“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

– Wendy Mass, The Candymakers

 

 

My dear son, 

I know this letter will come to you as a surprise, after so many years of silence. As you can guess, things have not quite worked out the way I hoped. I have been wandering around different European cities for the last four years, loading and offloading trucks in marketplaces, taking the odd job here and there. Life is tough, on most days I don’t make enough to buy a meal and pay rent. And the winters are harsh… without money for a bed, you’re out in the cold, and the cold here is insufferable. Alcohol, at least, is cheap. It keeps you warm. And then it drags you down.

I always had great dreams for us, or at least for me. I always thought I would make it big. That’s what your mother admired in me. She thought I would be different, that I would get us out of our slum, that we’d have a better life. But I am no angel, you know it. I have stolen and lied. I have beaten up a lot of people. I was respected, or at least feared, because I always put myself above the others. That faith in my own destiny is what kept me going, made me work my way up and allowed me to build my little empire.

I tried, I gambled big and at a point I really thought I’d pull it off. But I broke the legs and the egos of the wrong people, I got myself in trouble, I made powerful enemies and they came after me. I had to leave, for your mother’s sake and your sake and your brother’s sake, some day you will understand… 

Here I am not respected, I’ll always be a thug and a liar, but no one fears me anymore. I am just an old man trying to make a living, hauling heavy crates on my frail back. I have become that which I always mocked, those petty laborers whose only ambition is to make enough to buy their daily meal. My entire life’s battle was to show that I would be different, not the broken man that my father was, that I could be more than what fate had reserved for me.

I know you want nothing to do with me. I know I was not there when I should have been there to protect you and your brother. Now Juan José is gone and I cannot bring him back. It kills me to know he is dead because of my mistakes, because the two of you needed to prove to the world that you could succeed where I had failed. It kills me to know your mother will never recover, that I failed the one person who trusted in me.

I beg you, don’t follow my steps. It’s not too late. I know I always taught you to think big, go out and succeed. I thought if I got rich everything would work out. I was wrong. I know it is easier when you have money, but the fight just isn’t worth it anymore. I wish I could tell you it is easier elsewhere, but for people like us it isn’t.

 

There is another way. If there is one thing my exile has taught me, it is not to dwell on the past. Every day still brings its small joys, even when all seems lost. Those are the moments I’ve learned to keep my eyes open for. Those are the moments that make it worthwhile, those are the ones I want to share with you.

That is why I am writing to you. Your mother told me you had a daughter, she got a message to me. I cried when I found out. I never cry, real men don’t cry, but on that very moment you were born again and Juan José was born again. It brought me back in time, when we were young and foolish and still had dreams.

I really needed good news, it has been tough. Tougher than I’d care to admit. Just that week, the outdoor markets had closed because of a freak blizzard. I hadn’t eaten all day. A Spanish baker I know gave me some bread and a cup of tea. But I knew he couldn’t house me. The tea and your mother’s message kept me warm for a while, but I needed to find a bridge or an alleyway where I could sleep without getting frost and the police on my back. It was already late, the avenues were empty, and I’d be easily spotted. I started walking briskly into the more discreet side street. But as I struggled through the snowstorm, I noticed a vagrant in front of me. He was struggling to walk, crouched forward and obviously drunk. To be honest, the only think that crossed my mind was whether I’d be able to get my hands on his bottle.

Then suddenly, just a few steps ahead of me, he collapsed on the sidewalk. I felt this deep empathy as I watched him lying on the ground, a collapsed marionette whose strings had been cut. I feel for vagrants, not because I have become more human, but because I’ve been in their shoes. I crouched over him to make sure he was okay. First the smell hit me. He’d obviously not had a shower or a change of clothes in at least a month. But otherwise he seemed surprisingly peaceful. I looked around, found an alleyway and dragged him in, away from the blizzard. There were a few empty boxes in a garbage container, which I used to build a little cardboard house. I took my sleeping sack out of my duffle bag and wrapped him in it. I used a sweater to prop up his head. He looked cozy, I almost envied his tranquility in this bitter cold. I realized the spot he was lying in was as good as any to get some sleep, so I cuddled in next to him. The alleyway sheltered us from the wind and the cardboard from the cold. We kept each other warm.

I woke up at dusk the next morning as a police siren screamed by. My body was aching from the cold and my throat was sore, but strangely I was more concerned with my companion’s state. He was snoring gently.

I got up and walked over to the Spanish baker. He was always in very early. He saw me through the basement window and I asked him if he had anything left for a vagrant I found. He told me to sneak into the courtyard behind the bakery in five minutes. The few times I’d had to ask him for bread, he’d always jammed the courtyard gate open, allowing me to walk in and reach the garbage containers. And sure enough, in one of them, a plastic bag was waiting for me with two loafs of bread and a cup of warm tea. I snuck out of the courtyard and strolled back to the alleyway.

The vagrant was sitting peacefully in the improvised cardboard house when I got back. It was still dark. I handed over the warm bread and the tea he was obviously grateful. We didn’t speak. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite. I wished I had had some cheese to go with it. He asked me my name and I told him. He spoke slowly, asking me how we had ended up there and why I was sleeping in the streets. He looked much older than he was, and he spoke with remarkable clarity. I had a hard time finding the right words in French, but he did not seem to mind. He lit up when I told him I had just learned I had become a grandfather. He gave me a big awkward hug and I am pretty sure he dried a tear from his tired eyes.

The daylight became more insistent so we parted ways after our celebratory breakfast. My clothes were in better shape than his, so I could pass off as a hardworking laborer, but he was obviously living off scraps.

The storm passed and spring blossomed out of nowhere. The markets re-opened and I got work on most weekends… but still not enough to sleep indoors every night. As a token of appreciation, I got my Spanish baker a little box of chocolates which he struggled to accept.

A few weeks went by, and then last week something strange happened. I was walking down in the same neighborhood, walking briskly towards my preferred cockroach motel. It had been a hard week, with a fluke rain shower canceling the Saturday market. An old man in a grey suit suddenly called on me and walked slowly towards me, the wrinkles in his freshly shaven face a testament to the hard life he had had. He started to smile and spoke to me slowly, asking if he could buy me dinner. I looked suspiciously on to him, but agreed. Never say no to a warm meal. He reached out to me, I held his arm and we strolled slowly towards a bistro.

Only after we had crossed the street together did I realize I was talking to the vagrant, the same one who’d shared my first meal as a grandfather.

As we started eating a warm soup, Gabriel – that’s his name – asked me this question I’ll never forget: “You and I have spent way too much time surviving. But it is never too late to start again. What would you do different if you could start again? We can all choose to start again, every day is a new day. Whatever it is you would have done differently, do it! Do it now, we should all get a second chance if we decide to take it.”

He told me he’d met an angel, an angel who’d offered him a small apartment and companionship. He wanted me to share it with him, if I’d also stop drinking and we’d tidy each other up. Grandfathers shouldn’t sleep in the street, he said, and he’d really like to meet his grandchildren someday.

So now I have a warm place to stay and to wash. We get free meals at the soup kitchen where we help out in the evenings, and I’ve been able to put some money aside for the first time in a long time. I might even be able to get a return flight someday, assuming I have some place to return to.

 

Here I am, an old man writing to a son who wants nothing to do with his father, a father who represents everything he despises, like his own father despised his grand-father before him. It scares me, even as I write this, realizing how much we have in common.

You and I share this overwhelming longing for greatness, for recognition, this urge to prove ourselves more than what we were cast to be. I have trailed through life like a shooting star, burning many of those I have touched. And yet, that has not brought me any closer to immortality.

If I am to be remembered, I now realize, it will not be for what I have built, not for the size of my empire. Those who will remember me long after I am gone will do so because of what I represent and what I accomplished for them and those around them. They may not build statues for me, there may not be thousands of onlookers at my funeral, but if a few faithful souls tell my tale, then I will live on.

So as I toil to pay off my debts and buy an airfare, as I work to become a worthy grandfather, I leave you with my lifelong dilemma, a dilemma which you have already inherited: whatever path I decide to take in life, my children will follow suit, whether or not they realize it; for their sake, I pray that I may choose wisely. Only then may someone find it worthwhile to tell my tale.

Until we meet again,

Your loving father

 

***

Mario was tired but it had been a good three weeks. It all started when he was hanging around the park with his friends, bored and a little depressed. It had become their daily routine, loitering around the old basketball court and waiting, waiting for better times, more exciting times or just different times.

But on that day three weeks ago two young guys walked onto the basketball court dressed in white T-shirts and baseball caps with some fancy wave-like logos. Global coalitions for local action, it read. Mario assumed they were missionaries from a local church or from a new political party. They might even be bearing gifts.

The two youngsters were a little too neat and smart-looking to be from this part of town, with their nerdy glasses and notebooks, clean shoes and skinny build. Probably university students, he thought. They walked up to Mario and his friends and started to talk about some major campaign they were involved in, that would change their block, their neighborhood and ultimately the whole city. They talked of how local problems needed local solutions, and that politicians weren’t going to solve their problems. They talked of the great things groups of youngsters were doing in other parts of town and how they wanted change now.

Mario couldn’t quite explain why, but their passion was evident and their energy was contagious. Once Mario and his friends overcame the initial suspicion and, perhaps more importantly, the initial surprise that anyone would even care about their opinion, they got more comfortable and shared their life and challenges. They told the students about the lack of jobs, the fact that they didn’t have money to leave town, that they wouldn’t know where to go. They explained their sense that they were trapped in this neighborhood, in this town. They shared how they stopped going to the city center at night, just because they got tired of being harassed by the police. They talked about the stern looks they got from the older folks in their neighborhood because of the clothes they wore and the way they had their hair. They talked about the recent municipal elections and all the excitement about the free T-shirts, food kits and flashlights. But they also explained they knew nothing would change.

The students were smart; they really seemed to understand the city and the challenges of young jobless guys. But more importantly they actually seemed to care about their problems. They got it when Mario explained that they felt trapped in trying to play roles that weren’t theirs to play – for instance when they dressed up for interviews for positions as a clerk or for waitering jobs that they never got. They much preferred just hanging around the park and having to deal with the disapproving looks of their parents or neighbors, than having to deal with the abuse of despondent bosses paying miserly wages.

They tried to stay honest and keep away from trouble, but options were few. Luckily the biggest drug lord had been killed a few years ago, so the pressure to join the local gang had reduced. It was still the best way to make money and maybe even find a way out. They mentioned the lack of training, the lack of opportunities, the need to get by with whatever skills you had without ending up in prison.

The two students were taking notes and seemed fascinated by their stories. They wanted more detail and pushed Mario to find what was keeping them from moving forward. Somehow they convinced him to join a chat at the local animal shelter on mapping local problems. It seemed a strange proposition, but the students displayed such good spirits that he hadn’t had the heart to turn them down.

So Mario showed up for the course a few days later, sat in a room with a bunch of other youngsters from the neighborhood and played games with local volunteers, young and old, wearing T-shirts with logos from different organizations. They learned about drawing maps, scales and symbols. And they taught each other a few new dance moves on bachata music.

Mario agreed to attend another chat two days later, and he learned about community cohesion, the power of working together and salsa dancing. His dancing skills were going to improve for sure. They drew another map at a larger scale. He was paired up with a girl, Judith, who lived in the same street as him, and they learned about asking questions to their neighbors. They were given a green volunteer cap and a single task: ‘go and talk to every neighbor in your street and find out what their main challenges are’. Mario had never been given so much responsibility in his life, with his official notebook and uniform. He had never felt quite so galvanized about taking on a challenge, nor had he ever felt quite so empowered.

Mario and Judith met up on the following Saturday, and started tallying all the houses on Mercedes street, the Calle Mercedes where they both lived. There were 22 houses in their street, or roughly 30 families. He knew three families well, Judith another five. They started with those eight families, explaining the project and asking them to walk down the street with Mario and Judith to indicate any of their concerns. Street lighting came up a lot, as well as the distance to the public transport.

Mario and Judith got introductions from neighbors they knew to neighbors they didn’t. It took them four days, but they eventually reached 25 of the 27 families. One grumpy old man did not want them anywhere near his front door, and one house seemed to be always closed.

As Mario and Judith knocked on the other doors in their street, they found out that four homes were getting flooded every year, and another five had been broken into in the previous year. Gang fighting and theft were high on the list as well, especially due to the dark streets. They came up with a list of six priorities, and asked every neighbor they spoke to to join for the presentation of this first quick mapping exercise. That was planned for this morning.

Ernesto – the older of the two students who had showed up on the basketball course three weeks earlier – joined them for the presentation of the findings. It took a while to round up the neighbors, even on a Saturday morning, but by 10 am they had twenty adults and eight toddlers under the old mango tree by the corner shop. People looked on a little eerily, recognizing familiar faces and not-so-familiar neighbors. Salutations were exchanged; discreet conversations went on until the brief talk was formally launched.

Ernesto led the talk. He explained the purpose of the study, the importance of getting neighbors to meet, know each other and discuss common issues, especially in dense urban areas like this one. He explained that he was a student hoping to become a teacher some day and he was also a part-time volunteer in this mapping exercise. He had been asked to help the Santa Rita neighborhood identify some of its concerns, to see how they could tap into existing resources of the government (muffled groans from the crowd), local organizations, foundations or even big businesses. Some older participants seemed skeptical, so Ernesto shared some success stories from the La Colorada neighborhood, and how it had led to the construction of a pedestrian bridge over the southern ravine. The materials for that bridge had been donated by the G&W Hardware company, the UAM University had provided the engineers and the same La Colorada residents found a carpenter ready to give a hand.

Eventually, after a passionate discussion, the Calle Mercedes crowd came to a consensus on which were the most important and time sensitive priorities. They reviewed the rough map that Mario had drawn, indicating every house, every corner shop, every tree and even every electric post. He had included a large blue patch, the flooding area where four families had reported damage. The map was basic, yet colorful and reflective of the different challenges the families had expressed.

A few additions were suggested by the group. Mario quickly added them. On Ernesto’s request, they then volunteered two participants to represent them in further meetings: Miss Yesica, who owned the street shop, and Mario, who had been so convincing in presenting the map back to them. They would speak on their behalf in the block discussions for the Santa Rita neighborhood.

The whole presentation and minor changes to the map were over in an hour, and all gave a warm round of applause when the street map was finished. Ernesto thanked the neighbors for their time and quickly put on some salsa music. After a little convincing, he got Mario and Judith to give a demonstration of their newly-acquired dance moves. The neighbors, initially amused by the youthful enthusiasm of the dancers, quickly resumed their discussions in smaller groups with old acquaintances and newly-met neighbors. They talked and talked, generated heated debates but all seemed to ultimately agree, and Miss Yesica, taking her new representative role very seriously, fielded questions and suggestions from her neighbors late into the night.

***

As he helped Ernesto wrap up, Mario – ‘the Nica’ as he was known locally because his grandparents were from Nicaragua and had arrived in the neighborhood a mere thirty years earlier – felt, for the first time in his life, a sense of belonging to this group of houses that he had drawn so carefully on the map.

Long gone were the days of bullying in school, for being foreign, in name only, but foreign all the same to many of his bigger classmate in the constant lookout for new scapegoats. Gone were the name-callings, the drubbings, the cigarette burns, the isolation in the playground. He had made it through school and his bullies had moved on, many of whom had joined the local gang, Los Santos, “the saints”, an ironic take on the name of the neighborhood, Santa Rita. Others had left the neighborhood and never returned.

Even today, Mario was cautious to always steer clear of the Los Santos headquarters, a run-down house that served as a meeting point for the gang members and their small drug trafficking. It was easily discernable, proudly on display rather than hiding, painted in vivid colors with its English-language logo over the entranceway: “Get rich or die tryin”. He knew from experience the gang members had a very literal interpretation of their mantra.

Somehow, those painful childhood memories and the gang just a few blocks away suddenly seemed but very distant memories. The weeklong discussions with his neighbors had suddenly given him a renewed credibility in the eyes of his community. As if carefully representing every single noteworthy item from his street had forced Mario’s neighbors to look at his neighborhood differently, as if it had given him new rights over the street he had always lived in.

So perhaps it should not have come as much as a surprise to Mario that he would have been chosen to speak on behalf of his neighbors in further meetings. As if his neighbors now saw something in him that he did not know existed. Perhaps he was more than just the skinny kid who wasn’t really from Santa Rita.

Something had changed in Mario’s street. He wasn’t sure what, but something was different. He was now part of something, something that went beyond him, something that went beyond any individual family in the Mercedes street. Something that connected all of these other people who had lived in the same place for years and who, often to their surprise, suddenly realized how much they shared and how many challenges they have in common. And they had tasked Mario to take them down a path that none of them could take on their own.

A sense of community had emerged. Mario would not let them down.

 

To Chapter 2

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.

– Richard Buckminster Fuller

 

 

The discussions were tense and the late afternoon air was hot and stuffy. About 30 adults were crouched in the miniature chairs in the primary classroom, surrounded by drawings of all types. Each street representative had brought his or her hand-drawn map, from their own discussions. They had tried – not too successfully – to organize the maps each in relation to the others. But the different scales, sense of proportion and artistic approaches made the patchwork of stained and torn flipchart papers a compelling tribute to the communities’ commitment to representing all of their challenges and resources. By unanimous decision, they had assigned Juan, “the engineer” as he was known locally, the impossible task of making sense and combining all of these minute descriptions of each street into a single map to represent the Santa Rita area.

