A Story of Migration (Uganda 1962- )

Manafwa Road, in Mbale, bustles under the equatorial sun. Boda bodas swerve around cratered potholes and empowered pedestrians, ferrying shoppers from errand to errand. A shiny TotalEnergies gas station is conveniently adjacent to the taxi park, where drivers loiter by their vans and hawkers push corn, sugarcane, plastic, to anyone around. Activity on the street is frenetic even in this relatively small town.

We came here to see the site of my father's birth. Fifty years of separation means the memories are mostly overridden, but the building my grandfather constructed remains standing. The street was much quieter back then. Same with the Kampala corner my grandmother grew up on--Uganda's population has exploded since they left. Amidst the change, however, there remain signs of what once was. Many of the shops lining Manafwa Road are still South Asian-owned. 

My mother struck up conversation in Urdu in one of these businesses, to check if maybe someone had stayed through Idi Amin's regime, if maybe someone remembered when this was our home too. She found the ears of a more recent arrival, Ahmed, who came from Pakistan a few years earlier. With great hospitality he offered food, drink, shelter, anything of service to fellow speakers of his native tongue. Very Ugandan of him--the culture is communal, exuding a jovial tolerance evident in how the people drive and gather and laugh. 

Ahmed told us he initially hoped to live in the US. In 2017, he flew from Punjab to Brazil, where he had landed a visa. This man subsequently traversed the length of the Americas towards the allure of a better future. Our exhaustion from tracking mountain gorillas for a few hours in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest just days earlier was now shameful: Ahmed had crossed the Darien Gap, the jungles of Central America, the Andes. He reached the US-Mexico border at Tijuana months later. After jumping the wall, he was swiftly detained. He shivered and despaired in detention for an entire year before deportation back to Pakistan. 

A home is left, I thought, and becomes home for another. Movement, that defining trait of humanity, is our foundation. Where we are, how we got here, where we will go. What is the destination of our never-ending journey?  

I sensed perseverance in the bones of Uganda. Humans have walked there longer than almost anywhere else. Strength, and perspective, comes with such old, deep roots. There is a general calmness flowing from the shared certainty that life goes on. I stood at the grave of my great grandfather, in the soil my ancestors once came to, and was connected. 

I have no doubts that people will dot those fertile, rolling hills until the end of time. 

Life Snippet

The setting sun sent pink rays shooting eastward. The backdrop to the towers morphed from cotton candy to sorbet clouds, magenta and streaking blues, a lightshow on the ceiling of the world for all to enjoy equally, far below. The sky over the river was darker but brilliant, too. It was the latter stages of a grand finale: the Sun's reign. 

Collective witness has a way of bringing people together. The experience is shaped by the presence of those also there, reveling in the undeniable realization that something bigger, something special, is at hand. An unexpected break in the way of things--an inbetween, liminal moment, I guess. Someone turned the music up, and the waves pumped in on a detectable frequency. My phone buzzed with footage from across town. A street corner bathed in cherry blossoms. The stuff of creation, dreams. 

The hierarchy is of no consequence here. Anyone can stop to see, to feel. The lucid colors wash time into a new phase. For an instant we were finally one. If we know anything, we know another instant will come. 

Historical consciousness

I've been grappling with how to approach Absalom, Absalom! for weeks now. It seems every time I look away it's still there, connected to the entirety, somehow escaping the eternal struggle to simultaneously define itself separate from and within the group. Faulkner personified shared emotions into individual beings--ideas into human essence. John Jeremiah Sullivan wrote in the introduction, which is the best one I've ever read (I read it after finishing the novel as I tend to) and a most challenging undertaking to be assigned, that Faulkner aimed "to dramatize historical consciousness itself, not just human lives but the forest of time in which the notion of human life must find its only meaning."

