The smell of sulfur is in the air, the sky is overcast with a slight drizzle, historically January is the time when the volcano comes alive, and flashbacks of the last catastrophic eruption simmer in the back of the mind that walks beside me. We turn the corner and a huge mural is staring back at us through the eyes of every color of nature’s pallet.
Mami Wata: Heal the Children of War through Art – Entry 5:
While fourteen children touched paintbrushes for the very first time in their lives, citizens of Goma stormed the streets with crosses and coffins on the otherside of town. Life is a choice and I deeply admire the street children who chose the classroom, while a desperate desire for revenge lured the masses to the streets. There was a rumor spreading like a black plague feeding a hope that the president of Rwanda was dead.
Mami Wata: Heal the Children Of War with Art – Entry 4:
What association do you have when you think of barbwire? Danger, the need for security, death, war… you most likely have black and white images imprinted into your psyche of the dead hanging off barbed wire from WWII, but can you imagine it becoming such an integrated part of life that you use it to dry your underwear? Every house that can afford it in Goma,
MAMI WATA: HEAL THE CHILDREN OF WAR THROUGH ART – Entry 3:
As I bounced up and down upon the back of a motorcycle taxi in the Red Zone of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I did not shift my gaze from Nyiragongo straight ahead. Jet streams of smoke poured out from the tip of this silhouetted cone like mountain, and I finally understood where the smell of burning incense was coming from. There are 9 surrounding volcanos,
MAMI WATA: BORN WILD – Entry 2:
It could be said “the sky is falling” when we look at all of the tests that have appeared within such a short time period: a car crash leading to a robbery, confronting corruption on the largest scales, a dear friend died who just found his internal freedom 2 weeks ago in Colombia, another friend’s life’s investment burned to the ground, my mom’s ceiling caved in… but the sky is not falling,
MAMI WATA: BORN WILD: entry 1.
Dear friends and family,
I do not have enough fingers to count the number of airports that have adopted me over the years and tonight we can add another one to the bubblegum jar. If an airport could write a book imagine all the chapters it would tell within the lives of a single day. Talk about anthropology 101! I have found a little nook calling out for some company, for which all airports have,