It had taken Ernesto a few trips to organize this meeting. On his explicit request, Mrs. Yolanda Flores – known to all as Doña Yolanda – had made sure to involve a few key additional participants, such as Don Raúl, the school headmaster; a couple neighbors who worked in the municipality; and Tío Joaquín, a 94-year-old painter who spent most of his days on his patio looking at neighborhood life go by. Ernesto wanted to make sure the street discussions and the broader perspective were sufficiently aligned and he’d asked Doña Yolanda to lead the discussions.

These local leaders, together with the map-bearing representatives from each of the streets, were reviewing and finalizing the neighborhood’s seasonal calendar – a calendar of annual employment cycles, flooding months, peaks in violence, dengue outbreaks and any other item that these different representatives had brought back from their own street discussions. Doña Yolanda kept the discussions moving swiftly. She’d gotten all participants to approve a historical profile of the community, digging deep in the memory of the older participants, from the founding of the area as a residential neighborhood (1960s), to the first floods (1975), first paved streets (1993) and first gang violence (2002).

They consolidated the extensive list of needs from the different maps onto a single list. Mario and Miss Yesica had posted five priorities from their own map: flooding, street lighting, security, the state of the road and activities for youngsters. After all the groups had presented their own concerns, the Santa Rita priorities were consolidated into thirty five topics. They now had to bring the list down to the five that could garner the broader consensus. They needed to focus on those that were most important, but also those that they could solve locally. Unless Santa Rita was able to get at least a few things done quickly, Ernesto pointed out, they would lose the momentum and interest of their neighbors. Ernesto went on, giving examples from other neighborhoods. Even though security was the highest concern, he explained, getting rid of the garbage in the streets was much more achievable in the next couple weeks.

In addition, Ernesto explained, the street representatives needed to discuss who else should be included in their neighborhood committee, an important strategy to gain allies to help address specific items that other organizations could help address. Miss Yesica was quick to jump in. She made a passionate appeal on including the electricity board, as she had already sent out numerous letters insisting that public lighting be installed in critical locations – such as her shop corner.

The discussion got animated, with each participant thinking of a couple partners that needed to be involved. Doña Yolanda stepped in and moderated the discussion. Mario was assigned as note-taker, and he did his best at reflecting everyone’s contributions on the flipchart paper. Thankfully Doña Yolanda kept the process on track, repeating key suggestions from the participants.

Doña Yolanda had been an important part of the roll-out of the process in her community, reaching out to a local coalition of local development organization and the Red Cross. She spoke with authority and people listened. Which is why Ernesto relied so heavily on her support. Mario knew of her story and felt honored he’d been tasked as her note taker.

***

Doña Yolanda was a local school teacher who, like Mario, had spent her whole life in Santa Rita. She had taken on a prominent role in the fight for better teaching conditions in the nineties and was still remembered for the fundraising campaign, known as the “Wednesday pastry sale campaign”, to build new latrines in the school through the sale of cakes and juices. Around the room, many of the street representatives remembered her from their school days.

In 2005, Doña Yolanda’s husband had been killed in a bus accident, days after he had finally obtained a local government job that he had been vying for. A few weeks later her daughter Maria Soledad decided to move back in with her. Maria Soledad’s partner had left her a few months earlier, and she found it impossible to get by with her two jobs and her three-year-old daughter Dolores. Doña Yolanda would take care of Dolores after school hours as Maria Soledad worked double shifts as a cleaner on the other side of town.

The little Dolores loved to sing, so Doña Yolanda made sure she’d learn a new song every week to sing to her tired mother when she finally got home. Anticipation built up late at night when the time came for Maria Soledad to come home and Dolores would stand guard by the window, however tired she may be.

The night would fill with music as Dolores stood proudly on her mother’s bed, the world her stage, and she sang the latest hit songs. Yolanda and Maria Soledad would jump in to keep her going when she got confused, but the ritual always ended with a round of laughter as they went off key. However hard Maria Soledad’s days were, somehow the energy and enthusiasm of her daughter made it all worthwhile.

***

On a late afternoon of October 13^th, 2007, Doña Yolanda was at the makeshift local playground with her grand-daughter and other young kids from the neighborhood. Yolanda kept a distracted eye on Dolores as the girl made valiant efforts to climb up the wet slide, getting her little red dress covered in mud, as was customary for her on rainy days. The clouds had scattered, but the square was already getting dark under the shade of the few surviving trees and the closely built homes around the square.

Suddenly a black SUV came speeding across the square, coming to a screeching halt a few meters from two youngsters loitering under a broken lamppost. A half dozen gunshots were heard and the two youngsters collapsed to the ground. The SUV gave a quick spin and headed out the way it came, crossing the park again. From the opposite side of the park, three other youths came running out of the derelict home that served as the Los Santos gang headquarters. They ran desperately across the park as they fired their guns towards the fleeing car. Two bullets hit the car in the hood as it sped past the slides. One hit five-year-old Dolores in the head. The girl’s body collapsed and slid slowly down the slide, as the noise of the gunshots gave way to Doña Yolanda’s pathetic wails for help as she cuddled her grand-daughter’s lifeless body in her arms. Dolores and the two young drug dealers were killed on the spot. Three mothers received that afternoon the hardest phone calls anyone can give.

The park shooting led to a dramatic spiral of violence. Arturo, the gang leader whose friends had been killed under the lamppost, the Los Santos leader who, in his blind rage and poor aiming skills, had fired the fateful bullet that killed Dolores, waged a series of bloody retaliations in the neighboring gang’s territory. His revenge runs led in turn to further attacks in the community, which led to further counter-attacks. For weeks, no one wandered outdoors except for emergencies. Those who could afford to moved out. The others boarded their windows and doors. Perhaps more than anyone, the police and the military were conspicuously absent from the deserted streets.

Maria Soledad never recovered from the shock of her daughter’s death, combining the pain of the loss with the guilt of not being there that day. On the seventh day, four days exactly after her daughter’s funeral, Yolanda found Maria Soledad’s lifeless body in the bathroom. Two wrists slit open and an absent gaze from her daughter as she lay lifeless in the small tub. Her motionless body in a pool of red blood, red like Dolores’ dress on that fatal day. A strange peacefulness emanated from Maria Soledad as her empty, tired eyes gazed at the cracked ceiling.

In that moment, as Doña Yolanda’s responsibility for her grieving daughter suddenly vanishing, her world collapsed. For hours that felt like weeks, she cried on that bathroom floor, holding her daughter’s limp hand. The pain left way to anger, the anger to disbelief.

Yet strangely, as Yolanda’s eyes ran out of tears and the morning light entered through the barricaded windows, a peaceful calm and determination filled her aching body. With gunfire still ringing daily in the streets, she felt the inner void fill with a renewed purpose. Unaware of time or date, oblivious to the untold curfew, Doña Yolanda put on her nicest dress and walked out the door of her house. In an oppressively hot and quiet morning, she took a few steps into the empty street, the portrait of Dolores in one hand and Maria Soledad in the other. She walked down her unpaved street to the school, through the park and down the main business street. She passed by the shuttered stores, walked up the slopping hill to the other side of the neighborhood and back to the park. As she started her second round, she noticed more and more curious looks between the cracks in the boarded up windows. On her fourth round, three neighbors furtively opened their doors, looking left and right, and joined her march, carrying their own portraits of lost family members. By her sixth round, she had close to a hundred neighbors marching behind her in total silence, some with portraits, others with messages begging for peace. On her seventh round, she took a right turn and walked down the usually bustling commercial street separating Santa Rita from the adjacent neighborhood of Esperanza, where the Los Santos nemesis gang was based. She then crossed the empty Avenida Independencia and walked towards the narrow street leading to the neighboring gang’s territory. The crowd behind her came to a stop as she crossed the deserted avenue, but one, then two, then a dozen of her followers decided to follow her. All carried on.

As she had done in Santa Rita, Doña Yolanda completed her march around the Esperanza neighborhood, once, twice, three times, followed by her army of portrait bearers. No gang members in sight, no gun shots, even the birds seemed to look on respectfully in the heavy silence. As she pursued onwards, a few Esperanza residents started join the march, gravely carrying their own frames and signs.

Feeling the growing tiredness of the crowd, Doña Yolanda walked back down the hill, back onto Avenida Independencia, and, never doubting, started walking down the empty avenue towards the nicer parts of town.  Her followers again started to waver – they knew their march would not be welcome intruding on the lives of the gente bien – the good people, those with formal jobs, cars, healthcare, security and the faith that their children’s life would turn out to be better than their own. But Doña Yolanda’s resolve knew no hesitation and she marched onwards. Her followers, cautious at first, carried on. As the marchers reached the manicured parks and freshly painted fences, bystanders looked on incredulously and reverently stepped aside. After a seemingly endless afternoon, Doña Yolanda reached her goal. Without a word, she stopped in front of the mayor’s house and, in the middle of the burning street, sat down, one portrait on each knee. The couple hundred followers still at her tow huddled around her, setting up camp in the street, all portraits facing the well-guarded fence.

Doña Yolanda spent the night on the tarmac. No one dared to say a word, other than the occasional whispers. Food appeared out of nowhere, seemingly from supportive maids working in the different houses on the street. No one came out or went into the Mayor’s house, though curtains moved and more security guards seemed to appear out of nowhere. A police cordon was set up at a respectful distance.

At twelve noon precisely the following day, Doña Yolanda rose to her feet, picked up her frames and started the trek back to her neighborhood. Those followers who had spent the night with her silently got up and followed her back.

The march did not solve the gang problems in the neighborhood. The news media had been surprisingly silent, focusing instead on the local beauty pageant. The police and the army did take a few measures, setting up a heavy presence in both neighborhoods for a few months, temporarily curtailing the shooting. The gangs reached a truce, buried their dead, and got back to business as usual. A strange tranquility fell on the neighborhood.

But something had changed in Doña Yolanda. She would have quit her job as a teacher if she could have afforded it, but she struggled on. All her friends and acquaintances seemed to believe – perhaps hoping more than believing – that time would heal her wounds. She got many hugs, many words of condolences, many “you are strong, you will get over it”, though seemingly more for their own sake than for hers. They acted as if she’d broken a limb and that her bone would naturally recover once cast properly. Time would heal anything.

But deep down Doña Yolanda knew she was more of a double amputee, losing her daughter and grand-daughter. Double amputees don’t recover, she learned; they learn to live with their new reality. Doña Yolanda had to relearn how to live.

So she introduced violence prevention classes in the primary school on afternoons, and started reaching out to different organizations around her town. She kept her living room door open 24 hours a day, offering guidance to school dropouts, shelter to abused housewives and a compassionate ear to grieving parents.

Perhaps more importantly, Doña Yolanda came to represent a change in this broken neighborhood. Whenever she spoke, people listened. Whatever she did, people watched. Losing everything had broken her; but having nothing more to lose made her invincible. Unwillingly, unknowingly, her commitment to ensuring that her story would not happen again made her a voice to be reckoned with.

***

The participants in the little classroom were tired, the flies were getting noisier. Ernesto knew the discussions had to end soon. There was only so much time Doña Yolanda could keep her neighbors focused. With that natural authority that came with decades of teaching, she was helping them reach a consensus on the top five priorities from their original list. Every participant had placed three little stickers for their priority topics as a way of casting their vote. Mario was actively ranking the findings based on the number of stickers.

Doña Yolanda then wrote on the blackboard, in her neat, cursive handwriting the results as Mario read them out. The items that most participants wanted addressed first were: 1. Public lighting and security; 2. Lack of activities for youngsters; 3. Improper garbage disposal and mosquito breeding; 4. Flooding in four streets by the main drain; 5. Teenage pregnancies.

Only one last step, explained Ernesto. They needed to create momentum, make everyone realize they were serious about change. They needed to show action, getting things done, focusing on the most tangible priorities and getting a few volunteers from each street on some immediate steps. Ernesto was obviously excited by the progress. He turned back to Doña Yolanda.

“What can we do about this?” asked Doña Yolanda as she pointed to the top of the list: “1. Public lighting and security.” Everyone in the room knew what such an innocuous-sounding title referred to, and a heavy silence fell in the room.

As if waiting for their cue, three young men barged into the room. Arturo, the Los Santos gang leader, shouted: “Thank you for your participation, everyone. The show is over, you may now go home.” He was obviously upset. He waited a few seconds for everyone to overcome their initial shock, then went on.

“This is nonsense, no one wants more problems here.” Arturo, despite his young age, was obviously used to being listened to, and the two menacing henchmen behind him often helped him make his point.

“Or does anyone here want to go through more wars, more deaths? Haven’t we been through enough?”  Everyone stayed silent, their gazes facing to the floor.

Ernesto froze on his feet. This was not on his guidance notes. This was not in any course he had taken. This was not supposed to happen. Some of the participants started to collect their belongings as quietly as they could.

“I agree.” Doña Yolanda finally broke the silence and spoke in a slow, tired voice: “Haven’t we been through enough? Arturo, you, of all people, can’t you see we’ve been through enough…”

She paused. No one could disagree with Yolanda. She continued in her clear, sad voice.

“You and I have had our differences. But neither you nor I can change the past. I do know we can change the future. This is our chance to change our future. No one is going to do it for us. You know we don’t exist for the government. With all due respect, should we give credence to their characterizing of our neighborhood? Aren’t we nothing but a gang of thieves and murderers? No one ventures here anymore, you know that. If we don’t fix the drainage or lighting, no one will. If we don’t offer our youth real choices, they will keep on leaving.”

Arturo was not accustomed to being challenged. Doña Yolanda’s arguments only made things worse. He retaliated, waving his gun angrily in the air as he shouted.

“How can you think that dividing up our community will make us more united? We are already doing everything we can to make sure that money is coming in here, that there are no thieves wandering in our streets, and when there are, we find them and make sure they remember us. We provide security like no-one ever has. We make sure every youngster with a bit of ambition has the opportunity to help his parents.

Arturo seemed to reflect for a few seconds, then added, in a much softer tone:

“I wish I could say this did not come as a cost, and I lament your loss as much as you do. This war has cost me my brother, so you are not alone. We are all suffering here, but there is no other way. There is only one way we can offer this neighborhood a future, and if the way we do it hurts your ethics, well I am sorry, feel free to move out.”

Doña Yolanda was unperturbed. The weight of her sorrow seemed to be too much for her to bear, so she sat down on her chair, took a deep breath and carried on.

“I have been told you have a daughter now. That makes us both parents. You can’t change what has happened to your brother, I can’t change what happened to Dolores and Maria Soledad, but we can help to make sure it doesn’t happen to Felicia. This is our community…” Doña Yolanda breathed deeply.

“… this is your community as much as it is mine.” She paused a few seconds before going on, No-one moved.

“This is only a small step. We won’t change the world. You and I may not even see the difference in our lifetimes. But working together and reaching out to others is the only way. This community, as you say, cannot continue to be divided. To live in fear. To lock itself up. We are more than our guns and our greed. We have creativity, we have youth and, I have seen it in this room, we have faith that tomorrow can be different.”

Doña Yolanda got up slowly. Mario came to give her a hand.

“We don’t need to agree on everything, but we do need to accept that sometimes our collective wisdom is greater than our individual will. But our collective wisdom must include all of us. We can’t do this without you…” She paused again. All eyes were on Arturo and Doña Yolanda.

Doña Yolanda walked up to Arturo, still standing close to the doorway. She reached out slowly for his arm, in her slow, grandmotherly way, and offered him her chair on the first row.

Arturo violently removed Doña Yolanda’s caring arm, gave a sudden turn and barged out. He gave a quick sign for his hitmen to hold the door.

The meeting resumed under the watchful eyes of the gang members. No one discussed security or public lighting, though it stayed on the top of the list. All agreed on a couple activities they could carry out for the garbage disposal, and tasked Licenciado Morales and Ernesto with writing a letter regarding the state of the basketball court.

Ernesto read out the immediate actions they could take. A sense of disbelief could be felt in the room, following so many hours of intense discussions in the room. A muffled round of applause served as the official approval of the neighborhood’s priorities.  For the first time ever, they had a plan and concrete steps. They had a way of working together, however small those steps were. The hitmen had not said a word throughout the discussion. As Ernesto gave some final words of thanks, the two gang members rate suddenly left the classroom. Without a word. No one knew what would happen, but a page had been turned.

 

Mario was satisfied. He felt his mandate had been achieved. Flooding had made the list, even if it only concerned four houses. He looked forward to reporting back with Miss Yesica on Saturday to the neighbors in his street. Ernesto explained the next steps. They needed to present their plan at the City Steering Committee, a pompous name for a gathering of neighborhood representatives, along with the Municipal Authorities, universities, the Red Cross and local development organizations. All agreed that Doña Yolanda should represent them. She reluctantly agreed but gave her condition: that all those present participate in a school rehabilitation day, and involve as many parents as possible.

There was applause, there was laughter, there was a feeling of progress. There even was a diffuse sense of hope. After much debate, the thirty participants had reached a consensus, a detailed agreement on concrete next steps, despite differences in income, affiliations and identities. Without realizing it, they had overcome past struggles and differing views of the future. They had identified leaders from within their ranks, leaders who shared their daily struggles but also believe in their ability to do more in the face of adversity.

