THREE DAYS IN DAMASCUS Book Tour

I'm home. For now.

I have spent the last 6 weeks in 5 cities reading signing and speaking about and from my memoir, "Three Days in Damascus" (published by Palewell Press, 2016). What a whirlwind---Chicago, Minneapolis, New York, Washington D.C. and then to London for the UK launch of my book last week.

It has been an honor and a joy to share my book across the world, advocating for refugees. I have so enjoyed speaking about my process and experiences and even more enjoyed hearing people's reactions and questions. We have had engaging and lively discussions on behalf of refugees and dislocated, disenfranchised people everywhere. I have been joined in discussion by advocates on the issue: Roya Naderi (Karam Foundation) and Jamil Khoury (Silk Road Rising Theatre) in Chicago, Kristi Rendahl (Center for Victims of Torture) in Minneapolis, Deborah Oster Pannell in NYC, C.E. Vargas (Int. Center for Religion and Diplomacy) and Erik Gustafson (Education for Peace in Iraq Center) in D.C. and Anna Farina (Syria Relief) in London--brilliant, generous people, sharing their perspectives and thoughts in the discussion. So grateful for their participation.

And I'm not done yet!

I go to Palm Beach next week for some book club discussions and then back to New York City for an author event at Intersections International. Intersections is the organization that brought me to the Middle East in the first place---starting me on this journey. What a fitting way to end this part of my book tour, bookending it perfectly.

If you haven't read the book and want to, you can find it in paperback or ebook on amazon here.

And the full tour and more on the book is available at www.3daysindamascus.com

Winter Solstice Writing

Today is the winter solstice which means it is the shortest day of the year. The longest, darkest night of the winter. Here we are. Sigh. As I write at my desk, overlooking the quiet street below, it is already dark. This happens I guess due to seasons and axis tilt and other things I don't really know about, but the point of it all is that we are in the dark of the dark! And there is only light from here. Hallelujah!

It's been a rough winter for the U.S as a country and as collective communities---between police violence against people of color, more and more gun violence and mass shootings and profiling and demonizing of Muslims and refugees, my heart has been darkened. This is to say nothing of the violence, pain and suffering happening in the greater world including Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Paris, Lebanon and more. Always more. It can be overwhelming.

And the loud, angry voices heard in the dark aren't helping---voices of intolerance, voices of hate, voices of fear.  It's easy to be afraid in the dark.

Now certainly there is value in darkness: contemplation, silence, reflection and renewal can be found in periods of darkness. This dark day can be a special day, but it is the light we look to. The dawn after the night, after the storm. We always seek light. And yes, sometimes it takes courage to seek light from darkness. But tomorrow will begin to give us more light, little by little. It's a start. So now is the time for courage, for our voices to demand more light, in more ways than one.

May the increasing length of our days bring us increased generosity and tolerance towards our fellow humans. May the sustained light remind us of our responsibility to others and of the value of compromise and kindness. May this season of lights bring us deeper, action-driven empathy towards those suffering. May it keep our hearts open to each other, even just a moment longer.

May we remember it could be any of us in that dark in a heartbeat. Our roots are the same.

These Eyes

I seem to have Mexico-adopted a dog while I am down here. This guy:

Or maybe rather---he adopted me.

I was sitting on a bench eating my second taco al pastor, my personal favorite down here in Mexico, when this dog approached me with these eyes. He was begging yes, but not so much begging as, I don't know...asking? He looked at me as if to say: I'm really hungry and I need you. Can you feed me? You are my last hope. Now I assure you I am not crazy. I know dogs don't talk, let alone think like that...probably. But I swear: he kindly asked me for any food I could spare.

Well, now you remember, I really like tacos al pastor and I only had two, and one was already gone ...and well, I was hungry. But this dog! So I gave him a priceless piece of pork. It was then I saw his body: emaciated, shrunken. He looked at me again. I gave him more. Then he lay/lie/laid down and not the good lay-down --- the "I might be dying" lay-down, which I don't think I have ever seen before. But in this moment, this is what I knew to be true.

I went inside and got him some water and placed it front of his limp body. Then I went and bought him his own taco. Beef this time, no tortilla. The taco place thought I was nuts. "No tortilla, por favor. Su para un perro." He scarfed it up. I got him to drink the water. He eventually drank the whole thing. He was clearly dehydrated. I bought him more food and refilled the water container. He started to perk up. I pet him, encouraged him to drink more water. He looked at me again with those eyes...and I started to cry. I can't tell you why I cried, but I did. Maybe he was fine. Maybe I exaggerated. But something in his eyes. I saw him, desperate: this soul, this life. And I cried. I sat with him a while, just being with him and after a while he eventually he got up and trotted off. I maybe saved his life. I maybe didn't. But I stepped up.

There's been so much in the news lately [thankfully] about the dire refugee crisis in the Middle East and Europe. Devastating photos and stories. Lives. People. Dev. a. stat. ing. And I hear politicians and random small people spouting on about walls and aliens and illegals and jobs and thieves and not enough and go home and we can only take 57 and not our problem. And then I look at a photo, at a person's eyes, like this brave man and I see him. I see another soul, another life. And I cry.

This photo in particular made me weep. This man. Clutching his children.

We are all the same. There really are no borders or countries or lines. They are created. False. Arbitrary. We are all people and some of us need help right now. Some of us need a damn taco. Or a hand stepping out of a boat, or a safer way of getting to safety.

I traveled to Syria 6 years ago, before everything turned so, so south. And I often wonder how and where those people are I met. Are they still alive? Did someone help them? And the other millions I didn't meet, who can't protect their children or save them from sure death? I mean, these people would rather risk likely death on a rickety, overpopulated boat in the middle of the ocean than risk certain death where they live. Think about that choice. I met with refugees in Syria. I heard their stories and their choices. Do you honestly think we should send them back? These desperate, delirious people? I wouldn't. I couldn't even send back the dog.

So every day, he comes back, looking for more food and I feed him. Four days later, he's starting to look a little better, maybe. He still looks at me with those eyes and I can't turn away. How can any of us?

It's time we stepped up.