-term well-being.

The report goes on to note that the children, these orphans who have already experienced profound loss at a young age, who form connections with volunteers as they come through end up experiencing compounding feelings of abandonment.

Consider this, the good feelings a voluntourist leaves the country with are equally matched by a further sense of loss for the children left behind.

Voluntourism is potentially exploitative of children suffering adversity as a result of poverty and HIV/AIDS. Child advocates should protest these practices and welfare authorities should ensure they are stopped. Thus far, no formal regulations exist in any sub-Saharan African country to protect children from such practices. The weight of current evidence suggests that these activities are not in the best interests of children and those working to protect children and children's rights should be deeply concerned.

Most disturbing of all is that some orphanages purposely keep their institutions in poor condition so as to increase the volume of donations.

So what is a well-intentioned person to do?

Don’t go.

Don’t be yet one more person parading through an institution or a development project for their own benefit, however pure your desire is.

The development professionals – the experts in the field – don’t want you there either.

Research the countries and concerns that matter to you. Find reputable NGOs who work there and make a donation. Beyond that, volunteer with the NGO, in their local offices. They always need people to make calls, help prepare for events etc.

Keep your good intentions – they are a great thing. But use them wisely. Being well-intentioned is not a free pass to doing harm.

Not a Matter of Faith

2011-07-24T14:16:00.000-04:00

The massacre in Norway last Friday has left many of us searching for answers to the age-old question of 'why?'

Why would someone do what happened on Friday? Why would someone have so much hate and rage that they would take it out on close to 100 people, none of whom were known to him?

The question of why is simple. The answers to it are complex and perhaps impossible to know.

I certainly don't have any answers for it.

But I do know one thing: What this man has confessed to doing is not a matter of faith. It is not a matter of religion. There simply is no God, Deity or Goddess of any faith who would advocate violence in their name. Any religious teaching that promotes or calls for violence against others, especially those who believe differently, has lost its way. Those teachings are perverted and bastardized versions of the tenets of faith - any faith.

The fracturing of the peace and the tranquility of Norway last Friday was the act of someone bent on destruction, evil and pain. It has no roots in faith. Any faith.

I'm not sure it was the act of a madman, because to call this person a madman is to offer him an out and an excuse for his actions. It was an act of evil. It was an act of hatred.

Bob Rae said on Saturday in relation to Norway that 'sometimes the world just breaks your heart.' And he's right. For now, it's the only answer that rings with any truth.

Mischief Managed

2011-07-17T20:15:00.000-04:00

I just saw Harry Potter 7 Part 2 today.

It was magnificent.

Was it perfect? No. No film adaptation of a book can be perfect because what we imagine in our minds as we read is always so much richer, deeper and more personal than anything the Hollywood machinery can produce - well intentioned or otherwise.

It will come as no surprise to those of you who know me that I cried. A lot.

I'm a crier and I own that. Hell, Trixie knows all she has to do is pour me a glass of Chardonnay and venture near certain topics and the waterworks turn on. For the record, it's not sadness that produces my tears - most of the time - it's just the intensity of what I'm feeling manifesting itself.

I can make no claim to a long standing love of the Harry Potter series given that I only read them for the first time last summer. But the brevity of my love affair with Harry Potter is by no means an indication of its depth.

It is an extraordinary adventure that J.K. Rowling has created and one that resonates so strongly and so deeply within our own humanity, it's impossible for me to believe that people aren't moved by the story.

I went in to the movie knowing what was going to happen and knowing what scenes were likely to make me cry as they had done so already in the book. (Much to the embarrassment of the flight attendant on a flight home from London. Apparently not a lot of people weep openly while reading in Business Class. Who knew?)

What I wasn't prepared for were those moments that I hadn't expected. There is a scene where Harry returns to Hogwarts and Voldermort lets the whole school know that they will be rewarded and spared if they simply turn Harry over to him. One of the students calls on the others to deliver Harry to the Dark Lord. Silently, but saying everything as they did so, Harry's friends surround him and stare down the others. They let them know, without words, that if anyone coming for Harry would have to get through them first.