Together they had set a common course, a shared vision for the streets they live in. The seeds of collective action had been sown. There was much work to be done and all knew the challenges would be great. But the participants also left the meeting with the confidence that if they succeeded in working together, anything was possible. They would be unstoppable.

 

To Chapter 3

“We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness – not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way.

“Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost….”

– Charlie Chaplin – “The Great Dictator” movie, 1940

 

 

 “”

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Welcome to today’s event, a particularly important inauguration. I am honored to have been invited to speak, as the mayor of our beautiful city in this particularly resilient neighborhood. But want you to forget for a moment that I am the mayor, for that is not why I have been asked to speak. Forget that I am an elected official, I want to say a few words as a fellow resident, a witness who has been profoundly touched and moved by what he sees happening around him.

Our city has gone through a lot. Unplanned urbanization, joblessness, extreme wealth and extreme poverty, violence… My daily struggle is to see where we should be working, what we should be doing first, the needs are so great. And usually the poorer neighborhoods like your own don’t get the support they should, never are we able to come anywhere close to providing the help you need.

So of course, you really did not need the earthquake three months ago. It hit us hard. But it did not hit everyone equally. It hit hardest those who were already struggling to get by. Like many of you here, from this neighborhood, from Santa Rita.

 I have a lot of respect for residents of Santa Rita, and I know it has been a long battle. So I really felt the pain you felt when many of you lost your belongings, or had your houses damaged. It was all over the news, and rightly so. But as is often the case, the government’s response was not adequate. The Municipality provided a little more, but nowhere near what the needs were. 

So I was excited when we got news that an international organization saw the damage we had suffered on the news. They wanted to give us a hand. Great news!

Once they arrived here, I received a formal written invitation to observe the relief operation. Actually, I am pretty sure I was not invited. It was one of these awkwardly written letters informing the authorities of an important event. But really, in the way it was worded, it made it clear that they did not consider it important enough that the participation of local politicians was required.

The wording of the letter aroused my interest. But that was not the only reason. They explained that their first distribution was going to take place in Santa Rita and Esperanza. Now that raised my interest even further. However much you had been affected by the earthquake, which no one would argue about, I would have thought twice about carrying out any kind of open distribution in either neighborhood, much less carry out a joint distribution for both neighborhoods. It is no secret that the two neighborhoods do not hold each other dearly, to put it mildly. The letter had raised my curiosity; I decided to go and see.

Well, early on that Thursday morning, I was not disappointed. I had arrived a little before them, but thought it safer to park a bit further out. Then suddenly, a convoy of brand-new white Jeeps descended on Santa Rita and Esperanza with the grace of an exuberant elephant taking over the management of a porcelain store. Just as they entered the Avenida de la Independencia between Santa Rita and Esperanza, three cars parked on either side of the deserted boulevard. They were clearly trying to set up some kind of safe zone.

As I walked up the avenue, I remember this strange impression of an encounter of the third type: as the dust was settling, the team members seemed to be cast straight out of a Swedish soap opera. Tall, blonde, blue eyes, brand new uniforms with colorful logos, perfectly combed hair over perfectly grown beard stubbles, fishing vests with more pockets than I have lovers. Every team member seemed to talk on their satellite phones at the same time…

All this to say I was impressed. They had announced a time and showed up ten minutes before. They obviously had money and did not mind showing it. They had put a lot of thought in the logistics, dropping in on a town they had no clue about.

I eventually realized they were not all foreigners. Some of our fellow countrymen were starting to walk up to the improvised distribution site, wearing the same perfectly ironed vests. A couple of them recognized me as I looked on from the side and they came to introduce themselves. These latecomers lacked the confidence and equipment of their alpha team. And they had obviously decided, as I had, that it would be safer to park a few blocks away from the avenue.  

I wasn’t too sure what they were waiting for. Then suddenly a green van drove up the avenue and parked right in the middle of the closed-off avenue. An unidentified television crew came out of the van and started to set up their equipment.

It seemed the show was ready. The team leader, recognizable by his platinum blonde hair and a stubble noticeably longer than the others, shouted something in his phone and all took to their positions. Now, “taking their positions” may be pushing it a little. It primarily seemed to consist in smoking cigarettes by their Jeeps. A few minutes later, two old furniture trucks plastered with the same logo came up the street. They painfully maneuvered between the potholes and the white Jeeps and U-turned. Once parked side by side, their doors opened to face the empty avenue.

Actually, by then the streets weren’t so empty. Curious onlookers had started to converge, though they all remained at a reasonable distance, as I did. A few shop owners decided to close their stalls, but still kept a discreet eye on the process.

I was told that the team had given out vouchers to local organizations to hand out to the most needy, who would then redeem those vouchers for the boxes of food kits and other items in the trucks. It seemed they expected that the people of Santa Rita and Esperanza would walk down together, hand in hand, to get their free donations. After all, who doesn’t want a free meal?

Some people started to gather around the white Jeeps. They were directed to the two lines that were being formed to redeem the vouchers. But there were very few voucher holders. It was still early, no one expected the distributions to start on time, if they expected them to take place at all. The first vouchers were being exchanged for white cardboard boxes, which the new owners quickly disappeared with. That is when the trouble started.

Well, you probably saw or heard what happened next. Two shots were fired, in the air it seems. Everyone got to the ground, then rushed for the side streets. The foreigners scurried to their white Jeeps and drove off as fast as they had arrived. The television crew was the first to go.

Only one Jeep remained. The team leader stood in the middle of the cloud of dust and abandoned boxes, wondering what had just happened. Behind him, the two furniture trucks stood frozen, their doors wide open, revealing the thousands of white boxes neatly stacked inside. Apparently the drivers had also run for cover.

Faithful to my true courageous self, I stood in the back, looking on from a street corner along with a number of frightened neighbors. I somehow convinced myself that it was from afar that I was in the best position to assess the situation and determine what actions should be taken. At no point did it occur to me to call the police or our security department. Just for the record, and I know one day the politician in me will regret it, I cannot take any credit for anything that happened that day.

As the team leader tried to consider his options, a black pick-up truck drove out of a side street from Esperanza and drove aggressively towards the two trucks. It stopped a few meters from the team leader, and two armed youngsters jumped out of the back. They got into the first truck and, with the pick-up backing up closer to the truck, they started throwing boxes onto the rear bed. Just as the team leader came to his senses, a second pick-up truck came out of the same street and drove up to the second truck. The team leader started shouting to the youngsters in poor Spanish, but they just ignored him.

I watched on. We all did. It seemed so predictable, so easy, so ridiculous. One of the gang members got into the last remaining white Jeep, and drove off into the same side street. I am not even sure the team leader noticed. He was too busy arguing with the driver of the second pick-up, who just appeared to relish his sudden importance.

Now, I have been critical over the years of our armed forces. I can say they have been known for showing up after the battle. But that day was different. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before three military trucks with heavy duty machine guns suddenly charged into the avenue, taking both pick-ups by complete surprise. I have no clue how they knew about this, I can only assume someone in that team has used their high level contacts to request protection for the distribution. All I can say is that suddenly the rules of the game had changed.

The driver of the second pick-up, who had been enjoying the attention, if not the spittle, of the team leader, suddenly reacted. Still seated behind the steering wheel, he grabbed the Swedish team leader by the collar, dragged him to the window, pulled a gun out of nowhere and shoved it into the humanitarian’s neck. I could hear the shout of the Commander ordering his men to hold their fire. Suddenly we had a hostage situation. I think that’s when it hit the team leader; that is when he realized he was in trouble.

Had I been younger and braver, I probably would have walked in to try to defuse the situation. But I calculated that getting a bullet through my head would lower my chances of being reelected. So I decided to stay put.

As minutes went by, the stand-off got increasingly complicated. I was standing on the Santa Rita side of the avenue, which means I had a good view of the Esperanza side. So I could see three more heavily armed vehicles driving down the neighborhood. As well as the movement on the roofs of the stores across the street, with gang members taking aim at the military vehicles. The commander also noticed those movements, got his men under cover and called in for more troops. There was nowhere the two black pick-ups could go to. There was nowhere the military trucks could move. Just that one hostage keeping the two sides from firing away.

Two more military trucks showed up shortly after, blocking the two sides of the avenue. Troops jumped out of the trucks and surrounding the furniture trucks, keeping clear from the snipers on the Esperanza roofs. Other soldiers made their way up on some of the surrounding buildings as well. The build-up seemed unstoppable. There was no way that it would not lead to a bloodshed. I kept telling myself, if only there was someone that everyone knew and respected who could step in… Someone other than me…

Well, sometimes your wishes do become reality. Out of nowhere, or rather, from another side street filled with anxious onlookers, stepped out Doña Yolanda. For those of you who do not know her, Doña Yolanda is both the bravest, most committed idealist I have ever met, and the biggest pain in the ass who once kept me locked into my house for a full day, just to make the point that the gang battles of Santa Rita and Esperanza needed to be taken into account. Well, this lady, who has absolutely no sense of self preservation, just started walking into the avenue, completely oblivious to the troops aiming at her from behind the trucks. She simply strolled up to the black pick-up where the team leader was being held hostage and started talking to the driver. She then walked around the pick-up to one of the furniture trucks, and started speaking to one of the gang members hiding inside. The discussion lasted several minutes.

Then Doña Yolanda walked back to the hostage and the driver, said something to them, and then crossed over to the truck where the Commander had been issuing his messages. They had another chat, as if they were old friends catching up. Doña Yolanda then headed back to the furniture truck, said something to the person there, before walking back to the driver and the hostage. The hostage was set free. He started walking, very slowly at first, his hands in the air, towards the Commander’s truck.

I must confess, I had a lot of admiration for that humanitarian team leader. I took the time to notice that, even in the heat of the action, he kept his uniform straight and presentable, though it looked much more wrinkled and dirty than it had been thirty minutes earlier. His hair, however, did not budge under pressure.

As he got closer to the army trucks, the Swedish team leader started to go a little faster, until he reached the military truck and literally jumped to safety.

During those brief seconds that he took to reach freedom, the gang members scurried for the two black pick-ups overloaded with white boxes. The deal seemed to be a hostage exchange and free passage for the Esperanza gang to the Esperanza side streets, with Doña Yolanda acting as guarantee.

Unfortunately not everyone got the message. Just as the first pick-up started to move, with Doña Yolanda walking peacefully by its side, a single shot was fired, apparently aiming for the driver of the first pick-up. Both sides responded with a dozen shots each, which the Commander miraculously succeeded in stopping. But Doña Yolanda stood in the crossfire. She collapsed to the ground.

No one moved. The Esperanza gang had lost its hostage, yet the Commander did not seem willing to take advantage of the situation. No-one approached Doña Yolanda. Again I asked myself, Why are heroes always in such short supply?

The tense calm lasted for several minutes that felt like hours. No one moved. The street was so calm that we could hear Doña Yolanda’s muffled groans a couple blocks away. And again, a miracle happened. Out of another street, Santa Rita side, a group of a dozen young men marched slowly into the avenue, each holding an improvised stretcher with one hand, the other hand in the air slowly waving white handkerchiefs. I immediately recognized the first in line, Arturo from the Los Santos gang, who has been giving us quite some trouble over the years. They marched in a close formation, huddled around the stretcher but making sure to show they had nothing to hide. They marched in front of the Commander’s truck, who continued to order his troops to hold their fire. The Commander nodded and the rescue team advanced. They marched right in front of the black pick-up of the rival gang and carefully lifted Doña Yolanda from the ground. They exchanged some words with their rivals.

I don’t think there had been as many discussions between those two gangs as took place that day. The Esperanza gang members huddled in those two cars raised white flags of their own. They all showed their weapons before tossing them outside of the windows. They got out of the cars, very cautiously, and joined the procession, carrying the stretcher on which Doña Yolanda lied in pain. Together, all the gang members marched back towards the Santa Rita hill, where they disappeared into a side alley.

Somehow, that morning, it is more than a bloodshed that was avoided. Santa Rita and Esperanza rewrote the story of their neighborhoods.

You may say that I am getting old, that this story has nothing to do with why we are here today. To why we are standing in this nice square in the middle of new Santa Rita. To why I have been asked to inaugurate this new park and play area. Well, allow me to suggest otherwise. This park is a testament to the collective will of the people of Santa Rita. It is a great demonstration of the resilience of our people when confronted to the most dramatic situations, day in and day out, the drudgery of barely getting by, the silent despair and constant losses. This is a story of success, of local commitment and initiative. And a large part of this we owe to Doña Yolanda and to your other invisible leaders.

Doña Yolanda did not disappear on that Thursday morning. The gang members quickly got her to a doctor who brought her to the hospital. And she is here today, her broken leg in a cast, a fine testament to her indomitable spirit. She warned me when she arrived: “Don’t you dare make this about me.”

Well, I take full responsibility for disregarding Doña Yolanda’s request. After what I saw that morning, I am fully prepared to live for the rest of my life with the fear of her wrath because I chose to give her the recognition she deserves. Today we are here to honor Doña Yolanda, as well as her neighbors in Santa Rita and Esperanza, we are here to honor all of you here present, for finding ways to live together, for building projects together, for mapping out a future for their children.

It is a message of hope that we can do things differently, rely on ourselves and find solutions, if we accept to speak to our neighbors and realize that what brings us together is so much more important than what separates us. And it means that, even against all odds, a divided and violent community is able to come together, then every community has that ability. You have demonstrated that, I can only thank you.

It means that even in the unlikely event that one day, in a distant future, I am not reelected as your beloved mayor, whatever you have built will continue. It means that nothing you have accomplished depends on outsiders.

So before I hand over to Father Miguel to lead us in prayer and formally declare this park inaugurated, allow me to share some final thoughts. First of all, let us be thankful, not just for what we have, both for who we are and who we have around us. This neighborhood is in no ways perfect, its past is heavy with suffering and anger, grief and retribution. This past cannot be changed, nor will it be forgotten. But sometimes the wounds go too deep and there is no revenge that can soothe that pain. You have chosen to move on, not because these acts deserve forgiveness but because yours is the only path to finding lasting peace.

The second lesson Santa Rita has taught us is our responsibility to look out for others, whoever they may be. It doesn’t matter if I know you or not, we are each other’s keeper. When people come here from faraway lands with the best intentions in the world, but clueless as to our realities, we share a duty to protect them from themselves as much as they share a duty to help us. Let the future keep us free of foreign aid, because we will no longer need it, because we will know how to find the resources among ourselves to address our problems.

Santa Rita has come a long way and, however much I’d like to take credit for it, you are the ones who have shown us the way. This neighborhood was one of rickety houses, desperate families and – how should I put it? – extreme entrepreneurship. You have made it into a community. A community where I see neighbors look out for each other, agree to work together and even pool in some of their hard-earned cash to make this a better place for their children. The crimes are not gone, the jobs are still scarce, but this is undoubtedly a community of homes with a shared destiny.

And yet, you have become more than that. You have become a beacon of hope for this city. “If Santa Rita can do it, we can do it”, such will be our city’s new motto. Look at what you have accomplished and allow me to ask you: what would this city look like if we had 50 or 100 Santa Ritas?

I therefore commit today – may all of you here present bear witness – to form a Municipal Coalition for Resilience, to involve all neighborhood groups, all local leaders, all committed businessmen and religious leaders interested in becoming Santa Ritas. Let this coalition help map critical challenges across every neighborhoods, every district in this fine city. Let this coalition identify our capacities, the capacities all of us already have, and prove that we are as capable as anyone else to solve these problems. Let this coalition demonstrate that we are all capable of following Santa Rita’s example. That in a year from now we shall have 100 such inaugurations in neighborhoods that understood that we are more than sum of our individualities. We will knock on every door and invite every family; we will include every street and bring all committed volunteers and all committed organizations on board. Let this be the commitment by which you will assess my tenure as a mayor.

I leave this community transformed by your example. Let the play area we are inaugurating tonight be remembered always as the beacon for the brighter future you have envisioned for all of us.

Thank you.

 

To Chapter 4

“The planet does not need more successful people. The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers and lovers of all kind.”

– Dalai Lama

 

John felt a little dazed as he walked out the hospital doors. The medication was still kicking in, he realized. That and the late afternoon sun. Raoul, his driver, was walking closely behind him, not too sure if he should let him walk off on his own. But John felt the need to walk a little. On his own. The weather was beautiful, an early autumn breeze, and he needed to shake off the stuffy air of his hospital room and be able to think.

Too much had been going through his head in the last few days, since his heart attack. The doctor had told him he’d been very lucky to come out alive. Apparently he’d had an amazing recovery from the bypass surgery. But he’d always been a fighter, a winner, and this wasn’t going to stop him. Thoughts kept shooting through his mind.

John wandered along the river bank, drifting by the shady benches. The leaves were starting to fall with the breeze, on the graveled pathway and the well-kept lawn. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why he felt so uncomfortable, a funny feeling that something had changed. There had been all the flower bouquets in the hotel room, the quick visits by board members and his leadership team. His faithful Anne had been on stand-by in front of his bedroom door for days, but she was probably feeling that was part of her Executive Assistant duties. He’d waited for her to get some late lunch so that he could sneak out quietly.

Then it hit him, and his medication-numbed brain started to spin. The hollowness of it all, the shallow conversations with his bedside visitors, the well-intentioned but heartless words, the cards from people he’d never visit in their own hospital stays… The loneliness of power, he thought to himself.

