Please Read but Only When Sober

This entry is lightly censored* due to Peace Corps policy but the essence is the same and the letter is the one I gave. I also would like to reiterate that this is my opinion and my opinion alone. I publish with the most humble heart and hope that it is not misinterpreted but seen as the only way I can make sense of life. In the moments that I am most afraid, I will not close my door. I will welcome all of the things that scare me into my arms with the same compassion that I hug those that I love.

I believe that we can have a better world. I believe without a doubt. Without a doubt I believe.

This past Friday was a long one. We had our 50th Anniversary celebration for Peace Corps. It was an all day affair and a time when I reaffirmed my belief in the mission of this organization. It was also the end of one of the hardest weeks I have had in the Peace Corps. Two of my volunteer sisters had unimaginable violence committed against them and returned to the states to find healing and comfort in the arms of their family and US friends. In typical bureaucratic fashion, our post had called us to a meeting to discuss how our behavior was leading us into violence. Anyone who has ever worked with victims of violence, poverty and oppression know that there is no sense in the chaos that plagues humanity. Violence is not the victim's fault. It is the victim’s responsibility to grow, heal and move forward in a compassionate way. It is the community’s responsibility make a stand against the things that continue to promote chaos and injustice. It is the community’s responsibility to love both the victim and the offender because we know that if we have humans in the world who rob others, the hatred in their heart is born of their experience and lack of love.

Late Friday night, I went with a good friend of mine to park his bus. As we traveled up the back road of Layou in one of the nicest neighborhoods, we came upon two men blocking the road*. It was late and the day had been long. I hopped out of the bus to see if I could assist. I came upon one man trying to convince an overwhelmingly intoxicated man to go into his gate and go to bed. In order for that to happen he would need to move his bicycle* approximately 20 feet out of the road. Now, where I come from, riding a bicycle* while completely intoxicated is not only a bad idea, it is illegal. I looked at the man and said, “Nah, you can’t be riding that thing even if it is only a short distance. Let me do it for you.” Well wouldn’t you know, as soon as I move the bicycle* and get off of it, the drunk man is in my face, putting his hands on me. Shoving me around like I am some subhuman that will just roll over and let him abuse me. He shouts me. He calls me names. He pushes away my friend and the other man, he wants to strangle me but he doesn’t get that far. I stood my ground. I told him I was not afraid. Inside I was shaking , I tried a couple times to get him to stand up and go in his gate. I banged on his door in a vain hope that his wife would come to the door and he would "snap to." She didn’t come and honestly, I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want that coming in my house either.

Eventually I had enough and I thought my friend might be driven to clock the guy in the face. As much as I was angry and scared, I really didn’t want to see anyone get hurt. I was hurt enough for everyone there. Let’s leave it at that. I went home that night and cried. I spoke to my friends here and tried to figure out what to do. I went to the police and asked what they could do to help me—they would speak to him and let him know that he is being warned and he cannot hurt others. I went to my Vincentian mother, Florence, and asked if she would be willing to go with me to talk to him. I found peace knowing that I had people who were willing to make a stand with me. I know that I could tell the story to other people and they would join me as well. But at this point, I feel supported and loved, so I did what suits me best. I wrote. I wrote Mr. Morris a letter and I delivered it to his doorstep in an envelope marked “Please open but only when sober.” Inside he will find the letter below. Before I share, I would like to beg of you that you do not shake your head in fear and make this a “those people” story. This man is probably my father’s age, he lived in a developed country for the past 40 some odd years and he is sick with alcoholism. When I asked the police, if there were any resources available that might help him with this disease, they said “no.” So if this story outrages you, do something about it. You don’t have to do it here but show someone love in your community. I am trying to do my piece of making peace. I hope you will join me. Also if anyone has a bright idea on how to help developing countries have access to resources like alcoholics anonymous, speak up!

April 17, 2011
Dear Mr. Morris,
I am not sure if you remember this but last Friday you broke my heart. You put your hands on me. You criticized me for something I have no control over; my race and my gender. I hurt. I hurt still. I really was only trying to help. I take responsibility for my actions—I know that I could have done something differently to have shown you more compassion. I forgive myself and I forgive you.
I want you to know, more than anything, that I love you as my own brother. I am deeply concerned that you hurt yourself by abusing alcohol and others. I want you to know that I believe you are capable of living in a way that is brighter and full of love. I want you to know that I will do anything in my power to help you but you have to ask me for what you need. Until I hear from you, I promise to always show you love and compassion when I see you on the road. I have unrelenting hope that you can be a beautiful person and make a worthy contribution to the world.
Love and respect,
Sarah