Life from Canada to Latin America, one word at a time.
“It is not futile to sing the pain and beauty of having been born in America.” –Eduardo Galeano Before I moved to Latin America, I researched the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina. Every Thursday during the dictatorship, and for years afterwards, the mothers marched around the government square in Buenos Aires, the
“Don’t talk about aliens. Talk about people.” Raul turns around to fully face our group, giant stone blocks in the background.While we are gazing in wonder around Machu Picchu, pinching ourselves to try to believe that we actually made it over the Inca Trail, our guide Raul is done with our nonsense. We are sunburnt and
The last time I lived in Bolivia, I followed the national elections like a stalker. Everytime I would hear loud music in the street, I rushed outside to watch the flatbed trucks filled with dancers and waving flags go past. Every candidate had a theme song and as it played, the politicians would toss t-shirts
A little something I made for work, sharing here.
In honour of World Humanitarian Day, I’m sharing ten lessons that I have learnt from my Latin American colleagues, some of the best humanitarians I know. 1. Listen with your entire body. This includes things like greetings, expressing appreciation, and dressing well. I remind myself that I am an invited guest and my task is to
“This is what the ecosystem achieves: the fullness of life with tens of thousands of species interwoven and interdependent.”- The Hidden Lives of Trees I like trees. I like how tall they are, their branches a constant moving juxtaposition against the sky. I like the way we lean against their trunks, soaking up shade on
I tend to think of myself as coasting through life. I am, in my mind, always a fascinated observer, but not often an actor. I care, but am never quite in the inner circle of activism or commitment to a cause. That is, until Wednesday, when I found myself clenching my eyes shut and gripping
There is a family story sketched inside my head. Details have blurred and faded over the years, yet when I close my eyes, I see a young man walking on railroad tracks, bright blue prairie sky shining overheard. His name, in my mind, is Jacob, and he is stepping forward tie by tie, looking for
On Thursday night, we arrived to the plaza, arms sore from standing on the corner holding five giant banana breads and trying to wave down taxis. Once we finally got to the peace camp with our offerings, nobody would let us inside, even as they took the cakes. As we started to step away, the
The Mexican border is a line between Faith and the shackled dream. -Ray Gonzalez It was 11 o’clock at night and I was furious. You know, the kind of anger that only happens after fifteen hours of flights and airports on top of an exhausting week, with the anticipation of your own bed a mere
Anna L. Vogt 