Matt and Kristin in the Philippines

In January 2006, our president signed the McCain Amendment which explicitly prohibits cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment by ALL US personnel - no exceptions.

This past week, the administration pushed for legislation to amend both the McCain and War Crimes Act so that CIA personnel would be "exempt" from these clearly stated policies.

I am currently taking a class entitled Ministry, Spirituality, and Survivors of Human Rights Abuses. Our second reading assignment is the memoir of an American nun, kidnapped in Guatemala, tortured for 24 hours and managed to escape. Thousands of Guatemalans were not so fortunate. They were burned, raped, mutilated, stabbed, electrocuted, there is no end to a tormentor's choice of methods.

Our first two weeks in the Philippines had us reeling from the intensity of novelty. In our last two weeks we shed tears for the home we would leave.

Now in the US, my eyes, ears, nose, tongue can barely absorb as fast as they are stimulated and sometimes I am exhausted from the inevitable constancy of comparing two very unlike cultures.

What I have seen:

Green grass, lawns, organized flower beds, no gardens

Car ports as large as the nipa huts we lived in

A line of 8 wooden spoons discovered in our "kitchen supplies" box

Shiny cars

People of every color and none of them stare or shout at me

We are exhausted in every possible way, our shadowy eyes bulge under the weight of tear-streaked goodbyes and I love you's, our bodies ache from 2-3 hours of sleep a night this past week, our wallets are bare while our suitcases are full (8 kilos over the allotted weight of 44.4 pounds per person to be exact, and yes,they charge for that). We celebrated our friendships with speeches, laughter,jokes over my cooking abilities and fear of the cockroach'sbite, Matt's introvertedness and my not-introvertedness,and of course,food! We continue to reel in this remembering and departing.

And now we will spend the next week on the beach, internet-less, processing this year and allowing ourselves to grieve and rejoice over the home this has become and will remain a part of us always.

I'm going to seminary! McCormick Theological Seminary.

I'm not going to be a pastor.

I am going to share a portion of my autobiographical statement....
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We have a ticket home. In two weeks we will pack up our souvenirs and memories in suitcases bound for the United States. In two weeks we will leave behind a country of equatorial sun, pillaged land, political killings, landslides, volcanic eruptions, displaced families. In two weeks we will stand in a Chicago we haven't seen, heard or felt in a year.

So why seminary? Truthfully, it's the only option that brings my gut a sense of peace. I knew we'd return to Chicago for Matt's final year so I researched the tremendous wealth of job offerings in non-profit organizations and could not imagine myself in any of them. I don't know how re-entry will affect my being but I assume it will turn the world upside down yet again and it seems irresponsible to deal with other people's emotional junk when I'm dealing with my own in very new ways. I do know I want to begin the process of rebuilding a faith still scattered at my feet. I want the intentionality of community because it is through relationships that God becomes real. I want the familiarity of McCormick and Chicago. I'd like to go part-time in order to develop my passion for photography, but also because of the uncertainty that accompanies a decision like this. I don't know where I am headed vocationally, but that does not worry me. I want to learn what there is to be taught about making God real through social justice work, how to practice Jesus outside of a traditional church setting, how to unite with my global brothers and sisters of all faith traditions. I come with many doubts about the church and this man we call Jesus, I come with questions and skepticism. I come with the touch of a hungry child on my hip and a prostituted woman holding my hand. I come knowing the imperfection of the world and that the struggle is too big for me. I come believing this is the next right step. I come because I have a ticket home and the knowledge that this is only a beginning.

Perhaps being in a more global context has raised my awareness of the injustices around the world, but I've been swept up and emotionally drained by the nightmare already well unfolded between Lebanon and Israel.

There is another American woman here whose friend was serving as a volunteer in Beirut. He recently emailed saying he had escaped to Syria, also a volatile country, with his Muslim companion. They intend to flee to Turkey and hopefully make it to the American Embassy. The one in Lebanon has not been in existence for quite some time.

Yesterday, Israel bombed the last major highway of Beirut. Airports blaze in the night, bombs shatter the stars and the sun, leaving bridges, roads, homes, and people blasted and destroyed in their wake. The footage is ugly; Israel has claimed anything as a fair target, including civilian homes where a woman drinking her morning coffee was killed.

There's a good reason why Hershey's chocolate chips cannot be found in the ordinary Filipino cupboard, besides the fact that a lot of people don't have cupboards. Or that it would be vulnerable to any combination of varmints, rats, cockroaches, ants. Or that they're ridiculously expensive even by American standards (imagine that, imported US goods expensive, who would have thought?).

Hershey's can't handle the heat. Matt and I received a surprise package a few weeks ago, laden with Hershey's Kisses, Trident, and other goodies that disappeared rather quickly. But we all got a good laugh at the mangled Kisses, swallowing that little paper strip into its center and wrinkling itself up like an 87 year old man's cheek.

Lessons in Potty Training (Specific to the Philippines, but relevant throughout the global communities of toilets or lack thereof)

1. Approach with caution. Cockroaches, spiders the size of my fist, mosquitoes, an occasional rat have been known to frequent centers of personal hygiene.

2. Cuff your pants. Wet CR is a clean CR ("CR" stands for "Comfort Room"). Your pants do not look clean wet.

3.. You might not have a toilet seat. Or toilet bowl. Or much more than a dirt floor to squat on.

4. In the event of outdoor bladder relief, be sure you have a sarong, if you are a woman. When squatting, avoid tall prickly plants and car headlights. Try not to splash on your feet.

No, he didn't die, he was shot. Just as the other 70+ activists killed throughout the country since January.

I saw the lifeless arm of Marcus Bangit sprawled from beneath the white sheet, his black Velcro shoes, on this evening's news. He was an activist with the Cordillera People's Alliance, an organization "committed to the promotion and defense of indigenous peoples’ rights, human rights, social justice, and national freedom and democracy."(www.cpaphils.org) The same Cordillera People's Alliance who just hosted Cordi Day.

Since peoples' rights, human rights, social justice, and national freedom and democracy are obviously threats to Gloria Macapagal-Arroy's administration, he was silenced. Along with hundreds of comrades in this endless struggle for justice.

Yes, it's that time again to crisp our pale skin on a white sand beach, sip mango-banana shakes, and wonder what on earth we're doing in this country.

Of course this will be preceded by a two hour flight to Manila today, a 10-hour bus ride tomorrow to the Cordillera in Northern Luzon for an anniversary celebration/remembrance of a slain activist which ignited the protest movement in that region. Two days of cultural presentations, wild colors, and dialogue on present issues amidst the grandeur of mountains and coldness.

Did I mention the roads en route to this area cliff are so narrow two vehicles can't pass at the same time? And when the occasion to pass arrives, one must reverse to a wide enough space and wait the other vehicle's passage? And that Greyhound-esque buses will be doing this, on the sides of a sheer cliff sans guardrails? This should be exciting (read: terrifying).

"Mama, we're hungry."

But what can mama give when she receives less than 1/3 of her day’s earnings while her employers bask in 2/3 glory?

"Mama, we're hungry, can we have something to eat?"

But what can mama give when she works through the night, body aching, burning, itching until the blazing morning sun rises above the jagged shantytowns. Again, she must seek courage to face another night, possibly a lifetime of this, just to survive.

"Mama, please, we're really hungry, please give us something to eat."

But Mama feels empty. Desperate to love her children and be loved by someone who accepts her for who she is, not what she does.