John shook off these thoughts as post-operation nonsense and decided to focus. He checked his watch. 3:42 pm. Clear, precise time, just what he liked. His watch meant a lot to him, it reminded him of where he’d come from and what he had achieved. He’d started off as a nerdy computer programmer from a lower income neighborhood. He’d gotten a scholarship and became a brilliant programmer in Wall Street just out of university, developing new ways of anticipating changes in wheat futures markets. That had gained him a lot of credibility, but also a realization that his real interest was in financial management, where the real money is. He’d worked his way up the corporate ladder until a European bank headhunted him to become their Chief Executive for Global Private Banking. He moved to Europe and a couple years later he became Chief Financial Officer.

John knew he had pretty much everything he could ever wish for. He brought his dad over to live in a nice apartment a couple blocks from his penthouse. John would stop by every morning around 5:30am to bring him coffee and they’d have a 20-minute chat before he headed off to the office. He knew he was attractive, attractiveness that money enhanced, and he had the occasional short-term romantic engagement. He was more faithful to his annual sailing trip in some tropical destination. Life was good, but he was still missing something.

Then the Union Bank merger happened. Or at least it should have happened. John was the perfect number 2, carrying out all of the tasks that Gilbert, the CEO, needed conducted. He was hard-working, extremely loyal, and appreciated by Gilbert who showered him with praises to the Board. John progressively convinced Gilbert to think differently, be more ambitious and take risks. John mentioned a couple ideas which he knew would resonate with Gilbert. He focused particularly on Union Bank, a large US-based bank going through some difficulties. He was very eloquent, and his charisma quickly overcame any of Gilbert’s reservations.

Both Gilbert and the president of the Board saw the takeover of Union Bank as a great way to expand their global reach, and they made a convincing case to the Board. The implementation of the merger was left to John’s capable hands. A small grin came to John’s face as he remembered those not-so-distant days. He’d worked hard, real hard, to get his team where he wanted them. But the information he provided them with was, John remembered with a smile, somewhat partial. The merger fell through, the stock price fell dramatically, and John was asked to explain to the Board what had happened. He provided the full picture, the stronger than expected situation of Union Bank and the alternatives that he had identified to pull the merger through. Gilbert was asked to leave, replaced immediately by John as the new CEO at the ripe age of 42.

John still remembered crisply that day, as he left the Boardroom. First he stopped by his favorite jeweler and purchased a new watch, expensive even by his standards. The same brand Gilbert had owned, but nicer. Then he had what turned out to be his last dinner with his dad. And then he embarked on his grand plan to restructure the bank to fit his global aspirations. He no longer had time to chat with his dad on his way to work, partly because he bought a bigger penthouse closer to the office and partly because he was now traveling around the world. His dad passed away four months later, an old lonely man on a big hospital bed, and John had arrived a few hours too late.

***

“Une pièce s’il vous plait!” The low shriek from the drunken homeless man sitting on the bench caught John by surprise. He’d wandered deep into his thoughts and instinctively jumped to the side when the beggar reached out. He gave him a quick look and gave another step to the side. A cold shiver ran down his spine. The stare on the tired man’s face… a stare so similar to that gaze of deep sorrow that his dad had left with. He felt a cold sweat run down his neck as he continued to walk.

Damn medication, thought John, feeling both dizzy and emotionally drained. He never gave to beggars, by principle. Let them work if they want money. Heck, I didn’t get here by asking for favors. He never approached beggars, by fear. Fear of their smell, or maybe a superstition that their bad luck would rub off on him. He wasn’t sure which of the two, probably a bit of both.

He needed to get back on track. He simply had no time for this emotional nonsense. He walked out of the riverfront park and headed to a crowded pedestrian street. Shops were full, sidewalks were bustling and everyone seemed to be enjoying the late afternoon rays.

Suddenly he found what he was looking for. There she was, at the terrace of a café, the vision of an angel. He walked up confidently, enjoying the view as he approached her: the high-heeled shoes, the black stockings, the carefully measured knee-long skirt over her crossed legs. He had come to admire the attention to detail of European women over the years. Her hair was down and no ring in sight, all was well. She was oblivious to her surroundings, reviewing some notes with an empty coffee cup by her side. He sat down assertively, took a relaxed pose and gave her a quick “hello” as if they had always known each other.

“Nice afternoon, wouldn’t you say? I love this town.” He paused for effect. “Do you have any idea as to how many bank vaults this city has, all bigger than this square?” She gave him a slightly annoyed look, finished her paragraph before putting her notes down.

She looked at the table where his hands were playing with the ashtray. “Any particular reason you want to show me your watch?” The tone was direct, measured, but also clearly reproachful. She had exposed his opening move at showcasing his success.

“You do realize you won’t be able to take it with you the day you die?” Her tone had changed, caring, somewhat concerned, like a mother or a friend. He wondered if the weariness of the last few days was that obvious. He thought of a couple answers, opened his mouth and chose to shut up. Damn medication, he thought again. He wasn’t thinking straight.

“Look, I appreciate your interest, but want to let you know it is misplaced. You obviously feel successful and entitled, though you look like you’ve had a rough day. So have I. Why waste your time with me? There are so many people out there who could use a helping hand.” Her English was fluent, with traces of French and British in her accent.

Damn it, an idealist, he thought. Why couldn’t he just meet an aspiring banker or stockbroker? Breaking the awkward silence she went on.

“Listen, the best advice I can give anyone after a rough day is to sort out your priorities. If you wouldn’t need to work for a living, what would you do? If you weren’t paid to do what you do, would you still do it?” She paused, realizing he probably already had all the money he needed and picking up girls like her was probably his life’s ambition. The waiter came up to the table and gave her change back. She continued.

“What will your legacy be? The guy who had fancy watches? The guy with fancy girlfriends?” She had this softness in her tone that made her disapproval seem almost inviting. His mind projected the image of his hospital bed with the flowers and the meaningless cards. And a grey tombstone that read: “John Mintleton, CEO.” He gave her a blank stare.

“It’s never too late to find your passion. Take care of yourself, you don’t look too good,” she added as she picked up her handbag and walked away.

John remained seated for a couple minutes, staring in the direction she had left. Legacy? He thought of his dad, alone in his hospital bed. He thought of the beggar with that stare carrying such sorrow.

He got up, decided to shake off his thoughts and headed back to the park. He traced his steps back, and saw the beggar sitting on the same bench, an empty vodka bottle to the side. He sat down next to him.

“What will your legacy be?” he asked the beggar in his broken French. The beggar looked at him with a strange look, half questioning what this man wanted, half wondering where he was.

John went on for a while, telling the beggar about his dilemmas, assuming his neighbor was too drunk to make any sense of what he was saying. Out of habit, he asked the beggar what his own aspirations were, though expecting no answer. Mumbling at first, the beggar started to talk about his own life, his successful career as an intercontinental pilot, his wife and kids. He explained how his life had collapsed when he got fired for becoming an alcoholic, lost his house and then his wife. He talked slowly, without any anger, explaining as clearly as his slurred speech allowed him to how proud he was of his kids. His son had become a pilot as well and flew around the world as he once did, though they no longer stayed in contact.

John laid back and relaxed on the bench, feeling the warm sunset on his face. It was nice listening to someone else’s story. He asked the beggar if he had any regrets. Gabriel’s answer was clear: get to know his grandson, spend time with him before he would grow up. But he knew he could not do it alone, he had been drinking for too long.

John looked at the colorful clouds in front of him. He let the silence settle in. So many thoughts were bouncing around his head. His dad. His hospital bed. Grandsons. His legacy.

John suddenly sprang to his feet, told Gabriel to wait a little while and ran out of the park. He walked nervously down the street until he found a pawn shop a few blocks away. He barged into the store and walked up to the sleepy shop owner in his sixties. He took his watch off his wrist and told the mystified gentleman to value it. The pawn broker’s eyes suddenly widened when he gave the watch a close look. He gave it a deeper look with his magnifying lens. He then handed the watch back to John. He seemed deeply apologetic as he told John he did not have that kind of cash on hand. John told him to give him what he had and he’d return a few days. The pawn broker went to an old fashioned cash register and took a large envelope to put in the cash he had on hand, carefully writing in the case number and handing the receipt and the envelop over. John rushed back out.

Gabriel had not moved an inch when John returned. He gave the thick envelope to Gabriel with a single condition: “Find a decent place to live, clean yourself up, stop drinking and let us meet by the café across the street every morning at 6 am for breakfast to see how you are doing. But you had better be there on time. We’re going to get you to your grandson in no time.”

Gabriel looked at John with a dazed look for a few minutes. Then suddenly he got up and jumped awkwardly onto John. He hugged him as hard as he could. John could feel the warmth below the layers of clothing and the smell; he felt tears falling on his neck.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Gabriel was hugging him harder and harder, maybe because he was too drunk to stand on his feet. Then he stopped and explained.

“Thank you, not for the money, though right now I could use a shower and a warm bed. Thank you for caring. See you tomorrow at 6 for breakfast, you owe me your story.”

***

Two years had gone by, two years exactly. Two years since John had given away his watch and his ambitions. Two years since he’d stepped down as CEO and dedicate himself to taking over the bank’s struggling Social Responsibility Unit. No-one seemed to know why the unit even existed, so he came in with a new vision and sense of urgency. He sold his penthouse and put in the amount as a starter fund, as much to make a point to himself as to the bank. There was no turning back. He knew that the new CEO, whom he’d pretty much appointed, would leave him full liberty to take on this new course.

Even so, John knew enough about banking and bankers to acknowledge he was pretty much clueless about helping people, real people, those who struggle to pay bills every month and keep their kids in school. But he did know a thing or two about the importance of getting the right information. He set himself to track down those who knew. And he found those experts in surprising places. Not in global conferences or in fancy international development banks but in nickel-and-dime neighborhood organizations that could stretch that nickel and that dime a very long way. Those organizations were everywhere, as ubiquitous as the poverty and inequality he was so interested in. But he also realized how these local volunteers – these soup kitchen workers, literacy teachers, anti-bullying campaigners and so many others – were so often ignorant of the value of their own knowledge, of their own “common sense” as one community mobilizer had referred to his advice and tips.

John looked out the window from his uncomfortable economy class seat. A beautiful sunset seemed to embrace the mountains below. He checked the time on his watch, then smiled as he realized he still had on the fake Casio watch he had bought from a street vendor in Mumbai. The time wasn’t always right and the wristband was about to break off, but – as the vendor had pointed out convincingly – it could always serve as a calculator. And for John it was a token from a great conversation with that street vendor, who had walked half way across India at age 14 to sell whatever he could find to buy his sick mother some medication. That kid could tell a story. And give his watches meaning.

Street vendors have amazing stories, he realized. At least if you took the time to listen to them. Not that salespersons in luxury watch stores in Geneva don’t tell stories, they do, they even rehearse them. Just not necessarily the kind of stories that give you hope in the future of humanity.

John had come to realize that every human being has a story waiting to be told. Stories of suffering, often, of mothers sacrificing their health and aspirations to care for a sick child, of migrants spending entire lives away from those they care most about, of successful executives realizing too late that a long-sought promotion cost them their marriage and the respect of their children. But also stories of hope and redemption, stories often sparked by the small gesture of a friend, a foe or an unknown passerby. Stories that often only required a little spark to change a life.

Time is money. John’s grand-father had a plaque with that inscription above his desk. He’d been a successful businessman, building bridges in colonial India. And he’d always been a busy man. John had stuck to that mantra throughout his life. Yet it now seemed irrelevant. Time is money, or at least can become money if that is how you decide to spend it. But time is so much more. It really is the only thing we have. And how we decide to spend that time is ultimately what will determine what our lives become. We get to choose how we spend our evenings, whether watching TV, liking pictures of cats or answering work emails. Or sit down with new and old friends alike, childhood acquaintances or just-encountered street vendors, and exchange accounts of our struggles and successes. Deciding how to allocate those 24 hours every day had become an obsession of John’s, as if there was a way he could regain all of those lost years.

John had given himself a new job title, “Story listener”. He’d come to realize that most marginalized people don’t want help, most poor people don’t need handouts. They just want to make sense of their struggles, share them with others and find ways to relate to others in a different way. He found it fascinating to hear how people give meaning to their failings and successes, across cultures and languages. If only he had more of that precious time, not to change his past – he was too pragmatic to look back – but to hear just one story of change per family around the world. Wouldn’t that be amazing, John thought amusingly, to have a billion stories of change at our fingertips, a billion stories of our common humanity?

***

Part of John’s daydreaming stemmed from the trip he had just completed. He was on a flight back from El Salvador, where he had just participated in a workshop on “the dignity of urban youth” organized by an amazing non-profit working on youth self-esteem in gang-ridden neighborhoods. The mayor of the small town had given him a tour of the new basketball court in his fancy SUV in the middle of one of the city’s roughest neighborhoods. They stopped to speak to a few youth on the basketball court to talk about their dreams, finding a job, a girlfriend and maybe a little house. But also to keep on rebuilding their neighborhood, one street at a time, without the trash, the gunshots and the violence, at home and outside. The mayor told him that for the first time, youngsters actually spoke of their dreams without the traditional “The day I leave this neighborhood, I will…” It gave John a little chill to realize how little stood between a fulfilling life and a life of drudgery.

The whole playground project had cost a fraction of that fancy watch of his. John was always amazed by how much people got done with so little, when they believed in what they did. Their resourcefulness in finding gravel and tools and in transforming old tires into play areas. He used to spend more on restaurants in a week than what the basketball court had cost.

In comparison, his own contribution seemed so insignificant, almost farcical. Via some global resilience network, he had been invited to join the city’s resilience coalition, a pet project spearheaded by the mayor and led by a handful of local civic leaders. They had explained their ambition to reach out to every single street and get people agree on the first actions they wanted to take together. But more importantly, John had been invited to the coalition’s secretariat, a small stuffy office in the basement of the Town Hall. The Mayor had proudly exhibited the piles of maps that had been drawn by the residents of the different neighborhoods. John was confused at first, as he looked at their mapping of needs and their database of volunteers. Suddenly he realized everything was done on paper and filed in large filing cabinets. So he had offered to help them jump into the technological era.

All the participants in the city coalition were thrilled by the innovations he had introduced, praising him endlessly for the new opportunities he was creating. With a helping hand from some of the bank’s programming geeks, John had helped the local coalition develop an App to allow people to identify areas of interest, topics they would want to volunteer for, and register for the courses they would want to take from all of those offered by the city coalition member organizations. It created a huge list of potential volunteers across the town, willing to be trained and support existing member initiatives. People were training themselves to solve their problems on their own, or tasking individuals to take on specific courses to solve different problems. It also helped local non-profits to reach out to these trained individuals for joint actions, from drainage clean-up ahead of the rainy season to repairs to retention walls to avoid landslides.

As John found out later, even one of the local gangs had signed up for a first aid course and six members showed up to take it when it was offered at the local Red Cross. Though the rumor says most of their questions were extremely technical and always related to bullet wounds. They all got certified – though apparently no local organization had called on their services.

John’s other contribution, which his IT team had developed globally and offered across a number of cities, was a database where the different neighborhoods could post their priorities. It worked like a job search engine, indicating the level of progress by the community groups themselves, as well as the resources – money, stuff, people, training – needed to complete each project. Nothing too different from a traditional advertising site, only that it posted the consensually-approved priorities from street consultations. It did require a small number of humanitarian and development non-profits to support the process to guarantee the seriousness of the community consultations and the commitment of the local groups. The neighborhood John visited, Santa Rita, had identified activities for the youth and had listed the resources they had found and the actions they needed. Local partners had been quick to fill the gap. John’s Corporate Social Responsibility Unit had made a small donation towards a new playground, to match a small grant from the Municipality.

So any of the city coalition partners could now log in from their computer anywhere and identify where their contribution would best fit in, based on local requests and their own particular interests. In the case of Santa Rita, a university had offered ten students to help map out the repairs to the drainage system; the water authority had assigned a team to review existing gaps in the water supply; and the corporate foundation of the large textile mill had provided materials and lent a few trucks to repair the school yard.

An added benefit was that this same database was accessible from anywhere, from the Government Ministries in the capital city to different foundations and international donor organizations around the world. By becoming a member of the national platform coordinating these city coalitions, John had gained access to a complete listing of possible interventions for his Corporate Social Responsibility Unit anywhere in the country. Apparently even a humanitarian organization had flown in staff within a week after an earthquake to carry out distributions when Santa Rita leaders posted a list of needs for affected families.

Yet the greatest stories were often the untold ones, not the ones posted on the website, insisted the Mayor. As they drove through Santa Rita, he presented John to a young volunteer, Mario was his name, who happily told his story to John. He talked of a community transformed, the emergence of new leaders and the transformation of the local gang into small business owners focusing on private security services.

After Mario departed, the mayor shared the other story, the one Mario was too humble to share. The Mayor explained that Mario had a strong admiration for one of the local leaders, Doña Yolanda, and he had matured incredibly under her wing. Which is when Mario had shown his own kind of heroism. When a European humanitarian organization showed up, everyone knew trouble was brewing, as the gang relations had remained tense. Yet Doña Yolanda went to observe, with Mario in his stride. Then things went bad, as the neighboring gang attempted to take over the distribution, leading to a hostage situation. Doña Yolanda, in her typical resolute self, decided to intervene. Sensing that Mario would follow her despite her plea for him to stay behind, she imprudently came up with a task to ensure he would stay put: “if things go bad, tell the Santos gang to save our community, but no guns!” Never did she think her improvised mission would materialize.

