I see you, I hear you

Everyday we are bombarded with some of the worst news known to humankind. Stories of disturbingly cruel crimes and armed conflicts that surpass our imaginations on the power of our species to destroy without mercy. Will there ever be an end to it all? Will there ever be a day that will come when there are no incidents of the evil that humans do to other humans, to animals, to the earth, and to future generations who haven't been born as yet but who will inherit this ravaged tortured planet?

Every time I read these stories, the hope I have for our world goes down a couple notches and I begin to see the whole of reality the same way these reports depict it: a world filled with murderous, ravenous trigger-happy, knife-wielding people who have either lost complete control of their senses (and their hearts) or are so immersed in greed and sadism that their only objective in life/death is to exact maximum pleasure from the pain and suffering of others, for profit, for vengeance, for whatever. No matter what they may say, such acts are not rational and cannot be justified.

Still, there is no power in viewing these people as separate from myself. If conditions demanded, I might also engage in such acts knowing the full battery of human emotion and how with just the right triggers, I might snap and act against my better judgement. The best way for me to view a threat as no longer a threat is to understand its psychology and take it apart so I can see the life path that emboldened some of us to commit such atrocities. I've read books about how our brains and minds work, how the experiences of early childhood could impact our responses to circumstance in adulthood, how armed conflict and war can destroy our life-affirming spirits and create ongoing tragedies that spiral downwards towards an inescapable vortex where death shatters and scatters.

Where is god in all this, I sometimes wonder? Where are the angels that gather around the victims to protect them and give them the strength to fight off their killers and escape the profundity of the evil staring back at them?

I've read quite a bit on the whole theory of how our thoughts have the power to create realities. And I'm now trying to put that into practice - although most times I forget and respond to the news with worry and dejection, perhaps contributing more of that hate-filled gleam in our universe, so when tomorrow comes, we end up reading the same news of murder and mayhem over and over again. But what if we could respond in less typical ways in order to harness healing energy around these stories so the damage doesn't keep infecting our consciousness. Empathy automatically shifts our reactions to shock, anger, and dismay at the unnecessary loss of life. So, we turn to the victims in grief, and marvel at the audacity of the perpetrators in curiosity, horror, and contempt, soon to be replaced by outright condemnation of their vile acts.

What if we could nurture empathy for the perpetrators too? Would that, could that create the possibility of a transformation? How to empathize with such individuals? While I think we can all empathize with anyone, some of us have had life experiences that have compelled us to welcome that gift instead of shunning it. We are constantly placed in situations where we must make the choice between to love and to reject. Call me stupid, but I choose love, any and every time, regardless of whose eyes I'm looking into. I can't explain it, but that's been my inclination, almost automatic, since coming to an understanding of my own suffering, and learning to take accountability and ownership of that suffering. I have a great desire to understand everyone, and particularly understand those who have followed a criminal path, whether in war or in civil society.

I see the circle that connects us all, and have come to the conclusion that there can never be any such thing as "us" and "them", for, despite the uniqueness of our lives and environments, we all retain the same essential spirit. I've been able to look past what's on the surface of someone's persona, all their behaviours and bad tragic choices, and discovered that the ugly, messy, traumatized, and dazed parts of themselves failed to rob them entirely of their potential to seek redemption and do some good. But getting them to be aware of that potential is the challenging part because it requires that I get close enough to them to develop a friendship where trust, compassion, and love are the building blocks. It requires that I myself do not get eaten up alive by the person's destructive tendencies, and in order to prevent this, I hold space within the center of the loving energy that we both embody, the energy we were essentially born with.

I know this must all sound rather nonsensical since I'm not giving examples of what I mean exactly, but in a few months, you'll all see what I mean. Stay tuned for the presentation of my first one-person play since 2007's Shiny Ropes. Read the synopsis below, and you'll either think me as someone completely off her rocker OR you might see a little of what I'm trying to accomplish through the lives of the characters in this story - based on true life events - who have changed my life forever so much so that I have nurtured the ability to see everyone as part of myself, and to see myself as part of everyone. No separation. No finger-pointing. Only the following words resonate inside my heart and mind: "Yes, I see you, I hear you. And I know you and know your pain."

