I’m beginning to wonder if anyone is going to show up. I’ve worked on a hundred different projects
around the world, often with grand intentions to be met with a tiny group of
participants leaving me debating if my path is misguided and money better spent
on a specific donation. However, this
mindset is putting the emphasis on quantity instead of quality, and what the
years of social activism have taught me is that no matter the number of
participants for whoever does attend it can be a powerful experience beyond any
calculation. Just like with any action
we take which is backed with a compassionate and wise intention it is often
very hard to even anticipate the long term effects.
Once again my doubts were washed away as a auto-rickshaw
pulled up and a huge group of women piled out.
Amazed at how they all managed to fit inside they cautiously rearranged their
thread worn saris and huddled together.
Each woman had lifetimes etched in her face. The majority were older. Their skin was sun and time worn yet ages
were hard to estimate. A few stumbled
forward with wooden sticks as make shift canes, hunched over, eyes fighting to
see. Each woman was very dark, tribal skin – the original people of this land. Born free from caste and therefore at the
very bottom of the well entrenched hierarchy.
Chests, hands and feet bore tattoos from their ancestral line which were
at first invisible but like a magic eye pattern, once I saw - I saw many.
Eighteen women in total joined us, they had traveled six hours on foot,
bus and now rickshaw and with very little idea of why they were here. They were welcomed them with a sweet lassi –
a statement of how the days were to continue.
They were our guests. They would
be fed good food, fresh fruit, snacks and chai.
They would be waited upon. They
were here to rest and rejuvenate, to strengthen and heal.
Urmi introduced us and explained the purpose of the
workshop. They nodded in response and
then were invited to share their name with a movement. This they did with varying degrees of
gusto. Some clearly unsure what to make
of it all.
The story teller
dancer (whose project this was) began by leading them through movement to
sporadic music. The music was sporadic
simply because it was hooked up not with a plug but with wires leading directly
into the outlet, so it kept falling out.
One of the Asha team attempted
to fix it by sticking tiny sticks of wood directly into the socket. It kind of worked. Admittedly I was skeptical to how the foreign
music, foreign facilitator and foreign movements would be received, but they
were. It was like a breath of fresh air
had just whisked through the room and old bent bodies came to life. I followed with some very simply asanas. Primarily from the pavanmukatasana (joint freeing poses) series. The movements are
basic and designed to gently lubricate the joints while strengthening the mind
body connection. Urmi translated into Hindlish
(ie. Hindu splashed with English) so I followed that she was telling them the
body is like a machine that has to be regularly oiled and used to stop it from
freezing up. It I teach the sequence
regularly and all over the world. In
comparison to my usual lycra clad students at the Yoga Barn, the women’s
movements were awkward. It was like watching the petals of a flower gently thaw
open after a frosty morning. It was a testament to their life of hard work and
the luxury of having access to both the time and knowledge to connect to one’s
body. I thought back to my Indian friend
in Kolkata who scoffed that these tribal women would know more about how to
move and the practice of yoga than me. If nothing else, I hoped that perhaps a
couple of them would remember some of the movements which may over time help to
relieve tired joints and contracted limbs.
And in the meantime I could visibly see connections being formed –
between minds and body, facilitators and guests. For the first time I could also see the
benefits of teaching through an interpreter. Confident that if I said something too
esoteric or inappropriate it would be congenially intercepted. Continuous
reflections came that a smile can melt away even the most convicted
frowns. Really seeing, and by that I
mean speaking through eyes rather than with my tongue goes such a long
way. It was indeed clear that for many
of these women they were not used to having such direct recognition. Years of being ostracized, of being feared
and taunted had worked its way into their very being. And within just one morning of being invited
to Be was a privilege to watch and at the same time a testament to the danger
not of witches but of those who believe in them. I really had no idea what to expect, yet soon
they began to share their stories. One
by one. Some survivors or domestic
violence and others of the witch hunt.
And survivors is the key word.