As the hostage crisis led to a shoot-out, Doña Yolanda’s mediation role suddenly went askew. Mario, realizing his mentor had been hit, rushed to the center square of the Santa Rita neighborhood and barged into the Los Santos headquarters. As he ran into the house, he tripped over his former high school bullies, who recognized him at once. They immediately took great joy in teaching their favorite scapegoat a lesson on respecting one’s elders. It took a number of punches, kicks, cries and broken bones before the gang leader showed up, upset that so much racket would wake him up. The bullies stopped their drubbing and Arturo asked for an explanation. Spitting blood out of his mouth, Mario briefly explained the Esperanza gang’s takeover operation and the arrival of the military. He repeated Doña Yolanda’s exact words. “Save our community, but no guns”. Arturo left the room, leaving Mario and the bullies wondering whether they should continue. Arturo came back a minute later, speaking on his phone on one hand and holding a stretcher from his first aid course on the other. He quickly ordered his henchmen to leave their guns and follow him. Mario collapsed in the pool his own blood, satisfied that, somehow, it had all been worth it.

On their boss’s orders, Mario’s bullies patched him up later that afternoon before taking him to the local doctor.

****

John was now part of fifteen city platforms, all of which had benefited from some technological support from his team. These two contributions – the volunteer interest App and the database of community needs and actions – seemed so basic, and yet that seemed to be the beauty of it. He’d been able to fund community activities directly in 52 communities, activities that local partners were willing to support but could not fund. They ranged from community clean-up to violence prevention to health clinics. Anything and everything seemed to work, as long as the community really wanted it. Networking on steroids, cutting out the middle man, was how John liked to summarize his approach.

The rest of the bank staff had jumped on board, to John’s surprise. The HR department was the first to buy in. They were simply thrilled when they realized that retention rates among staff members who participated in Corporate Social Responsibility activities were two times more likely to stay employed with the bank the following year. Staff satisfaction rates shot up, and they encouraged friends to join the bank. And age did not seem to make a difference, both junior recruits and senior managers expressed increased job satisfaction after supporting a coalition activity, sometimes through their own fundraising efforts, matched by the Corporate Social Responsibility Unit.

The Communications Department was the next to join. They realized that the bank’s brand perception in the countries where the bank has an operating presence was noticeably more positive following community-level interventions, even when there was little or no media event. The word got around and the other coalition members were the ones to promote the commitment of this foreign bank. The Chief Communications Officer had even reached out to suggest she assign a part of her budget to the Corporate Social Responsibility Unit’s work – not just communicating what they did, but also funding community activities directly.

John pondered the changes of the last two years. He’d come to realize the eagerness of everyone around him for the bank to take on a greater role, a role in line with its original mandate but clearer as to how it led to social change. Somehow derivatives and bonds didn’t do that. Even more surprisingly to him, his credibility had shot up since he’d stepped down as CEO to take on this blurry vision of his, of local social impact through global banking technological know-how. He’d had to work on it, clarify what a committed bank meant, determine which resources of the bank really added value for communities, beyond the checkbook. And he’d come across this local-to-global coalition model in many different places, so simple yet with so many moving pieces. The power of an idea. High tech software to connect low tech realities, that’s where his modest contribution would fit. Or rather the contribution of the IT geeks he’d been drawing into his Corporate Social Responsibility Unit from the stock exchange modelling unit. Channeling so much goodwill while cutting out the egos and the need for visibility and recognition. Networking on steroids – how did he ever get his board to endorse such a slogan?

Connecting across barriers, such seemed to be John’s greatest success. He hadn’t started from the most favorable position – bankers were hardly the most trusted professions – but he’d shown his interest was genuine and his ability to deliver was admired. It did not seem like much to him, but his technological capacity had made wonders: the platforms had successfully allowed communities to advertise their realities and their challenges for all to see. He’d made the case, perhaps more than anyone else, that all could contribute to coalitions, even evil high-flying bankers such as himself.

 

To Chapter 5

“Never worry about numbers. Help one person at a time and always start with the person nearest you.”

― Mother Teresa

 

 

Amanda was looking out of her window on this grey autumn day, trying to understand how anyone could be sailing on the Geneva Lake on such a cold day. Then again, years in god-forsaken locations did tend to make one a little disconnected from nature’s regular cycle of seasons… not everyone’s comfort zone ranges between the not-so-cool tropical humidity of East Timor and the insufferable dry heat of South Sudan.

Amanda was an experienced humanitarian worker. She’d done the rounds in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia and Colombia. She’d flown in humanitarian goods to the most remote refugees, only to have them taken over by warlords; she’d funded life-saving medical projects that somehow only benefited the reelection of local chieftains; she’d even demonstrated great skill in winning those bidding wars for local government selection in large-scale disasters – those CNN disasters where the number of humanitarian actors seem to exceed the number of beneficiaries. And of course she’d had her share of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorders, therapy and messed up distance relationships.

She finally decided to take a step back from conflict and disaster deployments and focus on the other humanitarian disaster she felt concerned about: global humanitarian policy and governance. She’d already participated in seemingly endless conferences on enhancing the global humanitarian response, to the point that she had become quite an expert at predicting global conference recommendations ahead of time (“One: We require greater coordination between humanitarian NGOs and Governments; Two: All sides must respect the “humanitarian space”; Three: All States must allocate in practice the financial resources that they committed to in previous conferences).

However, even caped in such protective cynicism, Amanda was unprepared for the intensity of humanitarian politics, that oxymoron that somehow justified the widespread organizational schizophrenia between laudable public statements and back-stabbing tactics to reach back-room deals.

But she had come to terms with the fact that her field work was over and that serving the greater good of “multilateral humanitarian conferences” would be her new calling. So it proved a natural fit for her when she was offered a job in the fancy headquarters of an international coalition secretariat in the de facto capital of the humanitarian world, Geneva, Switzerland.

***

“They should be here any minute,” thought Amanda as the clock struck ten o´clock. She looked down at her recently manicured nails. Manicures were probably the luxury she missed the most in emergency operations, in those remote refugee camps that always seemed to be set up in dustbowls or frozen tundra. It was nice to be able to look after herself, pamper herself, and re-learn how to dress to feel good…

The phone rang and the receptionist told her that her visitors had arrived. Right on time…  Another nice change from emergencies.

Amanda walked to the reception and received her two visitors.

“Selamat pagi”, saluted cheerfully Amanda as she welcomed her guests.

“Selamat pagi,” they responded simultaneously as they reached out to shake her hand.

“Selamat datang, masuk!” she added as she guided them into a small meeting room. There was always an expectation in humanitarian circles that you could get by with basic Bahasa Indonesia and Arabic, possibly a little Tagalog and Haitian creole. Her Indonesian was rudimentary, but in an English-dominated world, this welcome was more a symbolic recognition of linguistic diversity, with all it implied about accepting other ways of thinking and seeing.

“Please, have a seat,” she pursued in English. They presented each other and exchanged business cards and pleasantries on the trip to Geneva. Siti Said was an elderly gentleman with a youthful face, wearing traditional Indonesian wear. Anies Parawansa was in his thirties, with a light sweater over a formal shirt and tie. Siti was the founder of the non-profit and Anies was his director. Comfortable that they would be able to understand each other fine, Amanda jumped right in.

“I realize this is a little awkward for both of us, not having much clarity as to what is expected of you. As you know, there is a discussion globally as to how we conduct humanitarian work, and I’ve been tasked to give a voice to those who are providing support locally around the world. In every country and every city, the humanitarian realities have evolved. The international support structure needs to offer different models of operations, to build local capacity, to help local partners work together and form coalitions with grassroots organizations, national platforms and international organizations. There must be a better way for us to support those in need, and that support is already available locally.”

Amanda paused shortly to make sure her visitors were comfortable with the speed of her speech.

“As you know, I received great words of praise from Bakar, my colleague in Jakarta, about your experiences in responding to disasters and how successful you’ve been in growing your organization over the last few years. I am very excited to receive you here and I do want to make sure this meeting is worthy of the long trip you had to make to get here. So why don’t you give me a bit of an overview of what you do and we’ll take it from there?”

Both nodded eagerly. She took that as a sign that they understood her fine.

The elder Siti cleared his throat and spoke in a clear and quiet voice, a truthful grandfatherly type: “Well, it never really started off as a project to establish an organization, rather a necessity to respond to need. I have always lived in Jakarta, and I had a successful career as an administrator in the municipality. Not very exciting, but safe and comfortable.

Siti handed over a glossy brochure presenting their projects. He started off slowly, explaining their presence throughout different suburbs of Jakarta. He explained briefly the history of his organization, showing the growth in their portfolio and budget, from the 2007 floods that had affected his neighborhood in Jakarta, which led him to form a local group that became their organization. The municipality gave them some resources, the Government some equipment, and a local company got them an office space. Siti ran local operations from that office on weekends with friends and neighbors and they kept running an annual event.

The floods that hit Jakarta again in January 2013 suddenly seemed to validate their grassroots approach and they got a series of grants from the Japanese Government to expand their work. He left his job in the accounting department of the Municipality and worked full time in scaling up the organization’s work in door-to-door preparedness activities. The initial grant, followed by a couple more, allowed him to expand the activities to neighboring organizations, and he had a strong core of volunteers who helped him out. He showed Amanda a couple more pie charts with their activities and budgets.

Siti wasn’t too sure what was wrong. He paused. He could sense that Amanda was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Maybe his English? He’d always thought it was good enough.

“So… how do you see the future?” asked Amanda cautiously.

“Well, we have done a lot of work in messaging and information. But the floods will keep on coming. So we’re thinking the next step is to start repairing or rebuilding the drainage system. We only work on the outskirts of the city, away from the main drainage system, so that is why we get so affected. We could be more active in managing some of the green areas around us. And obviously the access roads are in bad shape, and we don’t currently have the money to fix them. Good roads are very important for evacuation plans. So we’ve submitted new proposals to take on more infrastructure work…”

Siti watched Amanda carefully, not sure whether he should go on. Sensing interest, he pursued.

“The ‘resilience’ language that everyone is talking about, working across sectors, building roads, providing education, reforestation, creating jobs, that is very attractive to us. We realized there was so much more we could do, that our preparedness role should not limit us to messages when there are no floods. We want to have more impact, reach out to our donor and carry out much more work. We want to cover all the aspects of our flooding problem. And that is just the beginning. Because the flooding campaign has really shown the problem of transportation in and out of the area and the drainage, maybe even a pumping station. If we had these more ambitious actions, we would also be able to reach more people and do more for them, including creating jobs in the area…”

Amanda was listening carefully, but somehow her mind got stuck on the word “ambitious”. It seemed a perfect summary.

“Allow me to understand,” she jumped in cautiously. “You see great opportunities for trying new things in new ways?”

“Yes!”

“And you are looking at opportunities to engage with new partners who could help you achieve this broader resilience model?”

“Correct!”

“You currently receive funds from the Japanese Government?”

Siti nodded proudly. “And we expect to get more, if our large scale drainage project goes through.

Amanda read through the brochure, seemingly looking for numbers.

“And this allows you to reach an area of over 30,000 homes?”

Siti confirmed. Again, it was obvious that the dignified old man took great pride in the achievements of his organization.

“How many people work with you on these activities?”

“Right now, we have ninety – nine zero – full time volunteers and another fifty – five zero – when we have a lot of work.”

Amanda seemed to weigh her words carefully as she spoke.

“Of these ninety, hum, volunteers, how many will continue to work with you full time when your current grants runs out?” She seemed to stumble on the work ‘volunteer’.

Siti waved the concern aside with a quick movement of the hand: “Probably none, but we’re confident we’ll get another grant, and maybe increase it if we can make the case for our new focus.”

Again, Amanda seemed to weigh her words carefully. “And you are comfortable being a Japanese Government contractor in the foreseeable future?”

Both Siti and Anies straightened on their chairs, surprised by the bluntness of the statement. Amanda put her hand over the table, palm facing downwards, as a sign of appeasement. Her face was inviting and she obviously wanted to rephrase her thought.

“Accept my apologies if my phrasing is frank, I do want to understand what your work is about and how it can help us reach scale. I also understand the need for roads and drains. I understand your commitment, Mr. Said, I really do. And I appreciate your knowledge of public works and municipal responsibilities. But I find it hard to believe you left your job and started an organization from scratch just because you wanted to build roads and drains. Why didn’t you just start a construction company? Or join a foundation or an international donor that funds works in those neighborhoods that get flooded so often?

Siti was baffled. He was completely taken aback by her candor: Amanda had disregarded what all Westerners always seemed to ask him, what they seemed to care about: how many project he had, overall revenue, staffing, overhead rate, vision for growth…

Amanda continued. “Successful partnerships don’t reach scale because their members know how to build bridges, write successful proposals or manage teams. They can do all that on their own. Large coalitions succeed because they provide a platform where individuals can unite to accomplish tasks beyond the reach and scope of any individual alone. But coalitions also have to be pragmatic, coalitions of people who are passionate about a common cause, not an abstract cause, a tangible cause that they can take action on. Not Save the world or World peace. Those goals are great, but they don’t tell me where to start or what to do. So we look for people like you, who take action, who unite people. Tackle floods, dengue epidemics, factory closures, teenage pregnancies. Tangible threats that people relate to.

“Please tell me your story, not the story of the Japanese contractor who builds drainage and creates jobs. Bring me back to that 2007 flood for a moment. I’d really love to understand what motivated you to take on such a challenge. What were you hoping to achieve at the time?”

Siti leaned back on his chair and put his hands together. He went in deep thought for a moment. Amanda and Anies looked at each other, wondering whether Siti was all right.

Siti reopened his eyes and spoke with a slower, more poised voice.

“My story does not begin in 2007. I would have to bring you back a few years for you to understand this project of ours. I grew up in Cirebon, a few hours’ drive east of Jakarta, an only child with no relatives nearby. I had a very loving mother, always of ill health, and a very caring father, always taking care of his wife. He worked as an accountant, mainly because it allowed him to work from home, so he could help out whenever my mother had coughing spells. I was a bit of a wild child, but probably like all children. Those were nice memories.

Siti breathed in deeply.

“My mother passed away when I was 9 years old. That day my childhood ended. My father fell in a deep depression, with bouts of paranoia. He was a devoted father, but he had lost the ability to show emotions. He focused my entire education on academic results, getting violent if I ever brought back a bad grade. As you can guess, I became a good student, just not a very fulfilled one, living in the constant fear of one of his outbreaks. I spent all of my waking hours studying, focused on the task at hand and shying away from social contact or anything else that might have taken time away from studying.

“I left to study in Jakarta when I turned 18 and studied accounting. I chose accounting for my father, but once in Jakarta I had lost all contact with him. I finished first in my graduating class, but he wasn’t there to see me.

“I quickly got a job in Jakarta’s municipality and lived a quiet life with a stable job and a stable income. I swore to myself I would never have children of my own. It did not make sense to submit anyone else to live through the miserable childhood I had had to endure. I had also grown accustomed to being a bit of a recluse. So I took on a hobby, committing most of my spare time to reproducing miniatures of Indonesian monuments with matches. And I spent most of my spare time travelling the world to scale modelling conferences. I discovered the world through miniatures. That had pretty much been my life.

“My entire house became filled with scale models. Every single room was packed with boxes and boxes of miniatures. My living room in particular was the showcase of my greatest pieces, including several award-winning models.

“That is when the 2007 floods struck. They were a real disaster for me personally and for my entire neighborhood. I had only lived in the Cengkareng area for a few years so I really did not expect the amount of water we could get, nor did many of my neighbors. We were ordered to evacuate and had to spend 10 days in a makeshift shelter, in a nearby school. It was horrible, no water, only one latrine. We were at least 10 families in the classroom where I was assigned.

“Living a life of a semi-recluse, I had successfully limited my social contact for years to work-related requests and technical discussions on miniature modeling. So being constantly submitted to this level of interaction with people I did not know or care about soon proved to be the greatest ordeal I had been put through in decades.

“All of us in that classroom, maybe 40 people, lived in the same area, and we had no choice over those 10 days to know each other and share our stories and sorrows. I tried hard at first to get a spot in a corner, limit my discussions to my immediate neighbors, but I quickly realized there was no way I would make it through without some kind of a support network. The little money I had on me was of no use without a shop to go to, so I had to start reaching out to others and understanding the mechanisms that were being set up. That is where I discovered the camaraderie that this hardship was bringing on, and the neighbors helped each other out with food, sharing clothes, bartering books or toys, even joint expeditions to try to get some missing items from other parts of the school or from other shelters.

“To add to my ordeal, there were about 15 children sleeping in our classroom every night, from a three-month old baby to a couple of teenage girls. As you may have understood, I am not a big fan of children. They are noisy, dirty and smelly, but I can deal with that. More importantly, they are too innocent and too trusting – they live in an imaginary world that sooner or later we will shatter to pieces.

“Maybe that is why I took a particular interest in a five-year-old girl who would not stop crying the first couple days in the shelter. When she was not crying out loud at first, she would go on in a low plaintive voice for hours on end. Vania was her name. Her father was embarrassed, and spent most of those first days cajoling her or hiding outside. Her mother told us, obviously apologetic, that they had forgotten their daughter’s teddy bear in their house, and obviously it was now too late. Everyone in that shelter just wanted to make that girl happy, so they took turns singing songs and telling her stories. The other children joined in and shared their own stories and songs.