Peace.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence

During the second U.S.-led military invasion and occupation of Iraq in 2003, hundreds and thousands of Iraqi civilians were subjected to violent deaths as a result of an armed, foreign military presence. The deaths of civilians in this period saw a tragic increase from the first invasion of Iraq in 1991. The embattled region remains in chaos and its people deeply affected by the horrors they had witnessed.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence is a one-person theatre production with music about a U.S. soldier living out the rest of his life in solitary confinement for crimes he committed while stationed in Iraq. The story of Private First Class Leonard Purple is a profound and disturbing exploration of a troubled American youth's indoctrination into military invasion, racism, occupation, and violence. After receiving the toughest sentence of life without parole out of a group of five soldiers charged with the rape and murder of an Iraqi teenager and the murders of her family, he sits in a solitary jail cell back in the U.S. as turbulent memories of the past invade his mind. In an attempt to take accountability for his actions, Purple begins writing a series of letters to Fatima Qureshi, the girl he had killed. What follows is an unexpected transcendence where identities converge and then merge, and where Purple suddenly finds himself on the side of the Occupied. As this alternate reality unfolds changing the landscape of his prison cell, Purple hears the voice of Fatima through his own as she delivers a repertoire of haunting ballads on piano to reclaim the life she knew in one final act of resistance and repossession.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence has no entertainment value. It is not a show or a spectacle. It is a story to remember and to honour the young spectres of war and violence whose lives were mercilessly stolen, and whose spirits yet remain, roaming in anticipation of liberation. 

Why More Than Fiction should be on everyone's fall reading lists

The front cover of More Than Fiction reflects all the intersectional layers of Poz women's realities as they journey through the torrents in order to catch site of guiding lights along the way. COVER & BOOK DESIGN BY ZAHRA AGJEE

"These are beautiful stories of love and loss, faith and miracles, strength and community, and smiles and tears that speak to the strength of the storytellers. Each story stands as a powerful example of women who have thrived in the face of HIV stigma and each provides a universal lesson in resilience." - Shannon Ryan, Black Coalition for AIDS Prevention (BlackCAP)

More Than Fiction is a beautifully crafted collection of 12 profoundly intimate and introspective narratives written by South Asian women living with HIV/AIDS. The writers worked throughout the spring and summer of this year to draft their creative non-fiction stories and fantasies that express both their struggles through the dark days of an HIV diagnosis and their triumphs as they navigated networks of support to find care, compassion, kindness, knowledge, friendship, and love. 

I urge you, dear reader, to explore these 12 honest and inspiring stories and greet these writers' perspectives on life, love, self-care, dreams, and their relationships with their families, friends, colleagues, lovers, partners, and children, with open minds and hearts, and with a strong desire to challenge your own assumptions, biases, and prejudices about people living with HIV/AIDS. 

The fact that these women cannot disclose their real identities is a testament to the silencing intensity of HIV stigma. If they were to disclose, will they be shamed? Judged? Denied friendship and intimacy? Pushed out by their families and communities? Or physically and emotionally harmed? Find out what the historical pattern has been in our societies, and then you'll know. And when you know, do something about it, help make the answer to every one of these questions a resounding "NO"!

Yes, it takes courage to speak out and be open about identities and health, but it also takes tremendous courage to hold it all in, day in and day out, and continue to put a strong face forward, continue to care, to support, to love. And these writers speak to that and more in More Than Fiction. 

Everyone's making reading lists this fall. I encourage you to add More Than Fiction to that list because it's just one of those collections you won't be able to put down until you've read the very last page. And it won't end just there. There is no "The End". After reading these stories, there is work to be done in our communities, far and wide, to support healing and to help change people's perceptions of and responses to people living with HIV/AIDS, so they can get the support and care they need to survive and thrive. 

Thanks to the Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention for submitting the project proposal to MAC AIDS, who gave the project a thumbs up and provided generous funding to help the writers achieve their goals. The project team also included two brilliant mavens, creative writing and photo art facilitators, respectively: Sheniz Janmohamed and Zahra Agjee. 

The book is available free of charge. To order your copy, please contact phasupport@asaap.ca.

To Wax or not to Wax, that is the question!

For the last few days, I've been revisiting my relationship with my facial hair. Most days, when those pesky hairs start poking themselves through my pores, and growing into hard stubborn strands, it's me who gets the brushing of the coat, and not my kitty!

Like many women whose ethno-racial heritage have origins in that most ancient of subcontinents, I have struggled long and hard with coming to some acceptance of my body's unflattering locks. But more and more, as I come to understand the complexity of my own gender identities, I am kinda liking, even loving the weekly Amazonian forest overgrowth.

I mean, at some point in my life, I'm going to have to raise my hands in resignation, and say, "Ok, Chewbakkah, you win!" Incidentally, "Chewbakkah" was the name of my on-air name when I co-hosted a show on CiTR 101.9fm back in my UBC days. Oh yeah, I took the piss out of it all, but deep down - not that deep actually, maybe even a bit shallow - I just hated it all. I hated waking up to it every morning, and hesitating before looking at myself in the mirror, aghast to find that more had grown overnight!! The torture of it all!