What is so unnerving about the whole thing, for me, is how clearly the way the group and the individual influence each other is shown. People embody the spirit of a larger force, crafting it and carrying it on. We act as we should in the medium of past and future, killing and dying for the responsibilities shouldered. For the way things are done. We find the path that led us here, and we sow the seeds of where the path goes on. 

Our intelligence mandates an explanation. Heritage orients existence. I visited the Temple of Dendur on a fall day, its sandstone blocks transported across seas to lie in this cavernous hall. Augustus commissioned it in Upper Egypt over 2,000 years ago in the style of the then-ancient pharaohs. It was an ode to a great lineage, a landmark in time signaling the proper order was in place. 

Historical consciousness can hold us hostage to the lofty goals set by our predecessors. As much as this may be reflected in grievances, power grabs, hierarchy, it can also be reflected in peace and gratitude, too. The Samai people of Malaysia carry a nonviolent dogma with them from their distant past. They have an expectation of benevolence and agreeableness, respect and free will. They are likewise oriented by tradition in time. Why theirs developed in this manner, as compared to the imperial ambitions so common in our species, leaves me wondering. Once we define ourselves on the basis of our group, is that who we are forever? 

Mahicannittuk

The fall colors along the wide Hudson River glimmered like a peacock's tail. The forest whirred by the train windows, flashing a gradient orange and yellow and green. What little human settlement subsists is nestled under the canopy or on the shoreline--brief outposts amidst a more dominant feature. Large boulders and cliffs line the rocky banks. The scene is so grand at times it seems an alpine lake more than an ambling river soon to freeze over. 

Painters came to this valley in the early 19th century to capture a slice of its beauty. It embodied the potential, the inherent goodness of this land, and on their canvas they imbued this serenity with national visions of destiny that rested upon man's relation to bountious nature. They made portraits of the past, present, and future of our nation. Carrying the identity of the young country, the Hudson River School expanded beyond this river to show romantic, sometimes mythical vistas from across the hemisphere that inspire an awe unearthed only by our environment. 

I find myself drawn to landscapes, especially of this kind. Ambling through the Smithsonian American Art Museum one winter day, I became engrossed by Albert Bierstadt's Among the Sierra Nevada, California. I was lost in its layers, its awaiting and inviting tranquility. The Hudson River movement had been adapted to the rugged features of the American West. It strikes me as a depiction of Eden; in Bierstadt's image, a placid, life-filled lake ringed by towering peaks and pines; in the image of stylistic peers, a deciduous forest or winding river or idyllic farm. 

Beyond context and time, the feeling that emerges when presented with a beautiful scene of nature is retained in these works. There is a physical reaction in this moment, an upwelling of peace and harmony with the surroundings. In these busy days of ceaseless motion, my mind grasps for the creativity that blossoms in calmness. I sensed the energy those painters did nearly two centuries ago, the pure limitless force, in the Hudson River valley. It was invigorating. It is comforting to know something bigger exists out there. 

Kingdom Animalia

An owl stood under the oak as I passed. His wide eyes and swiveling head followed my movement, but he did not flee. I paused across the church courtyard, admiring his layered feathers and silent aura. He perfectly camouflaged into the darkening background; I'm not sure how I spotted him to begin with. We faced each other for a good minute. Not a breeze disturbed the quiet summer evening. I continued on in the twilight.  

Under the streetlamp blocks away, a gangly young fox trotted across the end of Main Ave. He stopped in the front yard on the corner. I slowed as I walked under the tube of light. The fox rose to its back legs, studying me in stillness like the owl. I paused again, gazing across the yard at its perceptive face. Ears piqued, crepuscular eyes focused and curious. We looked at one another. The world was calm. I traveled onwards. 

Humans have lived alongside the owl and the fox since the beginning. We found them, solitary hunters of the night, on every landmass we settled. They thrive in cities and wilderness--unsurprisingly, for their intelligence is apparent from mere moments of interaction. Some cultures find this astuteness unnerving, a bad omen. Others revere the natural wisdom.    