It is a beautiful reminder of the power of friendship. Of standing by those who mean so much to us, even if doing so means accepting less than pleasant consequences. I am blessed to have people like that in my life and I try never to take their presence for granted.

There was another moment when the Dementors and Death Eaters were trying to penetrate Hogwarts and Aberforth Dumbledore releases a Patronus to protect the spell. To those not versant in Potterverse, a Patronus is light, produced from happy memories, to chase away the dark. The spell may be magical but it is extraordinarily real. The light will chase the dark away. It's one of the reasons why Amnesty International's logo features a single candle. It truly is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.

The moment that affected me most deeply in the movie is the one that affected me most deeply in the book. Harry realizes what must be done to defeat Voldermort and what the cost will be. He is met by the ghosts of people who have died before him and whom he loves - his parents, his godfather and his friend. His question to them is perhaps the question of the ages:

Does it hurt? Dying?

Isn't that what we all want to know? It is not death we are afraid of, I don't think. But the process of it. The fear that dying will be painful and ungraceful. That we will not be able to handle it.

Harry is reassured that it's quicker than falling asleep and that he will not be alone. There is solace for him and for us in that reassurance.

Perhaps the moment that touched me the most was when Dumbledore told Harry:

Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic. They have both the power to hurt and to heal.

And that, right there, is perhaps the greatest appeal of Harry Potter of all: the truth. The adventure was great fun and what a treat to watch characters grow and develop over the course of almost a decade. But even though the books and the movies are set in a magical universe, where things are possible with the flick of a wand or the casting of a spell, it is the truth - at times unforgiving but always recognizable - that make the stories so special. A little escapism is a good thing but it's never good to escape so far you don't recognize where you've been taken.

Harry Potter is a testament to the power of imagination. Never underestimate what it can produce.

Love Shines

2011-07-06T19:33:00.000-04:00

Do you know who Ron Sexsmith is? Are any of his songs floating around on your iPod? Go ahead and have a look, I’ll wait right here.

Okay, so no?

You should.

He is one of the most exquisitely talented songwriters I have ever heard. I am a little late to the Ron Sexsmith fan club, though I have been familiar with some of his songs on and off over the last several years. However, a confluence of coincidences has consistently put his music in my path in the last few months.

The good folks at Hockey Night in Canada used one of his songs ‘There’s a Rhythm’ for one of the opening montages during the playoffs. I came across a clip on YouTube of Ron performing on Spectacle with Elvis Costello. And then, one night last week, post-thesis submission when I was relatively inert on the couch trying to recover from the demands of that little exercise I discovered the documentary about him released last year called Love Shines.

Have you seen it?

You should.

It is a fascinating look at how inequitable the music business is and that having talent – or even too much talent – can be an impediment to success.

Sexsmith’s talent is undeniable – both his songwriting and his performance – his vocals are light but moody, hopeful yet edged just ever so slightly with gloom. He is highly regarded by a number of musicians – Elvis Costello, Sheryl Crow, Steve Earle – and yet success has been hard to come by.

The documentary traces the making of his latest album, produced by Bob Rock. We are gifted with insight to the creative process as well as the business of trying to break on through to the other side. Sexsmith has been at this a long time but critical success has yet to translate to commercial success.

He is shy, almost tentative at times. It’s as though his talent is so much bigger than he is and wielding it is no easy task. But he does it. Whatever it is inside him that forces such extraordinary music to seep out, it is the real deal.

In a world of Beyonces, Britneys, Ke$has and the latest marginal talent benefiting from auto-tune, he stands apart. He is as unpackaged as they come.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe our attention spans have become so small, so tiny that we are incapable of hearing and seeing magic. Everything now has to be supersized – more glitz, more drama, more over the top than ever before.

Look at what we are missing.

Close your eyes and feel his music, allow it to seep in to you as it seeped out of him.

Throwing in the towel....and picking it back up

2011-06-14T19:54:00.000-04:00

Since 2008, ever since I read Stephanie Nolen's article in the Globe and Mail about "re-rape" occurring in the Democratic Republic of Congo, I have been trying to everything I can to raise awareness about the women and girls of the DRC.

