Survival Dance

Women’s circles happen all around the world.  Whether it be the gathering of pregnant women, the meeting of mothers who have lost husbands and sons fighting different sides of the same war, to the rather controversial circles of generating “abundance” at the expense of the less savvy, persuasive  or connected “spiritual” sisters.  The origins of the circle is of course the fire – that all sit around and as a consequence are equally seen.  All are equal.  Today the women were invited to share their stories in counsel.  Whatever they shared would not leave the room, all was welcome.  It was a space to verbalize what needed to be said.  The topics discussed today were far more serve than I would ever hear back home.  It makes concerns I myself have once shared seem frivolous, indulgent even.  Almost as if those of us who have no real challenges need to dig deep to find something to talk about.   What was voiced will remain sacred.  Yet what I will say is that even without the translation, the tears which flowed, almost as if they were infectious, felt like poison leaking out from vessels that had been holding pain for far too long.  I felt those tears deep in my being.  And the verb “courage” and noun “warrior” neatly reflect the quality and essence of those who spoke.  The story teller dancer gave a perfect closure to the session.  She spoke of the necessity of women to unite in order for peace to prevail.  That women not only have the potential but the responsibility to guide the human race forwards.  That the force of women united in their refusal to bow down or be divided by the demands, violence or fears of men, contains such a power that no abuse or diminishing can withstand.  My own past failings leap into my mind. Yet the remedy for regret was one of the silent themes of the whole workshop: That each and every moment is pregnant with new beginnings.  Beginnings held prisoner only by our own self judgments and refusal to move forwards.  The counsel was closed with a recording of a song by Greek Gypsy women.  It was entitled “the country of my heart”.

The final aspect of the workshop was a performance.  The eighty nine children plus staff from Asha gathered in the courtyard.  A row of chairs were set up for the women and staff and a wonderful melody of music and sharing followed.

From the outside the gathering could appear to be pretty ordinary.  Yet underneath the surface it was so much more.  The gathering of the children of migrant workers, children dancing their liberation, the right to education, their solidarity in opportunity.  Women disguised as witches, refusing to accept the label they had been given and instead dancing in dignity – together.  The first performance was given by a group of older girls.  Singing to a beautiful melody and accompanied by a drummer banging out beats on a worn out drum.  They held hands and skipped simple steps around an invisible circle.  The women watched intently as if they were witnessing shadows of their former selves; delighting in the gift of youth. Next up were the women, they were all wearing matching white saris with a red trim which had been loaned by Asha for the purpose of performances such as this.  The costume in itself was already a novelty, yet so was having an attentive audience.  An audience that had no agenda to condemn or criticize, simply to receive the gift they were giving as ancient bodies were filled with the ageless spirit birthed in the sound of music.  Finally came dance of the story teller dancer.  She donned a mask (which in a wonderful weaving of connection had been craved in Bali) and flowing robes. She moved with grace and beauty through time and dimensions.  Her final act was reminiscent of the sufi dancers – a spiraling to the Divine, spinning out to spin in, building momentum to find complete stillness.  The women and children alike were mesmerized.  And I felt so proud to be part of this incredible and equally diverse group of female facilitators.

The workshop was sealed with a gift to each of the women.  It was a gift of a new sari.  A physical, tangible, present for them to take home.  A token that they were worth so much more than the thread worn saris they had arrived in.  And the seeds which they had planted during these few days would (if they allowed) were to flourish and grow.  Even if the external remains stuck in superstition, they needn’t be trapped forever as victims.  I  truly feel that if they are able to nurture the immense and natural power they have within, then regardless of the barren land they would return to – a land which as we had heard was suffering a long drought of compassion – then their inner landscape can still become rich and full of promise. United together this could move mountains of intimidation.  One exception to this hope was a one woman called Reka.  Reka was still forbidden to return to her village.  She had no other women nearby.  She had nowhere to go.  Yet she held her head high, smiled widely and my colleagues in Kolkata promised her they would find a solution – perhaps even coming back to take her with them so she would at least have shelter and food; a safe home.

As the sun was about to set I whisked upstairs to sit on the roof.  To sit by myself as the day ushered in the night.  My Aquarius spirit never fails to guide me to the quiet places, the peaceful places, to the moments of tranquility within the chaos.  As the sky changed colours like a chameleon moving through contrasting landscapes, I bowed down in gratitude for all that these women had given to me.  And I rose with a new determination that I have so much more work to do – back home in Bali and around the world.  That I am free; free to move and to share these stories of liberation.  

Several kids appeared and broke my spell of introspection.  They collected drying items of laundry from retired bed frames.  At this point I realized that the small room which we had conducted the whole workshop was the room the women had slept each night in.  Eight mattress for eighteen women, and yet they had still wanted me to stay with them.   Music boomed from crackly speakers down in the courtyard.  Every child and woman was dancing full on.  Apparently this is the evening activity, and the perfect balance to the day time atmosphere of study and chores.  I bolted down the stairs, danced in the middle of children, staff and tribal women, song after song – East meets West and Beyond.

Finally I was dragged away.  A hundred hands grabbed me to stay.  Each woman put wrapped her palms around mine in a double Namaste, thumbs to third eyes and one by one we bowed deeply to the wisdom in one another, connected to the soul.  Good bye a thousand times.  “See you when?”  Next year; next lifetime?  Stay well sister, mother, grandmother.  Stay strong.

Later that night Urmi posted some photos from the day.  She added the following sentiments:

“Powerful and intense days in Jharkhand concludes in love and empathy.  Nothing could be more profound than hearing the stories of these forgotten women. The survivors of witchhunt left transformed by the meditative power of story dancing, play with clay, yoga and healing through love. They shared the horrific stories of brutality suffered and rose in courage and forgiveness.”

I’ve been meditating on the purpose of having a moral guide and developing an inner ethical compass.  Human nature or human nurture?  Perhaps it’s like the chicken and the egg.  I am not sure which one comes first.  If violence is innate and needs to be tamed, or compassion lies masked by the need to survive.  Yet most definitely the discipline of developing and maintaining a daily spiritual practice is singing out loudly to me.   Each night I have been sharing a bed with the story teller dancer.  A kindred spirit who has been dancing her work for much longer than I.  A quiet and humble mentor.  Often we speak without words and yet today has been so profound that I share with her I am often stuck between a life of service and a life of living.  She replied there is only one thing to do:  Do good and be good and this will take up most of your time.