“By the tenth day we were given the go-ahead to head back. As I walked out of the shelter, I felt this strange sense of wellbeing. I realized I walked out in high spirits, perhaps because I no longer needed to be surrounded by people twenty four hours a day. But also perhaps because I had come to feel a sense of community with my fellow victims. I had come to like the night-long vigils at candlelight, the mothers singing in low voices to their children, the daily gossip on evacuations, the shared prayers.

Well, maybe all of this contributed to making the return home so difficult. I finally reached my house and what I saw made me feel physically sick. My world collapsed. There was twenty centimeters of silt and mud in every single room. Everything below a meter was ruined. Everything. Every single one of my models, even the Borobodur Temple, even the Prambanan Temple! Forty years of hard and dedicated work literally washed away.

“I stood there in shock, looking at the remnants of my life’s passion. I know it probably sounds pretentious, but I really thought I would donate all of my work to be exposed in some museum someday. A day that would never come.

“I eventually got over the initial shock and walked back outside with a profound sense of disgust. I wandered aimlessly down the street, or rather the shallow swamp that now served as a street, and I tried my best to find words of comfort for my shelter companions as I came across them. All looked desperate.

“By a strange fate of luck, I came across Vania and her parents and baby sister. They looked profoundly discouraged. I spoke to them, trying my best to tell them how amazing it was that all of us were well, but I am afraid my words must have sounded quite hollow.

“As I walked on, I could not stop thinking about Vania and her sad innocent eyes. It just seemed too young an age to lose one’s childhood. I met a couple of youngsters who had shared a corner of the classroom with me. The small house they were renting was in very poor state and they seemed just as demotivated as I was when I discovered my home. They seemed to have given up on this neighborhood, and told me they would look for a place to stay in another part of town.

“So I asked them to give me a last favor. They looked at each other and said yes right away. We grabbed some shovels and walked up to Vania’s dad, Amran, and asked him if we could help him for the rescue mission. He didn’t understand at first, he seemed a little dazed, but when we told him we wanted his kids to have a dry place to sleep he accepted. He rolled up his sleeves, found another shovel and the four of us started removing the silt and trash one room at a time. It took us a few hours, but we made good progress and had gotten most of the silt out of the house.

“As I continued to dump the silt into buckets from what was once a bedroom floor, I came across a black ball of mud, about the size of a flat football. It could have been a small pillow, but for its strange shape. I brought it to Amran, who tried to clean it a little more. He poured some water in the bucket and dumped the ball of mud into the bucket. Suddenly, a dirty, worn out teddy bear emerged. Amran erupted in laughter and tears. We all huddled around him to see the teddy bear. We formed a spontaneous delegation behind Amran as he marched proudly towards his daughter. When Vania saw us walking towards her, Amran holding the old doll proudly in front of him, she jumped in his arms and gave him the strongest hug I have ever seen. She cried with all her soul, but this time they were tears of joy. I think we cried as much as she did. We cried because Vania was happy, because we were happy, because we were tired, exhausted, because we had lost it all and yet we were alive and well. We cried because we could, because in that moment we were all five-year-olds hugging their rags. There was no one to judge us, we were just survivors sharing our common humanity, our common frailty.

Siti’s eyes were moist, but his quiet face showed a great inner peace. He went on.

“Vania was the one who was thankful, but we were the ones who had been changed. Without knowing it, Vania had given us a purpose. We all knew then that everything would be okay. As you would say, we were resilient. In that moment I knew that I wanted to give all of the Vanias out there the smiles that they deserve. I wanted to help children be children. I did not know it then, but that is when I found out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

“That was pretty much how we got started. We finished cleaning Amran’s house and the next day we moved on to another family with many children. More and more neighbors joined us and pretty soon we split into two teams, then three, then four. Spontaneous clean-up groups formed everywhere, joining once their own house was cleaned up. We tried to get a little more organized, and a group of women prepared food for us, cooking whatever the government was handing out. We got some youngsters to collect boards of all sizes and shapes and we pooled in some money to buy some tools. We started fixing some of the most damaged houses with whatever materials we could find, so that those families could also have a place to keep their children dry.

“After a few weeks we ran out of steam. The government and other organizations stopped giving out food and people had to start making a living again.  I was expected to return to my job. I took a leave of absence and continued for a couple months with some very enthusiastic youngsters. Together we learned carpentry and plumbing and electricity as we tried to fix up some of the homes. We shared whatever little food the homeowners prepared for us. We got real smiles and real friendships.

Amanda was amazed by the sudden passion and openness with which Siti had told his story. His English seemed to improve as he gained more confidence, recognizing the value of his story even though it did not appear on any balance sheet. Amanda walked across the room and got him a glass of water. He took a couple sips and carried on.

“We formalized our organization and gave it a name. We wanted to keep the idea of neighbors helping neighbors; that is how we came up with the name Friendly Faces. And in Vania’s honor, we chose a teddy bear as the symbol of our organization. We collected some funds from the neighbors we had helped and the municipality gave us a small grant to pay an administrative assistant.

“We had a core group of volunteers, many of which were in that shelter with me in 2007. We would walk around the neighborhoods and talk to families in need. We would try to get a sense of their priorities and see how we could help them. And then, every other weekend, we organized house repairs or improvements. Usually it meant that they would end up volunteering later on as we helped another family, so we grew our network and organized a few larger events as well.

“Maybe once or twice a year we reached out to other groups, like the badminton clubs and the mosque, and we organized joint clean-up activities of the secondary drainage system that the city did not pay attention to.

“So when the floods hit Jakarta again in 2013, we were ready. Friendly Faces had a small office and our network of contacts in different neighborhoods. We had supporters who knew what we did. It didn’t mean we weren’t affected. My neighborhood was completely flooded again. We were still stuck in shelters for several days, but we had a lot of planning on our hands and we were already preparing our response. On the same day we were given the green light to return to our homes, Anies, four other friends and I got together in our small office and we sent out our very first alert on our volunteer database requesting support to form new response brigades.

“But 2013 was very different in many ways. First of all, everyone had technology, smartphones and internet, even in the shelters. Even before we sent out our first alert, people everywhere were sending us messages to tell us what their needs were, what the damages were. Within hours of our first message we were overwhelmed. We were receiving way more emails, text messages and Facebook posts that we could manage. On that first day, the messages came in faster than we could read them. We had raised expectations way beyond our own capacity.

“And since we had so confidently asked volunteers to mobilize, by 8 am the next morning we had probably a hundred youngsters outside our offices waiting to be deployed. It seemed everyone was eager to lend a hand, even though it was obvious they had things to attend to in their own homes as well. Past volunteers had brought friends. New volunteers brought tools and energy. All came with high hopes.

“For the five members of our small Friendly Faces team, it was horrible. We locked ourselves in what was left of the office and tried to assess where we had gone wrong. The messages kept on coming in on the laptop computer and our smartphones, the landline didn’t stop ringing. After a tense debate, I realized that all needed me to take a stance. For me, the introvert, suddenly having to decide on the destinies of others was harrowing. Somehow, on that day, I just went ahead. I took a pen and paper and assigned tasks. Anies to answer the phone, Imelda and Ardy to sort through the emails and messages, Alan and Susi to carry out the inventory of our tools in our flooded tool shack. As it was ultimately my responsibility we had ended up in this situation, I stepped outside to face the youngsters who had come to volunteer.

“Now our volunteers seemed overwhelmed to see me finally come out in the hot and humid morning air. They huddled quietly around me as I tried to explain the situation. That we did not have anything ready, that we needed to see what tools we had left and where to start. That people were desperate and were calling and messaging and trying to reach us however way they could. That many people were in very difficult situations but we were not in a situation to do anything probably for a few days.

“I really expected a rebellion to break out, particularly since we were the ones who had asked for them to show up and give us a hand. Well, those youngsters taught me a lesson. The large crowd stood there quietly, in their mud-covered sandals or boots, some whispering to each other.  Some walked away, but most of them just stood there, not understanding what the problem was.

“The whispering increased to a murmur as I fielded individual questions. Small groups began to form and I saw some youngsters moving from group to group. Eventually a couple youngsters, who had worked with us in the past in repairing damaged homes, asked to speak to me in private. They pulled me to a side, under a mango tree and asked me something along the lines of: “We know you want to help us, but can’t we help you? Everyone here wants to help, many of us brought tools or can find shovels, buckets and brooms. We kind of know what else we need to clean up houses, we know what we need to fix furniture or build temporary beds and chairs. Can we organize ourselves into brigades and offer you a suggestion as to where each team can start? Can we ask our relatives on your behalf if they would donate mattresses and sheets and towels and clothes for those who need it?”

“I remained awestruck for a couple minutes. I had always seen the volunteers as my responsibility, as people who depended on Friendly Faces to be able to get anything done. To be quite honest, I had always seen them as cheap labor. It had never occurred to me that they were as much a part of Friendly Faces as I was. Surely, I had founded it, but in no ways did I own it. It was as much theirs as it was mine. Actually, it became clear to me that we only existed because of them.

“Obviously, I said yes to all of their requests. I assembled the crowd again, speaking as loudly and clearly as I could, and informed everyone that they were to form brigades of 4 or 5 people and organize themselves by area. And as soon as they had the necessary tools to carry out house clean-up efforts, we would get them to work. I also assigned the two youngsters to carry out a register of all of the teams, the tools they had and needed, and their proposed area of intervention.

“I remained dumbfounded by the energy and wisdom of those youngsters. In a way, it forced me to reconsider my own assumptions about human nature. If you trust in people’s willingness to get things done for others, if only you believe in their basic sense of humanity, give them a push and set them free. No-one needs handholding, these youngsters only needed the confidence that it is acceptable to offer help to others as much as it is acceptable to help oneself. Friendly Faces gave them the sense of legitimacy to go and knock on that neighbor’s door that they would not have felt acting on their own.

“Another thing Anies and I learned on that day is that success always depends on a good share of luck. Just as I was finalizing the briefing of my new volunteer management team, Anies came rushing out of the office in obvious excitement. He told me I had to come inside and answer this call. But I will let Anies tell it as he lived it.

Siti turned to Anies, who had been quiet throughout the meeting. He took over in a perfect British accent, punctuated with technical project management language.

“Well, as you know, I had been answering the phone and going through different messages with Imelda and Ardy. Our webpage had a small chat function that allowed people to register requests, but it had crashed because of the number of requests. The phone calls were from residents throughout the larger Cengkareng area, but also beyond. I also had a few people call from other cities to inform us of family members whose homes had been affected by the flood. I tried my best to sound reassuring, but also gave them the number of the Municipality and of the Red Cross, letting them know that it might take a few days or weeks for us to be able to reach everyone.

“Then I got this call from someone who introduced himself as a university professor in Yogyakarta who had family in Cengkareng. He had included a discussion about the flooding in his class, showing pictures of before and during the floods and his students had gotten very excited. They unanimously requested that their credits for the course include some activity to help the affected families. So he was calling to know if his students could help in the response.

“I explained as politely as I could that we were overwhelmed, that now was not a good time. I told him that maybe in a couple of weeks we could get back to him. The professor was very insistent, asked us what the challenges were. I was a little embarrassed, as much as I tried to cut the discussion short to keep on registering the endless flow of requests. I explained as calmly as I could that we were overwhelmed, that we had too many volunteers and too many requests, and that we simply could not receive more volunteers from another city. The professor – Wiranata is his name – was unrelenting. He asked us whether his students could help us from Yogyakarta. There were many things they could do: set up a call center, manage the flow of electronic messages, map out online the requests we were receiving, organize them by category and neighborhood, assign teams accordingly. He seemed to have an endless list of tasks they could help with, all from Yogyakarta, none of which required any support from our end. I suddenly jumped up from my chair with a jolt of excitement. I think I even shouted. He asked me if everything was all right. I asked him to wait a moment and I ran outside. There was a sense of excitement there as well, all of these youths clustered in different groups throughout the muddy street. As he explained, Siti was speaking to his new volunteer team leaders. I ran up to him, mumbled something about him having to come answer this call and I pulled his sleeve and dragged him inside. I was so excited I couldn’t explain anything to him. So I just picked up the phone and asked the professor to explain his offer again.

Siti and Anies exchanged a deep smile. Anies continued. “The professor offered us our first virtual volunteers. As it turned out, they progressively became our outsourced volunteer management team, for everyone who wanted to help but couldn’t necessarily carry a wheelbarrow or travel to Cengkareng. Other people contacted us to volunteer remotely, even from Malaysia when a TV crew ran a short story about the flood response and featured our work. We redirected them to the Yogyakarta team and they took on more work to help map the needs.

“Our local volunteers were tasked with registering needs and resources. Some families asked for cleaning equipment, others for help in cleaning their homes, others preferred to offer their time or even lend their own tools when they finished. All of this was registered on an App and uploaded for our virtual volunteers. Thanks to our database in Yogyakarta, we knew exactly what people needed, house by house. So someone with food could go straight to the family of eight still living in a shelter. The plumber could go help the neighbor down the street to pump out the water from her kitchen.

Anies seemed to get as excited as Siti as he recounted their response. His youthful face got redder and his hands moved more and more as he continued.

“It was fascinating, all of these dedicated youths, hundreds or thousands of kilometers away, so willing to help, wanting to make a difference, any way they could, even from another city or another country. They knew they could not actually go to the affected families, meet them, help them or hug them. They wouldn’t even get the benefit of a “thank you” from people they would never know. But they did not seem to matter. It really surprised us.”

Siti jumped in.

“I grew up in a different era, where things sometimes got difficult in Indonesia and we needed each other to overcome it. Even the most recluse like myself were expected to play a role. These youngsters are part of another generation, they have not known war, many won’t remember the hardships their parents lived in disasters like the 2007 floods. They have never gone hungry or homeless, so they have never had to work with others to overcome hunger. They see the world through their computers, where they are meant to be craving for things they cannot have or longing for lifestyles that make their own lives seem lackluster.

“Speaking to many of these virtual volunteers, I realized their longing to be part of a challenge, even from a distance, become part of stories of perseverance and recovery. These virtual volunteers were social bees, always online, constantly exchanging with their friends, yet never truly gaining that satisfaction of making a difference. From the comfort of their homes, they were looking for ways to connect with others in other, more tangible ways, their own search for meaning. Even if it meant logging data into a platform or matching dots on a virtual map. They were looking for that same purpose that Vania had given us, service beyond self. We unknowingly gave them the opportunity to connect real people and real actions, connect them to strangers they could actually help. I remember being amused by the irony: technology was finally giving them the opportunity to provide the meaningful connections that technology had taken away from them. Their anonymous, mindless, thankless work is what made the difference. Whether they realized it or not, they are the ones who allowed us to send out those brigades of volunteers to collect those smiles and hugs.

Siti paused. He turned to Anies to resume his recounting of their first day. Anies pursued.

“Another call I received that same day was from a local businessman in the printing business whose mother we had apparently helped a year earlier. He told me we had sent warm meals and friendly company when she was feeling ill and could not cook for herself. He asked us how he could help. Again, I was cautious, explaining that we really were struggling with the number of requests and the number of spontaneous volunteers who had showed up. He told us what he could send us quickly, including business cards, folders, banners, T-shirts. I remember he stopped on “T-shirts”. He asked me how many new volunteers we had. I told him probably a hundred. He offered to send T-shirts with the organization’s logo if we would email it to him. I did. The next day we received 1,000 bright yellow T-shirts printed with our Friendly Faces teddy bear and name. Believe it or not, we gave all of them out – two per volunteer – within the first month of our activities. As Siti pointed out, this simple gift made our volunteers ecstatic. They were now part of the organization. They were now part of something larger. They bore those T-shirts with pride and went knocking on doors day and night to register local needs, clean up homes and provide more help.

“The T-shirts also helped to work with other organizations. We now had highly visible joint actions with the military when they came to hand out mattresses. And with the Municipality when it distributed cooking kits. Little by little, other organizations were hearing about us and asked to work with us.

Amanda had been quietly scribbling away as Anies and Siti told their story. She stopped writing and looked up. Anies and Siti, always very attentive to their host’s responses, looked back.

“No, no, don’t stop,” she said. “I am very interested in this network that you have developed. I am trying to think how your core work helping flood victims was of interest to other organizations.”

Anies turned to Siti, who complied:

“Well, this networking, partnerships really, they weren’t really planned. They just came out of necessity. We are a neighborhood organization. We offer opportunities to people, we get small grants, but most of what we do requires partners. We never considered it a core function of ours.

“It got a little more ambitious when the flood response work finished. We decided to focus on the drainage system, since it continued to be an important reason as to why Cengkareng flooded. We decided to meet up with different partners who could help us find more permanent solutions. I asked my colleagues from the Jakarta Municipality, the Cengkareng municipal services, Professor Wiranata came in from Yogyakarta. I contacted a local contractor who had cleaned the drainage in previous years, other local organizations joined as well. We had a formal meeting to discuss the issue of flood prevention. We all knew there was no money for Cengkareng, it was not a priority area, but that was not the point. We wanted to know what we could do at our own level, collectively.

“The meeting took place in a meeting room of the Jakarta Municipality. Just as I was giving the opening remarks, the Mayor walked in. He saluted everyone, then sat at the back and did not say a word.