Like angles of the dusk, apparitions communicating beyond spoken language, the owl and the fox came in trusting peace. There was no fear between us. Maybe they accept me as one of their own.

いさむ

The textured, rough boulders expertly littered around the Noguchi Museum are inherently weatherproof. Aside from smooth ridges carved into their surfaces, rows and ovals and geometric designs in sharp contrast to their eroded and ancient medium, the complacent stones are indistinguishable from those in a granite quarry, or in a canyon below steep dry mountains. The concrete floor of the open-air exhibit has puddles from the just-finished downpour; the courtyard pebbles are damp and tinted with moisture. 

Once the train crosses the river it rises above ground. That's when we notice the rain. It falls from the sky in dense, loud sheets. The distant towers poke through storm clouds as we move north, and the water runs off miles of hard impervious surface in torrents, matching the aggression of the land it drenches. 

We wait for the deluge to pass under overhanging metal. Throngs join us standing outside the station. Everyone has a place to be. For only some is their purpose vital enough to sacrifice the comfort of dryness. My friend sees the rain as a cleansing force, a refresh. A place like this, trodded upon by countless soles, a living whirlpool, needs that every so often. 

One of my favorite sculptures at the Museum is Sun at Midnight: a polished, hypnotic black ring for Goliath. Circles, pure and endless, are of divine nature to me. I couldn't tell you the first thing about the artwork's technical nuance, but I can feel the turning of existence when I see it. "Faith is believing that the future holds good things," whispers in my ear. Whether it is spoken or imagined I know not. 

We return to the island amidst ambassadors and devotees. Its lights flicker on as the sun bows out, pulsating radiance drawing in masses like a mile-high magnet. So much is raised above the ground, floating high in the mash of raindrops sliding towards the center of the Earth. Defiance, that original human sin, embodied and maintained by the sparks of millions. We look over the countless concrete tubes peckering the moonlit sky, each stacked with precious cubes holding entire sagas. 

This time is different than before. My senses are heightened, I suppose. I feel I better understand what is happening. A scholar plays the piano, a melancholy tune I can hear but not remember, and I see myself decades into the future, a man in the world that I know but have not yet met. I snap back into the present and am not afraid. 

40 Hours in Montreal

The drive up was longer than expected. Traffic out of Boston, a clogged border crossing in Vermont. The scenery was pretty; lush green mountains, and the sun was out for long. Once in Quebec the land quickly turned into farms, the signs into French, the distances into kilometers. We saw the buildings of Montreal before a purple sunset over the St. Lawrence River an hour or two after entering the province. 

The St. Lawrence Iroquois were the first people to inhabit this geography. Part of the sprawling Iroquois Confederacy, or the Haudenosaunee (people of the longhouse), this nation farmed and fished and, after Jacques Cartier arrived in 1535, sold the fur of forest mammals to Europeans for their sanguinary coats and hats. The Iroquois fought the French and other First Nations through the 17th century until ceeding Detroit and economic/military dominance in the 1701 Great Peace of Montreal. 

When the English took control in 1760, an oft-tense sometimes-violent intermingling now 2+ centuries in the making began, a contentious cocktail of Francophilia and Anglophone, Canadian and American, a uniquely Quebecois spirit.  

The layered culture seemed to phase-shift into physical manifestations across the town. Plateau Mont Royal (the city's namesake hill) is dense and dotted with popping murals on the edges of three-storied rowhouses. Each facade has its own distinct outdoor stairwell to the higher floors. The water features, the train stations, the parks with stylish urbanites strolling under leafy pathways, all layers stacked upon each other like soil strata. 

Character and energy overflowed onto the streets in the July sunshine. Modern art galleries opened in the old city's cobblestone alleys. People swirled across Saint Helen's Island and the waterfront. The Olympic Stadium towered over the pedestrian-only streets. Cyclists were everywhere; some intersections were quiet sans their rolling chains and the footsteps of those walking by. The populous is diverse, bilingual (many in immigrant communities speak more than two), and pretty physically fit from young to old. 