I've written letters, blogged, bored my friends with my incessant rants, hosted and funded two benefits for different charities with a focus on the DRC and spent no small amount of sweat equity trying to shine a light on a very, very dark place.

Today I threw in the towel.

I'm planning for the next benefit - a staged reading of the Pulitzer Prize winner play 'Ruined' and today it was too much.

I'm writing my Masters' thesis. I work at a job that qualifies as more than full time and has me spending about 40% of my time circling the globe. I have friends I don't see enough of.

I'm tired. I'm tired of trying to secure cast members. I'm tired of trying to secure sponsors. I'm tired of paying for these benefits out of my own pocket and ultimately taking a loss despite ticket sales and generous support from friends.

It's all a lot of work. And for what, really? Not for a moment do I think I'm making any real difference. The number of women and girls who have been raped in the DRC tops half a million. The wilful ignorance by the world at large cannot be measured. My efforts are but a pebble in an ocean.

So what's the point? I can write cheques. I can write a pithy letter to the editor. I could even just forget it all together and spend my energy on other things. After all, no one is going to miss my efforts. I can spend my summer sitting on patios, enjoying friends rather than hustling from one place to another trying to convince organizations to cough up $500 or $1000 in sponsorship. I can spend my summer biking along the canal or travelling for fun (now there's a concept) rather than trying to persuade people to give up some of their time to help me deliver on something that doesn't appear to matter to anyone but me.

Hell, the money I would not have to spend would buy some lovely bottles of wine. Or some truly special single malt.

And cancelling those Google news alerts on the DRC would certainly reduce some of the collateral in my inbox.

That towel looked just fine tossed on the floor.

Then I read that the Canadian government is identifying $2 million for victims of sexual violence in Libya as a result of the hostilities there.

It was like a sucker punch to the gut.

The women of Libya need assistance and protection and this is certainly a good move by the Government. But while people around the world express their horror at what Libyan women have to endure, hundreds of thousands of girls and women have endured the same.

Millions of women have lived with rape as a weapon of war since the beginning of time.

This isn't an either/or situation.

If we can help the women of Libya, can we not do the same for those in the DRC?

But ultimately, chillingly, people by and large don't care about the women of the DRC. It could be because they're black. It could be because most of us couldn't find the DRC on a map, even if you spotted us the surrounding countries and it could be, as I am so often reminded, that things are tough all over and we can't care about everything. And isn't it more satisfying and fun to cuddle cute babies in an orphanage than worry about the systematic destruction of women?

Secretary of State Hilary Clinton visited the DRC and her solution was a fistful of dollars and video cameras. Video cameras so the women could capture their attackers and help with prosecution.

Secretary Clinton - are you for real?

The militia groups in the DRC are taking women and girls as sex slaves. They are raping babies to death. They are sticking guns in the women's vaginas and firing in hopes of killing them. And if they don't kill them then they have ensured they've destroyed their insides.

This is happening every hour, of every single day. This has been happening for more than 12 years. YEARS!

And I wonder if the women who are patients at the Heal Africa hospital or the Panzi hospital waiting to have their insides repaired, hoping the day will come when they will no longer suffer from infections because they are urinating through holes left by their attackers, wonder why the world has abandoned them? I wonder if they are heartbroken at being forgotten, at being victimized twice - first by their attackers and then by the inaction of the world?

I realize they don't have the luxury of time for these kinds of thoughts. Many have lost husbands, children, family. Many have no idea how they will ever make ends meet. They don't have time to wonder why the world has forsaken them, they simply have to get on with things.

And so I bent over and picked the towel back up.

It is going to take all the spare energy I have to pull off the reading of Ruined. It's going to cost money and time.

But I have to do it.

My efforts may be just one pebble in the ocean but I will be able to sleep at night knowing that I did something. I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing that femicide is happening in the DRC and I chose a summer of patios and parties rather than trying to do something just because I'm tired.

Years ago, the West Wing ran an episode called "The Women of Qumar" that has stayed with me to this day.

There are days I feel like CJ. There are days where I want to grab people and shake them and yell at them saying "they are RAPING women! "

I don't have the answer. I don't know how to solve this problem no matter how much I want to. And trust me, I very, very much want to.