“I presented our progress, our previous drainage clean-up efforts, the number of houses reached after the flood. Professor Wiranata showed some nice slides on the digital platform for Cengkareng that he had developed with his students. He explained the different color dots, the principal needs and the trends. He explained how they analyzed the requests, grouped them and communicated them to us and to other organizations with other skills. We got a great response, most of the participants wanted to be able to formally join in the process, find a way to share what they did and get information as to where they could help.

“The Mayor stood up as we asked for final remarks. He gave us a long congratulatory speech. He explained that it was the first time he had seen such a systematic way for the people to tell the politicians what they needed, rather than having the politicians trying to express what they thought the people wanted to hear. He congratulated us on the great work accomplished and encouraged all present to take their commitments forward. Very touching. He also promised to task the Municipal local development services with engaging with the Professor and other universities to replicate the model in other districts of the city.

“Despite all of these encouraging words, the most tangible benefit that came out of it was quite unexpected. Friendly Faces was named as a possible grantee for Japanese International Cooperation Aid funding. We were requested to submit a proposal, which we did, and we got our first grant. As I explained, we have been spending much of the last three years building up our grant management capacity. We have been hiring specialists and venturing in new areas. We started by cleaning drains and got machinery, operators and engineers. Then we started designing and building new drains and early warning systems. Then we got more grants and more engineers…”

Siti grew quiet. He seemed to be reflecting on their increased role as a grantee of international funds and the unexpected turns that the organization had taken.

Amanda asked hesitantly: “Based on everything you have told me, what would you say your organization is ultimately about?”

Siti turned to Anies and asked him: “What is our mission statement?”

Anies responded: “The new one?” Siti nodded. Anies quickly went through his paper and extracted a neat brochure in Indonesian and English. He explained: “The new strategy document adopted earlier this year says that our mission is to, I quote, enhance the well-being of the residents of the greater Jakarta area. To this end, we will offer highly efficient and professional services to interested partners, particular via flood prevention and response programs. End of quote.”

Siti stood silent, his look was vague. He seemed lost in some far-away land. He mumbled “Yes, too many projects, too many staff, too many reports…” Amanda and Anies looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Siti continued mumbling in his train of thought, whispering finally, with a definite sadness:

“You were right, Friendly Faces has become a private company. We have failed our volunteers. We have sold our brand to the highest bidder.

Nothing seemed to be able to get Siti out of his trance. He seemed profoundly affected, disappointed with himself. Amanda continued with a few questions, which Anies quickly answered. But something had happened. Siti was lost in his introspective self. Amanda and Anies concluded the meeting and Amanda accompanied her visitors to the door.

There was a deep sense of sadness emanating from Siti as he walked out. The sense of unfinished business. Amanda shared her most honest thanks for the wealth of experiences they had shared, but she wasn’t able to overcome the deep-felt concern that Siti exhaled.

As he reached the reception, Siti shared these final cryptic comments with Amanda:

“I came here full of certainties that all was well with Friendly Faces. That we were on track to becoming a well-respected organization, managing a broad portfolio of projects. The envy of most organizations. Yet I now realize that we have lost our soul. We need to convince everyone that their neighbor’s problems are also their problems. That one child’s sorrow is everyone’s business. We need more smiles. We need more teddy bears. This is what Vania taught me. This is the gospel that Friendly Faces was created to spread. This is what it really taught me.”

****

Almost a full year had passed since that fateful meeting with Siti and Anies. Amanda was going through her notes for a presentation she was meant to provide in the afternoon. She had been invited as a facilitator and keynote speaker for a conference on “Bridging the humanitarian and development divide in an increasingly complex world” and she didn’t know if she feared most her tough crowd or her own stage fright.

It had been a rough day. She had participated on a panel in the morning, discussing the future of the humanitarian world. The discussion had been well attended and well received and she looked forward to a strong coffee. As she left the stage, she was approached by two representatives of a disaster quick response organization, specialized in search and rescue. Two muscular ex-military gentlemen in their late forties, regulation-trimmed hair and impeccable shirts, had asked for the opportunity to discuss with her in more detail what she understood by “community resilience”. They were obviously concerned as to how the traditional international response model fit into the trends she presented towards building the capacity of local partners. Amanda had been reluctant at first, but they seemed so genuinely interested that she found it hard to turn them down. They took a seat in the lobby of the conference center and Amanda tried to reframe the issue in their language.

Amanda explained how more and more risk management projects expanded their interventions to include local issues that were not related to disaster risk. When that was the case, it made little sense to focus on flooding or earthquakes, even those may be the demonstrated scientifically to present the greatest risks to life and property. Instead, the emphasis needed to be placed on the priorities of local residents, however extravagant or futile they may seem at first. Often, she explained, installing speed bumps or renovating playgrounds were the tangible actions that helped communities mobilize. In due time other interventions, such as training local response team for early warning and evacuation, should be discussed with committed local individuals.

Amanda felt uncomfortable restating what seemed to her to be such obvious principles of community work to such seasoned professionals, eager to put forward their credentials responding to emergencies in Ethiopia, Iraq or Syria. Basic principles to ensure the intervention was sustainable beyond the life of the project. But they did not respond as she anticipated. Her hyper-active listeners, uncomfortable staying seated for more than a few minutes at a time, continuously fidgeted with their pens and notebooks. When she finished, she could feel a sense of apprehension in the furtive looks that they gave each other. She realized that community work did not fit their humanitarian worldview, those life-saving interventions she had been part of during so many years. A few tense seconds passed before their response came.

‘Not sustainable’, they objected at first. Why would any humanitarian organization want to spend months working with a community, only to build speed bumps? How would the organization promote its work if it couldn’t demonstrate how many lives it had saved? What about local needs for the goods not available locally? Wouldn’t that justify establishing humanitarian bridges to fly in food or water? How about when governments collapse? Wouldn’t foreign aid be required to establish parallel structures in each town until services are re-established?

Amanda knew it made no sense to convince her humanitarian colleagues. She had been in their shoes, living off the adrenaline rush when the cargo plane door finally opens on the scorching airport runway in a recently devastated city. Finding functional trucks and loading crews. Organizing distribution sites and logos in such a way to offer the perfect viewpoint for foreign news crews. Basking in the glory of a 30-second segment of the relief effort on international news media. Exiting the affected area after a few weeks of intense work and preparing for the next deployment.

Amanda made the case that ultimately the goal was the same – ensuring that everybody could rely on impartial assistance in those most critical times of need. Avoid unnecessary suffering and provide whatever little comfort however possible – knowing the neighbor will be offering her shoulder to cry on when your child passes away, or seeing that the stranger offering you a bag of rice when you have lost it all.

To no avail. Community resilience was perhaps too much of a cultural shift for these humanitarian heroes. The gap was too broad and there was no mid-way point they could agree on. Both sides share pleasantries and mutual thanks as they returned to the conference sessions, knowing there would be no further discussion.

Then her lunch fiasco. Amanda needed a break after her morning panel and her side meeting. She had decided to leave the conference complex for some fresh air and new perspectives. She walked over to the old town and had the plat du jour and then a coffee on the sunny terrace of a bistro, walking mentally through her afternoon presentation.

She was finally starting to feel a surge of energy when a brash American stranger walked straight up to her table and invited himself to the chair in front of her. He seemed as confident of his sex-appeal as he was impervious to her reaction. By the type of shirt he wore, the expensive shoes, he could only be a banker. But things weren’t going according to plan. He seemed dazed, drugged, and his pick-up lines were obviously not coming out as he hoped. He was getting jittery and Amanda couldn’t help but wonder whether he realized. The not-so-subtle waving of his expensive watch in front of her, as if it possessed some magical hypnotical powers, pushed the limits of her already thinned patience. She sent a barrage of questions back to him, many of which she herself had been struggling with since her discussion with Siti.

She then got up and walked off, leaving the astounded banker in her tracks. She was upset, feeling disappointed with his behavior, for such blatant lack of emotional intelligence, but also with herself, for picking on such an easy target. As she had walked back to the office, further details from her encounter with Siti came back to mind. She wondered, amusingly, how Siti would have performed as a banker.

So it came a bit as a shock to Amanda to find an email waiting for her in her inbox from Siti when she reached the conference center. It followed a number of messages they had exchanged over the months in which he continued to reflect on the future of his organization, based on his personal experience and the lessons from the last few years. But this message was more thoughtful, almost philosophical. She read the message, and in particular the concluding remarks, a few times to make sure she processed them properly.

 

“Humans are the only species that deliberately demean, bully or torture other members of its species. It is the only species that has this ability to suffer in silence, often for years. It is also the only species whose members are capable, in extreme cases, of taking their own life to end this suffering.

“But it is also the only species with such a developed level of empathy, this unique ability to feel the suffering of others. This has always been our opportunity for redemption: feeling this compassion, not just for our kin, but for those we have not met, those we do not know and even, at times, for those we hate. Seeing in each other’s soul our shared humanity. Seeing that this shared suffering brings us together so much more than what separates us. 

“Perhaps the main thought I took away from our meeting is a lesson in individual humility and collective power. Each one of us is insignificant on our own. This is our search for meaning. This is the real reason I dedicated years building hundreds of models, models I could leave behind for all to admire. Perhaps it is also this constant search for virtual vindication is what our younger generation looks for on social media.

“May Allah, or God, keep us away from the illusion that we can find happiness or fulfillment alone. May He keep us from the belief that with enough matches for scale modelling (or enough work, or enough high-speed internet), we can hide from our collective responsibilities and never have to face our demons, our fear of looking weak, our fear of looking compassionate or naïve, our fear of being judged.

“For years I thought that what Friendly Faces was offering were warm meals, a clean-up crew or a plumber to those in need. I thought we were building houses, drainage and roofs to the homeless. And if we became more efficient, hired more professionals, we could do so much more. I was wrong. Our real business is in building communities, where neighbors can share their difficulties and work together to find solutions. Knowing that I will be helped by my neighbor when I need it, and also knowing that she’ll accept my help when she needs it. Or logging off my computer knowing that I have helped someone, somewhere, by making sure that their needs are registered and mapped and people will be there when needed. As much a local community, neighbors working together, as a virtual community, that sense of responsibility for the wellbeing of someone thousands of kilometers away.

“It seemed surprising to me at first, that so many people would get together to help Cengkareng, especially after a disaster when there are so many other things they needed to do for their own homes. But it really is a fundamental human need, it helps us build bridges to those around us. In extreme cases, it may even be part of the healing process – it helped me overcome the trauma that my life’s work, my hundreds of award-winning models, had been destroyed.

“Collective action is not new, quite the contrary, it is very ancient. But it may be dying off, or perhaps we are unknowingly giving it a new shape and meaning. In Indonesia, traditional community cooperation is called Gotong Royong, in which neighbors get together to work for the common good. It is about recognizing that there are things that I cannot do on my own, such as cleaning drainage or rebuilding a burned house. But more importantly, it is about recognizing that I am responsible for my neighbor and her well-being, as much as she is responsible for mine.

“I thought that this concept of mutual support was specific to Indonesia, maybe because of our particular history, or perhaps the misuse many politicians have made of it. I thought that perhaps this ancestral tradition of mutual help was what unconsciously motived our volunteers, both local and virtual. But a Filipino friend of mine recently told me that in the Philippines they call it Bayanihan, something like the spirit of community unity. They also use this concept as the basis to support those most in need in times of emergency. This discovery tickled my curiosity, and I did some research, to see if it was limited to our South-East Asian culture.

“Well, I was wrong, as you probably already knew. Community action is pretty much universal, as much a part of our basic needs as shelter or admiration. In Sri Lanka it is referred to Shramadana, sharing time for the welfare of all. In Uganda they call it Ikibiri, the duty of villagers to help a needy person. In England, it was referred to as bees or been, help given by neighbors. The notion spread across British colonies, like communal events to raise barns or build roads in the early years of the USA.

“If collective action is universal, why are we not working together more, to get more done? Shouldn’t your efforts at global networks and coalitions in all communities resonate across all countries? Continue onwards, you have my full support.”

 ***

Amanda walked up the steps and crossed the stage to reach her presenter’s stand. As was always the case, her throat knot up in anticipation. She grasped all too clearly how unprepared she was for her talk, however much she had practiced. The crowd of a few hundred stood silent, the lights blinded her. She spoke in the microphone: “Dear fellow colleagues”. No sound came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat, tapped slightly on the microphone. All seemed well. She tried again.

 

“Good afternoon, most esteemed colleagues. It is extremely humbling to be here, following so many amazing presentations from such a distinguished crowd of experts. Experts who have spent years focusing on the critical issues that we struggle with globally. The very problems that impede the full development of our human potential – child mortality due to water-borne diseases, the access to HIV and AIDS treatments, cultural barriers to girl’s access to education, the impact of rising temperatures on flooding. I could go on and would still be unable to give proper credit to the level of talent and knowledge here present.

“It is quite mind-boggling what I have learned this afternoon on the power of clear goals and concrete indicators. I am pretty much sure that on any given subject of public concern, someone in this room can tell me with extreme precision what I should be tracking, which indicators I should focus on, how to define whether those indicators have been reached, how to consolidate and triangulate my data to clearly demonstrate that we have been successful at improving access to health or education, reducing vulnerability to disasters or germs, or eradicating measles.

“Perhaps this is why I feel humbled, perhaps even embarrassed. I am embarrassed because I am here to speak about our global coalition for resilience, yet I am unable to give you concrete indicators as to when we reach resilience.

“Resilience is misleading term, so broad and general that each one comes with his or her understanding. If I were to ask one hundred experts in this room how to measure a resilient community, I would most likely receive at least one hundred different responses. How can we effectively work together when we cannot agree as to what needs to be achieved first?

“For renowned monitoring experts such as yourselves, you will surely find this confusion amusing, unless, of course, you have tried to provide this definition. It is puzzling for sure. Perhaps I can give you an example of our fundamental contradictions, two questions I often ask humanitarian and development organizations alike.

“The first is quite straightforward. ‘Would you say your intervention makes local groups better able to address shocks or stresses?’ From pretty much any organization working with communities, the answer is a resounding “yes”. I am sure you will concur. Any project that makes communities ever so slightly better able to cope following a shock, any shock, is sold as a valuable contribution to resilience. A new latrine in the school reduces diarrhea; a new shelter reduces the potential loss of life in a disaster; a new pedestrian bridge helps evacuate vulnerable groups from a low-lying village. For many, resilience is business as usual, but hopefully with more money, since it is now all the rage in international circles.

“Yet when asked: ‘Are you confident that the community you have been supporting – for so many years – is now resilient?’ the response suddenly becomes a resounding ‘no’. All organizations, no matter how big or small, grassroots non-profits or international foundations, agree they are making great strides in helping communities become more resilient, one latrine at a time, yet no-one seems to have ever achieved this goal. They concede that they have not as yet produced a fully resilient community. I know for sure I cannot tell you when I see resilience and when I don’t.

“Yet we have been able to put this confusion to our advantage. The term is so broad that it allows very different people to come together around a lofty common goal. To oversimplify, the goal of safer, healthier communities better prepared for any unforeseen shock. The goal of a world better able to overcome the challenges of our time. The goal of working together to achieve what we cannot achieve on our own.

“So ‘resilience’ is a magical term, capable of uniting across countries and cultures without ever revealing what it aims to achieve. Always within sight yet never quite attainable. The modern quest for the Holy Grail for a world segmented into experts of all types.

“I realize it may seem a perilous strategy to ask rational number-crunching experts such as yourselves to close their eyes and follow me blindly down this road. To take a leap of faith into a world of unknowns, a world not so different from our own, yet, in many ways, so much closer to the way in which our human brain functions.

“This is the world that this Global Coalition for Resilience wishes to contribute to. More than anything, this is a coalition of coalitions, uniting like-minded individuals and organizations in the most ambitious network that has ever been attempted. Uniting organizations committed to social change, committed to solving issues that affect our everyday ability to thrive, whether because of disease, disasters or protracted conflict. But also because of less obvious motives, such as stigma or bullying, or specific social mores that exclude entire segments of society, whether because of their gender, religion, skin color, income or age.

“I can see some heads nod in disagreement. I can hear silent voices saying this cannot be done, that it is too ambitious, that each problem has a root cause that needs to be addressed individually. I agree. This is the broad purpose of our coalition of coalitions, a global platform where a few visionary leaders from a small number of innovative organizations get together to set the stage. Leaders who challenge us to say that it cannot be done and then force us to find the ways to get it done.

“This is where we come in, our global secretariat for the global coalition. Plant the seed, water it and see it grow in its own due course. Every plant is different. Every country is different. A coalition of coalitions on community resilience will take different forms depending on the context. Every seed carries its own DNA, and a coffee bean will never grow into an apple tree. Each country is different despite apparent similarities; all have national platforms for civil protection or disaster management; all have governmental entities delivering services in communities, whether in education, health or security; all have national networks of non-profits and universities; pretty much every country has chambers of commerce with corporate social corporate programs. But the relationship between each one will be different, there may never have been broad discussions on the synergies between these different bodies. There may never have been an opportunity to examine the complementarities, for instance, between the national reach and visibility of a consumer goods company and the technology of a research institute, so that they can work together to disseminate solar energy to remote villages. And perhaps solar energy is a key component in the strategy of the Civil Protection National Platform to mitigate power cuts affecting critical infrastructure in remote parts of the country.

