Peace, where are you?

I turned 32 nineteen days ago and I’ve had this niggling feeling since. I can articulate why now. It’s because my life today is not what I thought it would be when I was designing it at aged 16.  I’m supposed to feel the greatest amount of autonomy, the greatest fulfilment since moving into my own place and working a version of my dream job.  On the contrary, right now, I am the most vulnerable and helpless I have ever been aware of myself being.

And it’s not irrational. Six months ago it felt like scales literally fell off my eyes and for the first time in my entire life, I could see life for what it truly was. Ugly. Had it really always been this way and I just never noticed? Suburban life provided a convenient veil from the pain of the majority where no high walls or armed security is an option to shield one from harm. People’s homes and sense of security, peace are pillaged by those that feel its OK to break in and break things, to get in and get things that don’t belong to them.  Are they aware of the wreck they leave behind, the trauma and sometimes death? Are we aware of how wrecked or traumatized they must be to have no qualms about doing such things? Or do they have reservations that they consciously by-pass lest they starve should they not do what they have to? Or do they have to at go there at all?

Is it greed? I’ve asked myself that makes people prepared to literally shed blood so they can have whatever they want to take from another? Or is it the drive to fund the next hit. Is it a shot at couple of grand to do this and that or as songstress Asa penned in her song Fire on the Mountain is it the love for the guns they use killing that drives them. What is at the heart of this war between the haves and the - I won’t say have nots, because not all fall in this category - the haves and the takers.

A dog barks next door, a siren wails one block away and I don’t know where my housemate is. Were I in Brisbane or Harare, this concern wouldn’t even make a blip in my consciousness, because those places are peaceful. In Harare or Brisbane, I’d be pretty certain, wherever she is, she’d be back, safe. Here in my abode in one of Africa’s richest cities, in the home that is now my prison; I pray she is safe wherever she is. That she will be safe on her journey back, safe as she enters the gate and safe once she’s in the house with the alarm on. Even inside, with the alarm on, she could be jumped? Yes. Peace, where are you? In Brisbane and Harare, it seems.

Move, I've thought and been advised. My loathing of moving has been one factor that’s helped me dismiss this option since having been previously forced to move four times in the space of a year. OK fine, one of those times was voluntary, but it was still a schlep! But even though the barking dogs and sirens grate at my peace of mind, I don’t want to move, because why should I have to?

Why should I have to tolerate the reality that my prison is one where I fear danger without, where-as in real prisons, danger is in the hands of the criminals within? Why must I run?  This place is my home and there are people trying to take that from me. The sense of peace.  I thank God for protecting me so far, begging not trusting that He continue to do so (I really should trust and I’m learning). But I also battle with the guilt that I’m safe whilst others suffer.  I confess, that is at the heart of why I stay. OTHERS SUFFER! And others could be me, any day. Yes, for the most part, I am paralyzed by dread, but I also feel fueled by it.  Driven and called to act.

You see the blindness that is now gone means not only do I see the world’s ugly, but also that to change things, I have a part to play. That I, you, we can be activists that fight to bring peace and safety into our communities. Safety is a right we must fight for daily. There are no breaks, no rest periods, and no time outs.  Safety should not be a privilege for dwellers in gated communities where even Para-Olympian record breakers professed the same fear that’s bitter on my tongue.

I, you, we are called to be activists for what we want and it is our choice to heed, run from or ignore the summons. Shall I grab a gun and fire at today’s attacker, aware that tomorrow may bring another? Do I march outside lawmakers and enforcers’ buildings and demand action to assure my safety?

Neither one seems a sufficient solution. I dare to make a meaningful difference whatever the size of that impact could be.  I confess too often my fear disables me.

But I choose to teach my mind and body to fight for my dream. What I can do now is engage in warfare through prayer. I cry out for heaven to come down and shake this hell up, because where light exists, darkness cannot prevail right?  I need to believe that, because it is true, whether or not I’m afraid. Yes, I will pray, in short panicked breaths for the most part, but rather that - than stay silent. Perhaps one day the fearless fervor will come, but even if it does not, through tears I will cry out to the author of the universe to fight on our behalf!

Then I will act, because faith without deeds is dead. I am called to engage. I will join hands with others that feel that little flame, battling to burn brighter within them. I will commit with fear and trembling, to one day at a time, do my bit to make things better. Hoping that one-day the little flicker will burst into a fierce flame, but even if it does not, I will hold hands with others and together our little fires combined will create a blaze!

Neighborhood Watch here I come. City Council, I will attend your feedback sessions and make my views known. Laws and by-laws I will learn you so I can be empowered within the framework of the legal system on what my rights are and how to enforce them. Engage, pray, hold hands, pray, hold hands, pray, pray, cry, pray, engage. DO my bit.

Today, I’m 32 and nineteen days old and my eyes have been opened. Where is peace? It is found where together, workers (you and I) do their bit to make it happen.