Most days it feels like I'm just standing here, yelling at the wind. But maybe if I yell long enough and loudly enough, someone will yell with me. Maybe someone will say "I want to be in Ruined" or "I'd like to sponsor the event" or maybe someone will say "I'm going to throw my pebble in the ocean."

And I realize that is enough to keep the towel in my hand and not on the floor.

Not quite a hero

2011-06-05T16:10:00.000-04:00

There are many who consider former Senate Page Brigette DePape a hero for her silent protest during the Speech from the Throne.

Do not count me as one of them.

I admire Ms. DePape's passion and her engagement. She is clearly a bright, articulate young woman, intent on making a difference and an impact on the world around her.

What I do not admire is her timing nor her method.

That the Government, led by Stephen Harper, was found in contempt of Parliament during the previous Parliament is not in doubt. The finding was clear as was the subsequent non-confidence motion and the election that followed. There are many Canadians who are unhappy that on May 2nd a party which had been found to be in contempt was returned to power with a majority.

You can argue that we should have proportional representation or that the number of parties that lean centre and left dilute that end of the political spectrum therefore allowing the party that leans right to split the votes and win seats. Both of those things are true to a large extent.

But our system is democratic and each Canadian who is eligible has the right to express their preference at the ballot box. And on May 2nd, Canadians did exactly that and the results, whether you agree with them or not, are what they are.

When Ms. DePape held up her "Stop Harper" sign in the middle of the Speech from the Throne, while the Governor General was speaking, in the Senate Chamber, she demonstrated her contempt for our democratic institutions.

For those that argue that she was brave, that she was speaking for the 60% who voted for parties other than the Conservatives, I would ask you to consider if your position would be the same if she held up a Stop Abortion sign. Or a Stop Immigration sign. Or a Stop Universal Health Care sign.

Just because you agree with the sentiment does not mean the actions are right.

In my view, one of the cornerstones of a functioning democracy is respect for its institutions. Democracy is about more, much more, than the personalities who govern at any given time; it is about the esteem with which we hold the institutions that form the basis our government. There is a reason why, when you brief a Cabinet Minister or the Prime Minister, you stand up when he or she enters the room. It has nothing to do with your personal feelings for the person who holds the office and everything to do with respect the office itself.

Ms. DePape has called for Canadians to have their own version of the Arab Spring. This demonstrates a woeful lack of understanding of our democratic process and of what's happening in the Middle East. Those brave citizens who have sacrificed their jobs, their livelihoods or even their lives to bring democracy and change to their countries have done so because they live under tyranny. They have done so because they cannot trust their government institutions - elections are rigged, if there are any, minorities are suppressed and opposition voices are silenced, often violently.

Our elections are not rigged, even when the results are other than which we desire. And the fact that Ms. DePape was only fired and then free to be interviewed by every major media outlet rather than taken off to some secret prison and hidden away shows exactly why Canada is not in need of a movement like the Arab Spring.

Protesting is a good thing. And over the next four years those Canadians who disagree with the direction this country is going in should engage in creative and vociferous protest as moved to do so. It is every citizen's duty to hold their government to account. I expect we will hear more from Ms. DePape in the coming years - that's not a bad thing, as I stated earlier - she's passionate and articulate.

But she is also lacking in judgement.

Protesting someone's contempt for an institution by demonstrating your own contempt for the same institution is not heroic.

It is misguided.

On Pain

2011-05-24T21:11:00.000-04:00

So, thanks to my physiotherapist Luis, I've been spending a lot of time reading and thinking about pain. Luis is working with me trying to get my poor battered and twice surgically repaired knee back and functioning as well as possible. This is no easy feat but in the eight months I've been working with him I've made great progress with a few setbacks along the way to keep me humble.

The new element we are tackling is pain. I have it. Truthfully, I haven't had a pain free day since I fell screaming on the soccer pitch having shredded my ligaments and dislocated my kneecap. And anytime Luis tries something new, it inevitably leads to a few days of pain before the knee settles down again. What I'm learning from him is that your body can produce a pain response even when there is no damage. When you have a part of your body that is in chronic pain, your pain receptors are much more sensitive and in an effort to protect that body part from further damage, will fire off a pain response at the slightest provocation, whether there is damage or not. So my new job is trying to reset my pain threshold for my knee - no easy ~~feet~~ feat.