“Yet the skeptical voices go on in my head. ‘This is old news’, I can hear them say. ‘Coalitions have existed for decades, effectively tackling one problem at a time,’ they tell me. ‘How else would we have eradicated polio, how else could we be replanting literally billions of trees, how else could we aim to address word hunger?’

“I don’t have all the answers, no-one does. But perhaps more than anything, this Global Coalition for Resilience relies on a common belief. That two persons are smarter than one, and that a million committed individuals will always find so many more solutions to their problems than two persons ever could, however rich or influential they may be. Technology is a big part of our answer, taking this thinking to a whole new level. The internet has already transformed our ability to find scarce collectibles, rent apartments around the world or campaign for the preservation of the Amazon forest. And technology has also offered us crowdfunding, the ability to pool in the resources of many to make a wild idea reality. Time has come for ‘crowd-thinking’, solving collectively our shared problems. Matching the demand for solutions to community problems with the supply of ideas, contacts and resources that every single one of us has in at least some capacity.

“Let us be clear that crowd-thinking will not work best in the storied hallways of Ministries or in the luxurious board rooms of multinational corporations. We will require a new form of social media, that all can take part in. We will require a national resilience platform, or at the very least a coalition of national initiatives for community resilience, including for instance representation from the national measles eradication coalition or the national disaster management coalition. But the main function of such a national coalition of coalitions is to establish the technological requirements for community groups and promote the creation of city-level coalitions to disseminate them.

“City level coalitions will replicate the national structure at local levels. Get local elected officials on board, the mayor, the dean of the university, the head of the chamber of commerce. They will build large-scale alliances with research institutions, local businesses, non-profits and others committed to addressing community challenges. In large cities, it may be necessary to form different coalitions in different sections of the city, to better involve all of the relevant partners and reflect the different realities that large cities include.

“You are probably getting a sense of the multiple layers that a coalition of coalitions takes in any given country. The seed will grow when we water it, but the DNA of the plant will determine what the plant may look like.

“Which brings me to the water and the soil that will ensure the seed grows. The water, falling from above, is this crazy idea, that together we can solve pretty much any problem, anywhere, as long as the ground is ripe and the soil is fertile. The soil, then, is the community. Any group of individuals who come together to address the challenges that they face collectively, yet are too busy, too weak or too frightened to address on their own. Any group of individuals, given the right tools, knowledge and connections, if they are able to work together, if they can rely on the support of this network of committed partners, can overcome any shock or stress. They will overcome anything that life throws at them. In our jargon, we say that they become resilient.

“So all of our coalitions, globally, nationally or at city level, ultimately, only serve to till the soil. Mobilize and engage with grassroots organizations that already support community mobilization and enhance community self-awareness. Help local groups understand that what brings them together is greater than what separates them. Nurture local leaders interested in collective action, provide legitimacy to locally-identified priorities, however strange they may seem from afar. In other words, give a voice to the voiceless, on the basis that the voiceless are always, I must emphasize, always the most affected when things go awry.

“Yet a voice is not very useful if no-one is listening. If a community of homosexual men in Jamaica tells me that they do not feel safe walking into the offices of the national coalition for gender rights because of the risk of being identified as homosexual and potentially being assaulted, I want to make sure that a representative of the national coalition is hearing that message. If a neighborhood representative tells me that current evacuation routes are great in the event of floods, but that no-one will use them because they require everyone to pass in front of the local gang’s headquarters, I want the mayor, the city’s civil protection representative and the local humanitarian organizations to be part of that discussion.

“Hopefully I have made it clear that these coalitions are not social events used to discuss the latest football scores. They are meant as mechanisms to support local solutions and address local needs that require additional resources. They are platforms to raise the profile of invisible groups marginalized because of who they are or how they live. They are platforms to pressure decision-makers to take the appropriate funding decisions, and for those same decision-makers to make the case to those coalitions and entities above them to adopt corrective policies.

“Once again, the soil that feeds our resilience plant is the members of the community. Every community has issues that remain unaddressed, issues that may determine at times whether a family will live in fear or whether a child will live or die. Our role is not to solve development problems that make people vulnerable. It is not our role to vaccinate children or repair schools, to distribute blankets or install speed bumps. That is the role of the local authorities, the role of transparent, accountable representatives working with local partners. But always on the basis of the priorities of most vulnerable groups – their collective understanding of the factors of stress that could jeopardize their precarious daily lives.

“Our coalition role, then, is to ensure that those untold stressors come to the fore, to work with those grassroots organizations best able to help identify those stressors, and gather all partners whose mandate or commitment is to address those needs.

“Perhaps it no longer is clear to many of you what all this has to do with the topic at hand. I was invited to present indicators related to success in large-scale coalitions. But I was asked to focus on the particular challenge of resilience programs. Allow me then, most distinguished colleagues, to translate what I have called this leap of faith into cold numbers. Three indicators to keep a coalition of coalitions on track.

“Community needs are the roots. The first indicator is the number of communities that have conducted self-assessments. Rough urban neighborhoods as much as flood-prone villages or communities of migrants in unwelcoming countries or communities made fun of because of their physical characteristics or behaviors. We all have multiple identities, but some of the communities we belong to may make us more vulnerable than others. Those are the ones we should focus on first.

“Usually community self-assessments take the form of a list of actions that need to be taken. Ideally the list is posted on a website managed at the city level, as much as a public commitment to take action and show progress as a mechanism to allow partner organizations to chip in.

“A good way to start local assessments is to map out the risks in my street. An actual paper drawing with houses and trees and drains. People need to agree as to where their houses are, where their street starts and finishes and what the main problems are. But more than anything, it is about getting neighbors to speak to each other, not arguing over the volume of the music but actually discussing what needs to change, what is it that really concerns them yet no one does anything about. Nothing revolutionary, simply taking tried-and-tested methodologies for community appraisals and replicating them in every vulnerable street in the city.

“As this process leads to a large number of maps, there needs to be the formal selection of locally appointed representatives who take their paper map from their street to a meeting with representatives from other neighboring streets and patch them together, combining through different scales and different styles how they see their world. Nothing more than a process to formally bestow on those committed individuals some level of authority. It is about generating local leaders who have the enthusiasm that gets others on board. They are tasked with identifying and including the important organizations in their area, from the local football teams, church or mosque groups, ministry agencies and non-profits with active projects.

“Together they agree on a list of priorities, reflecting their geographic environment but also the legacy of past experiences. The list includes both problems they can solve on their own and actions for which they need external support. It could be a drainage clean-up campaign, cleaning yards to eradicate dengue, sharing sanitation tips or organizing trash. Or it could be repairing a school, building retention walls or changing a policy. This is where the different resilience coalitions at city and country level come in to play.

“The second indicator is the number of communities benefiting from support of Coalition partners, to address the needs that they consider most pressing. The goal is for communities to take action on their own, but when their knowledge, capacity or advocacy efforts are insufficient to overcome a vulnerability, the coalition partners are expected to step in or find a partner who can help.

“We also include indicators on resources allocated, to make sure that organizations are taking their commitments seriously. How much money is being spent in these communities to address the concerns that they consider most pressing? How many hours have Scouts or Rotary or Red Cross volunteers actually spent helping the community improve?

“The last indicator is an attempt to link these levels. Can we actually reach the scale that would make this coalition unstoppable? Can we convince one person per family, in every family around the world, to be a part of something larger than themselves, in their community or for the benefit of some marginalized group? Could they perhaps even take part in something more ambitious, an annual global simulation exercise for instance, as a demonstration of our shared humanity?

“As you will point out, most esteemed colleagues, these indicators are not sector-specific. They look at process, not impact. They look at the mechanism to support change, but the change itself could be on health, education, violence prevention, whatever the community considers is important for itself. We do not choose for them, only they know.

“Ultimately, it is about local change, making sure people understand that they are the only ones who can solve their problems. We want to make sure people meet others who share the same concerns, whether they live in the same street or suffer from similar discrimination. We want them to design actions they can take locally. The founding principle is that all must be led by local processes.

“So community resilience will be hard to measure. We may never actually know how many lives were saved. But that does not really matter. It is about changing our way of living together, it is about realizing how every piece, every person is part of a whole.

“So I will ask to focus not on the numbers, but on the vision. A vision that has already been planted and that is already growing around the world. We have started watering it and we are finding that the 21^st century soil is ripe in communities everywhere. Most of this is already happening and often the coalition only expands and enhances existing partnerships, existing coalitions with their own sector-specific coalitions. We will not replace them, we will look for complementarities.

“So continue your great work, every sector is important and more and more communities are recognizing this and willing to take the first steps on their own. But join us to do more. You can be a part of this, we all need to be a part of this, however small each organization’s contribution may seem.

 

“Finally, dear esteemed experts, I will appeal to your other self. The neighbor, the coach, the mother, the son hiding under that impressive résumé. And I will ask that you consider what each one of us can do personally as well for those around us. I know there will be a point in my life when I look back at those meals that my community and I prepared for those obnoxious neighbors when their house burnt down. And I might feel that was the most meaningful day I spent that year. Or perhaps I’ll remember when my house got completely flooded the following year and those same obnoxious neighbors showed up with tools and fixed up my home in such a way that it would never be flooded again. Wouldn’t that be a nice story to tell one’s grandchildren? Wouldn’t that be a nice legacy?”

 

To Postnote

“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”

– Mark Twain

 

 

Dear reader,

This story has come to its end. Or has it? Why have I told of all these scenes of pain and distress, and perhaps aroused painful emotions in my readers? Why have I lingered with seeming complacency over lamentable pictures, tracing their details with what may appear desperate fidelity?

It is a natural question. Perhaps I might answer it by another:

Would it not be possible, in these times of great material wealth yet of immense social fragmentation, to dedicate, each and every one of us, a few hours of our precious time every week for the purpose of helping those around us overcome their fears, their suffering and their hopelessness. Is there any other way to overcome our own quest for meaning?

As these stories retell, most of us do not have it easy. Because in many parts of the world it is so hard to get an honest job, put a decent meal on the table and maintain the faith that tomorrow will be better than today. Like the father trying to get his ambitious son to leave that gang that has finally gained him the respect that only weapons can buy. Or the mother who will be forced to take on a second shift as a cleaner in a lousy job across town, even if it means she barely sees her daughter who means everything to her. These and many others who share that constant fear that their world will collapse, because of a bullet, a foreclosure or a germ.

Could we not do something to help those desperate folks in faraway lands?

Here lies the irony, and perhaps a message from these stories.

The people we are best positioned to help are not always those we think of, or that our hyper-connected media tells us we should care about. It may not be those starving families, continents away, getting their unwanted thirty seconds of fame on the evening newsflash. It may not be the humble cleaner with her worn out shirt and soles, saving every cent to get her daughter through school and maybe someday even to university. Not that they couldn’t use a friendly hand. Just that the friendliest hands belong to their friends and family, not strangers from another world looking for that warm humanitarian glow that a check provides at such little effort.

So look instead around you. In our delusions of modernity, we have somehow come to believe that technology will one day eradicate poverty and allow every one of us to have a well-stocked fridge, a nice piece of steak in every plate and a car for every member of the family. Never before has the lifestyle of the wealthy been so constantly advertised, as if it were something we should all be aspiring to. Their aspirations and dreams feel so familiar, so close, that it often seems that the ideal life is only a little hard work and a lucky shot away, even if it means stepping on a few toes or a few lives on the way up.

This race to the top is the real untold story of the 21^st century, the one right in front of our eyes but that we refuse to see. The story of neighbors struggling for the fancier house, the bigger car or the more exotic destination. It is the story of double incomes, double shifts and 60-hour weeks. The story of dead end jobs that pay the bills but kill our sense of purpose. The story of fading relationships as the career promotion gets closer. The story of tired parents and lonely kids. The story of waking up to one’s life wondering where all those years went by…

Who still has the time, the energy or the interest to join the neighborhood development committee or volunteer for the animal shelter down the street? The ultimate sentence may not be to die at a young age from a treatable condition when medical care is unaffordable, surrounded only by one’s family. It may be instead to awake to one’s birthday in a cozy retirement home and realize that even the nurse forgot to wish you well. To realize that one’s children and grand-children are too busy racing to the top, focused, looking upwards always.

It doesn’t need to be this way. Get off the ladder of success, forget about that job promotion that will probably make your life more miserable. Focus instead on those memories that you will cherish. Find a job that allows you to make a difference, or at least gives you the time to make a difference outside of work. And then start small, always with those closest to you. Hold the hand of the sick friend in the hospital, hug your elderly mother on her birthday, on your birthday, on any birthday. Remember, at some point in your life you too will be sick, grieving, jobless or lonely.

***

“If only we knew where to start” – such used to be the most common excuse…

Compassion and collective action is in our DNA. All research agree, even in the age of smartphones and conspicuous consumption, today’s youngsters still care – just as their forefathers, they too want to make their world a better place. Except that now they realize the urgency that is before them.

This story is really an appeal to the new generation, of smartphones and global perspectives, with a willingness to change the world and the tools to do so. Never before have governments around the world been so accountable to their citizens, at least on paper. Never before have we been one click away from networking and advocating on a topic that is close to one’s heart, whether to denounce corrupt municipal practices or launch a neighborhood movement to welcome migrants fleeing misery. In this era of information, power relations have changed and hierarchies no longer serve the purpose of channeling and filtering information. The leaders of local grassroots organizations are reaching out directly to Government Ministers to discuss land tenure and flood mitigation actions; committed CEOs are sitting with local youth groups designing and implementing urban renewal projects; researchers and illiterate residents work side by side to map out risks and community early warning systems. We have reached this particular point in history where we have both the technology to show what is needed where, and the material resources that could address those very basic needs. The real question is whether our information-overflow, resource-rich yet relationship-poor civilization will be able to generate the momentum for a new way of living.

***

So this story is really a call to action for the youngsters born in the twenty-first century, and all others who remain young at heart. This generation is different. It may believe, like many others before them, that they can change the world. But this time we really can. Never before have we had the resources to eradicate hunger, malaria and illiteracy. Never before have we been so informed of what is going on around us, whether about the homeless man who sleeps on the sidewalk down the block or the mourning mother risking her life in a faraway land so that others won’t have to live her sorrow.

If you take only one message away from this story, let it be this: dream big, start small and work with others. Alone you will fail. No-one can make it alone – don’t believe what commercials tell you. Find people who share your passion for change, and work together.

 

Dream big.

Stop for a moment, take a deep look within, reflect on what you want to be remembered for. What keeps you up at night? That poor dog with cigarette burns? The homeless man asking for change? Your lonely grandmother in her retirement home?

You are not the only one with a sense of void, the need for a higher calling. It is a natural side effect of our society’s race to the top, the urge to buy that new car and keep up with the Joneses on your social media account. But you are more than your status update. Whatever your passion may be, you’ll be surprised to see how many others share your real concerns – do something about it!

 

Start small.

Never underestimate your own power if you commit yourselves to something. You can never know ahead of time what small actions will lead to. As this story tells, a teenager started mapping his street and ended gaining the respect of the neighborhood he grew up in, yet never felt a part of. An influential teacher led her neighborhood in a sit-in in front of the mayor’s house to protest violence, leading the mayor to launch a city coalition in her honor. A banker gave away everything he had worked for his entire career and unknowingly invented a new way of bringing people together. An obscure administrator launched a neighborhood organization to help find a teddy bear that reenergized volunteerism in his city. None of them knew what they were starting, all of them simply knew it was the right thing to do.

So the first step is understanding the power of any small group of committed individuals. Take the issue you (most) care about, start with small actions (actions, not just ‘likes’), show what can be done, build your network and together you will make a difference.

The theory is easy. But our world is not very helpful – yet – for aspiring social entrepreneurs. We constantly having to decide between competing interests – raise funds for a shelter for victims of domestic abuse, or get that iPhone 23? Spend two weeks repainting a school in Haiti, or helping local jobless families in my neighborhood build local contacts and find jobs? Ultimately success will come from having a clear goal and staying the course.

 

Work with others.

It may seem challenging at first. Start a group or join a group. Agree to solve a clearly stated problem, like bullying, abandoned pets or the loneliness of the elderly. Build your organization, start finding patrons, recruiting volunteers and raising funds.

If it still feels overwhelming, local non-profits or community groups around you offer a good starting point, if only to see how they work. The tools are known and the training is available. There may already be street-level discussions to determine local priorities where you live. Use those groups to meet like-minded individuals. Get to know them, work with them, challenge them. You’ll be amazed to discover how many other people also care about the environment, traffic, domestic violence, discrimination, poverty or pollution.

Maybe you already are part of an organization, however small or large. Then find other groups and you’ll have a network. Join existing platforms and you have a Coalition. Together you will discover new ways of doing and thinking, new opportunities for change.

You will no longer be alone when hard times come. Academics call this “resilience”, others simply call it “shared humanity”, working with amazing people who would otherwise just get in the way of our modern living.

Finally, always remember that your coalition should never become bureaucratic constructs. They are opportunities to share human stories, stories of people you know or that you will get to know. Stories of people who live and feel and fail and suffer. Stories of action, courage, teamwork and redemption. Stories that will be remembered and told with pride. You will make these stories possible, these stories will be your legacy.

 

Together we are much more than the sum our parts. Join us in this journey, a journey of encounters and shared realities. Where will your Coalition start? What will your legacy be?

 

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This story is dedicated to my daughter Léa (2009-2011) for teaching me what life is really about.

And to my wife Lorena, for making it worthwhile to carry on.