Even in the bobo areas Montreal has some grime to appreciate. The social justice graffiti and Palestinian colors signal a prominent antiestablishment hipness. Many residents don tottoos and punk hair. The defiance is political too, with Quebec flags far outnumbering the Maple Leaf. My friend compared the region's nationalist/separatist movement to Texan pride, though I think Texas is less standalone and beligerent. Which is saying something. 

Before leaving we looked out over downtown from the east slope of Mont Royal. The terrace is level with the tops of the skyline, and the visitors can see far across the wide river deep into the deciduous forest and flat plains. It's hard to imagine what the place looks like in the dead of winter after weeks below zero. Summer in a cold place has a special aura. The people are cognizant, wholeheartedly enjoying the season. We packed in a universe of experience in our limited time there. I, too, am grateful for the day. 

Connection

The five senses can register only a fraction of what's out there. Subtleties are easy to ignore for a while. I think all realities bubble to the surface eventually though, truths in need of reckoning. 

The Transcendentalists had this idea of an "Over-soul" that connects all; a shared, divine, everlasting natural energy that fuels the spark of life. It's a limitless resource for inspiration and wisdom, inherently accessible to everyone--the gift of existence. 

This seems like essentially the same idea Carl Jung refers to in Man and His Symbols of the archetypes. There exists among humanity a collective subconscious, Jung wrote, a universal body of knowledge we're born with that underlies our understanding of the world. It's expressed in signs and images that crop up independently through time and space; the mother, the hero, the flood, the god. He sees these touchpoints as evidence of a built-in psyche that surpasses culture and history. 

It's hard to prove these sorts of things empirically. I like such ideas, however, because they feel right; we all came from one source, whether its Adam or some microbe or the Big Bang. Every species uses the same DNA base-pairs, and all matter is built from the same atomic foundation. Our connections are too deep to measure. 

My classmates and I sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial last weekend, watching the sun rise east of the Washington Monument, two years after we had originally intended. After this prolonged separation, hundreds of us came together once again, for the last time, to culminate a foundational, collective experience. I felt bitter excitement knowing this was officially the end--to know and live it happening brought a rush of emotions into my exhausted mind. 

Though I don't know most of my fellow grads, I know we share an immeasurable connection. I was skeptical that a manufactured ceremony could initiate this feeling in me, but as with many ancient traditions, there is reason behind the pomp. I knew in the moment, on those hallowed stairs filled with people not so different than I, that we were drinking from the immortal waters, that we are just beginning to scratch the surface of what really is. 

Stability & Turmoil

Human creativity varies in form and intention. It builds and destroys. Like much of our nature, creativity is morally neutral--a fact of existence, not a good or bad force but an unyielding, ever-present part of the landscape. Intellectual and artistic flourishing requires innovative thought, which is nurtured, influenced, and expressed in an extant environment. What sort of environment best serves our progress, our achievement?

On one end there is stability. In a peaceful, prosperous condition, society grows like layers on a solid foundation. I think of Pax Romana as exemplifying this side of the spectrum. For two centuries around the birth of Christ, from Octavian to Marcus Aurelius, Rome held the Mediterranean basin under its imperial rule. Its provincial system encouraged development in the peripheries, leading to the legendary road network, aqueducts, temples and arenas that constitute the empire's legacy today. It was an era of great literature and art, a time for people to write history and poetry. In hindsight, Rome's prime. 

Similar developments occurred across Asia under Mongol rule, during which the Silk Roads thrived. Post-war America has acted similarly, its hegemony ushering unprecedented technological advancement, material improvement, and widespread connection. Conflict and war surely existed during these times, but it was at the peripheries of these empires and at a limited scale. Huge numbers of people lived in guaranteed peace. 