These women are strong, resilient, powerful to the core. I watched their words before I was able to hear
them. I saw flickers of emotion rising
through posture and tonation. Many of
those hunted as witches had similar experiences. Some it had been years ago, others more
recent. To my ears it sounded reminiscent
of the klu Klux klan days. Perhaps this
was my vivid imagination but unfortunately as the stories began to correlate I
feared not. Women courageously recalled
how they were hounded, made to eat human excrement, forced to leave their
families, stripped naked and left in the forest to scavenge for food. One older
woman who was perhaps one of the most reclusive in the group had a scarf tied
around her head. It looked very strange,
as the others all wore their long graying hair tied back, with nothing than the
occasional flick of the tail of their sari over it. She began to tell her story. She was accused of being a witch. She denied.
She was given shit to eat and so she did and then to further prove her
innocence she was told to go to the local temple and shave her head. Although her hair had begun to grow back for
any traditional woman in India to cut her hair was a huge shaming. Another told
how she had stood up for her accused friend, now seated by her side, and then
her and her family had also been persecuted.
One of the more lively women in the group, explained with great
animation how now she would go to a chai shop which before would refuse to serve
her, demand her drink, finish it, slam the cup down on the table in front of
her audience and proudly walk out.
Holding your head up high as a named witch was being a true warrior
woman. And she was. She had also been part of a three woman
street theater group who toured the local villages, performing and educating on
the violations of women like her.
Another boldly said the women felt good now. Here in this moment, because we could see
them, we were talking to them, listening to them, but when they went home they
did not all have this luxury. I was
reminded of a panel I had attended on survivors of Indonesia’s many war
crimes. Of women who had lived through
the 1965 massacres, of the East Timor massacres (1975-1999) and in West Papua
1998. The panel strongly emphasized that
until the women could tell their stories it was next to impossible for them to
move on. They absolutely had to voice
what they had endured and then from then on they could begin to forgive, move on,
grow from what they had survived.
The story teller
dancer transformed the horror stories through movement. She instructed the women to paint with
invisible coloured light of their imaginations, use their hands, feet and back
as a paint brush and to my amazement they followed. Smiles lit up eyes, and the spirit of
forgotten youth brought their frames to light. Once again demonstrating that
yes her and I were from radically different cultures, with radically different
lives, and yet though movement we could share freedom in this moment. Watching her passion and emotion was truly
inspirational, and another testament that even though this workshop would only
last three days, it was three very unique and sacred days.
At the end of the afternoon we sat together outside,
drinking chai and watching the days sky turn to dusk. Asha
was a sanctuary, and compared to the “modern” and suffocating hotel I and the
team members were staying in, this was paradise. One woman joked with us that she had the
worse seat in the rickshaw, and every time she fell asleep it woke her up with
a violent bump. She would jump up and down in her plastic chair laughing at her
morning journey. A hundred photos were
taken, hands were held, my tattoo behind my ear examined by many hands and
eyes.
As our driver (who had spent the whole day waiting for us,
clearly with no other work and no intention to waste petrol on an unproductive
long drive home) pulled the jeep out many of the women held onto me and told me
to stay. I wanted to yet I had been invited
by the team and my place tonight was still with them. However, I realized that my intention to be a
bridge for the light and love of my special community back in Bali was being
tangibly constructed. When we arrived
back in the hotel I opened my email to receive a message from Cat Kabira:
What you are doing is so important and worthwhile - you know
this, your soul knows this. Just in case you're still questioning, what you're
doing is 1 BILLION PERCENT VALID. You're on your perfect path. You are so
empowering, refreshing and inspiring to so many. Keep it up -simply by being
the dedicated loving human you are.
Grateful to the women who asked me to join them here,
grateful to the women who I had the honour to meet today, grateful to the women
around the world who support and encourage me to keep sharing, grateful to the
women who have shared their wisdom and craft with me, grateful to the women
whose line I am from and whose lives were so very different from mine, grateful
for all the privileges I have had and continue to have. Grateful.
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