All this has got me wondering if the same thing applies to our heart or our spirit?

Is it possible, after heartbreak, deception or repeated hurt, that our emotional pain receptors become too sensitive and that we do everything we can to avoid it? All those walls that we build, all those obstacles we put in our own way and in the way of those in our lives are very possibly the result of a premature pain response for self-protection.

I also think how we respond to failure falls in to the same category. We, as a society, put a lot of emphasis on getting up off the mat after being knocked down. But is getting up enough? Is it enough if when we stand up we unconsciously take all kinds of measures to prevent us from actually trying again? Probably not. It can't just be about getting up - most of us get up. In order to reset our pain threshold it has to be about moving once we're up. Taking steps - maybe not the same ones that sent us flying to the mat - but steps just the same.

One thing that Luis has been quite careful of in these discussions about pain is to reassure me that the pain is real. It isn't all in my head - there is an actual physical reaction when the pain response fires off. And the same holds true for those suffering emotional pain, whatever the cause. The pain is real. But as the saying goes - pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.

Not for moment do I think the work at resetting the pain threshold around my knee will be easy. I have osteoarthritis and so there is degradation happening on a regular basis but in by putting the work in and changing the pain threshold, so many more things will open up to me and so it will be worth it. And I believe it's worth it to do it on matters of the heart or spirit as well. Life is fuller when we can do more, when we can experience more. Life isn't made for sitting on the sidelines.

ps - before I get those awkward sideways glances or emails asking if this is about something specific, it isn't. just some general musings....

To Vote....Perchance to Dream

2011-05-02T06:44:00.000-04:00

A vote is a dream. That single piece of paper awaiting your mark is the potential of our country laid out before you. Your choice, your mark, your x or your check mark is like turning the engine over on a national dream and hearing it roar to life.
What an awesome responsibility.

What an awesome opportunity.

Voting is not a requirement of Canadian citizenship but it is a right of it and thus an obligation. And it is the expression of our national consciousness every single time it happens, regardless of the outcome.

My grandmother never missed an election. Her final election was the 1990 Ontario provincial election. She was 86 years old at the time and while her mind was still engaged her body was not always as cooperative. A heart condition meant the trip to the polling station was an extraordinary effort for her but she was determined to exercise her franchise. After a discussion with my aunt, the election officials brought her ballot, a pencil and the cardboard voting screen out to the car.

Such was the importance of the vote to her that rather than stay home and tell herself it didn’t matter, hers was just one vote or any other number of excuses people make when they don’t vote, she just got on with it.

Because who better than a woman born in 1904 would understand the dream a vote represents?

She was a young woman of 14 when Canada granted the right to vote to all women of age in the country.

She was a married woman with a newborn when the government of Canada recognized women as persons under the law.

She saw two World Wars.

She raised six children, five of whom were born during the Great Depression.

No one needed to tell her it was important to vote. She knew. She knew because the world, and more importantly her country, changed radically over the course of her lifetime. And the best way for her to shape her dream for her country, for her children and her grandchildren was to vote.

I have voted in every election since I turned 18 and I will be voting today. I will be voting with pride, with enthusiasm and with a nod to all those who voted before me with a desire to shape their country. I will also be voting for all those who will vote after me. I will be voting because I dream of my country and all that it can be.

To vote is to dream out loud.

The DRC Speaks

2011-04-19T20:59:00.000-04:00

In the last few years that I have been writing about the DRC it has been easy, at times, to hear the voices of the survivors over the continuous burning rage I feel over the ~~pathetic~~ apathetic response from the world community.

This short video is a reminder of their individual voices and how important it is to hear them. It also will serve as a great reminder to Laura and I as we embark on a new fundraiser for the women and girls of the DRC this fall.

ps - if you're wondering whether or not voting in the upcoming Canadian election matters, have a look at the calls for democracy and elections by some of the world's most disenfranchised people.