But the cyclical, impermanent tendencies of life means these stable times are squashed between years of turmoil. And our prolific creativity is there during these chaotic years, too. 

The Warring States Period (475 BCE-221 BCE) is one of my favorite times in history. For one, it leaves me in awe regarding the scope of Chinese civilization; this was a relatively short stretch of political fragmentation in China bookended by thousands of years of dynasty, yet it lasted longer than the US has been an independent country. China is so old, its history so vast. This period in particular gives me a refreshing perspective on how short European/Western dominance has reigned. 

Though Warring States is notable for its tumult, it was simultaneously a time of landmark philosophical thought, agricultural innovation, and improvements in metalworking. Sun Tzu and Confucius lived and wrote, Daoism and Legalism entered the fray, social mobility was available like never before. Out of the chaos emerged the Qin dynasty, one of the shortest but most influential dyansties in Chinese history. Qin Shihuangdi created the centralized, bureaucratic state that runs China to this day. 

I don't know whether instability is the most fruitful environment for creative flourishing. I picked two circumstances that seem nearly opposite to me--I'm not sure what the data would show if one tried to correlate human achievement to social/political terrain, or if data could capture this abstract idea I'm circling around. I grew up in a very stable place; my home, school, friends, and interests were consistent and calm throughout my childhood. I think this has been integral to my disposition and development.

Everyone deserves to live in peace and prosperity. Unfortunately this isn't the reality, nor will it ever be. The hallmark of our species, though, is our remarkable adaptability, and people find a way to thrive under the harshest conditions. As Ibn Khaldun noted centuries ago, history is a cycle of order and chaos, and every Pax Imperatoria was built upon the novel ideas and inventions made during the preceding instability. There is always hope in the bottomless expanse of human ingenuity. 

Entries from the Bear Flag Republic

4/14/22

The grass in the yard is long and unkempt. Aesthetically, it may be inferior, but in terms of biomass--the grass itself is more, and its abundance supports more insects and beetles and spiders, more food for the birds, more life to go around. 

From the patio table I see swarms of gnats in the sunshine. I also see slightly larger creatures darting about within the swarms, feasting on the smaller diptera. Even these are no larger than a fraction of a fingernail. The natural ballet. I have no clue what these predators are exactly, but I see them gather and hunt until few gnats are left in those fluttering clouds. They then move to the next feeding ground. 

If given the opportunity, the predators will devour all the gnats until none are left. This I can see in real time. They don't have conservation techniques, long-term plans, food management practices. Supply and demand balance in the backyard ecosystem; if the gnat population declines, say from overpopulation of predators, so will the predator population. A self-regulating loop governs, enforces the balance. The scale tips too far one way and the consequences are morbid; bacteria will usher their own demise by colonizing every millimeter of an auger petri dish until nothing is left. 

The human parallel is evident here. What supposedly makes us more able to avoid the death-whiplash of imbalance is our consciousness. We can understand what we're doing and the consequences of those actions. 

Individually, we know. The problem is collective, though, and that's where my question is: 

Do we really have a collective consciousness? Does such a thing exist? Should we expect this from humanity, or is it an unfair, unnatural, idealistic burden contradictory to our instincts in this closed-system planet we live on? 

4/16/22

Traffic in LA is a hallmark of the landscape. It is everywhere, it is inescapable and completely enmeshed with the enormous city. But it's also a beautiful place dotted with lively and wonderful neighborhoods. A mosaic of Southern California knitted together by traffic. 

4/21/22

Saying goodbye is difficult. What I guess it means is that it was worth meeting, though. It feels tragic to part because the urge is to stay together--to keep those moments coming, to feel more of something that's been good. Is it worthwhile to develop a tolerance for this tragedy? To often say farwell? Only if one has faith that there will be more, many more, of those beautiful, magical offerings from the cosmos. A belief, a bravery, an optimism. Nothing can really stay; therein lies the miracle.