So, I'd reach for the ol' tweezers and spend away a beautiful morning plucking the revolting beauty suckers out of their sockets, so I can once again feel like I'm any other normal-as-plaid girlie girl!

But it turns out, I got more in my genetic make-up than I bargained for. Then again, birth ain't a negotiation when you're slipping and sliding outta your mom's passageway! No choice! Just come out already, and deal with whatever package you've been given.

Ok, I think many of us gals could actually deal with our packages if society wasn't telling us ALL THE BLOODY TIME that something's just not right about our face, our arms, our eyebrows, our butts, our boobs, and all the cells of our personhood.

When are we going to realize that all those things are part of our womanhood, and not the other way around? Not ripping our skins out because we don't look like the airbrushed, hairless photos of models who are also going through their silent self-hatred of all things hairy, and some of 'em face even worse terrors that the beauty industry enforces.

This time around, I really wanted to just let it all grow, and be happy with it, to just love every single follicle that all comes together to create this most beautiful of beards and mustaches. I wanted to just leave my home, with courage, to face the morning commuters with joy and contentment as I stroked my stubbly chin.

But it didn't happen. I caved in. Applied those murderous wax strips to my already pock-marked face, and with a force equivalent to a knockdown by a heavyweight boxer, I pulled those damn strips off my chin, cheeks, jaws, neck, upper lip, lower lip, temples, 'tween the brows, and anywhere else I could, holding my breath in hopes that I'd see a sizeable area of now dead hair on the strips, and a clear, smooth region of near baby skin on soon-to-be acceptable visage! Oh, the sheer joy of it all!

Sadly, the strips never quite do their job. Or maybe I'm just not a master facial waxer. Maybe I need to just go to the salon and let the pros take care of it. Ha ha, the irony of it is that I won't let anyone else touch my face for fear that they might harm it during the waxing, because it has happened. I've been burned by the scorching sensation of hot wax. The next day, as the wound dried, friends would wonder if I had gotten myself into a bit of a temperamental bar fight. I kept my chin up, stayed silent as strong as an ox, and allowed them to make up their own stories. That's always fun. I get to have a bit of a reputation then, "Oh yeah, did you hear about Shaz? She's some tough bitch! Gettin' into all kinds of scraps and skittles."

Seriously, though, something's gotta give. One day, I'm going to wake up, and realize that those wax stips, for all the masked beauty they might potentially bring to this very sad of sad faces, did more harm to my sense of self than anything else.

I'm sure if I spoke to my therapist and recounted all those childhood run-ins with the cruel racist jokes my peers would make about me, hollering to the world that I was half-man, half-girl, she'd say my present relationship with my facial hair had a lot to do with all that. No kidding, Sherlock.

Even though my mighty hopes for conquering my facial hair woos did not materialize this week, I do have hope that the more comfortable I start feeling in my combo male-female spectrum physicality and identities, someday I'm going to walk right past the hair killers' aisle and love-a-dub-rub this happy, special body and soul that my mom and dad brought into existence with the genes of their ancestors and with the love they felt in their hearts at that magical pleasurable moment. Two of the dearest people in my life came together and asked the universe for yet another glorious gift: Me.

In this moment of...

Experience calmness of mind and body at Allan Gardens Conservatory. 

Wars were raging out in our world that day. News of children buried under blasted concrete, its mangled pieces crushing the hearts of the ones who never got a chance.

Wars raging here, too. A different kind. Our hearts bleed but we shoot. Fire. Detonate. Crush. With fiery locution.

So, I escaped during a momentary lull in the fracas between two warring souls of the North.

I walked into this breathing space where foliage and flower extended their joyful salutations. Toured the grounds, saw the baby raccoons confused by the daylight, caught red-handed in their overnight traps. But their fate is freedom, not eradication.

My eyes floated with the koi. My ears tuned into the stream's trickling murmurs, and the silent wanderings of its inhabitants. 

Like the turtles treading serenity, popping their stripy slippery heads in and out of their safe hiding appendage, I, too, hid away in this place of irony - where nature flourishes under the care and life-sustaining tools of its dedicated human gardeners. Do the petals bloom in Gaza, even among the most anguished cries of the captive and the killer? Irony blossoms in all spaces, as dark and unyielding as human cruelty is. 

In this moment of tranquility, I will catch my breath, will heal my wounded tongue, will revive my conscience, will honour the dead and dying who will never see my world.

With the memory of this moment, I may face the storms outside again with self-effacing tenderness. 

I may agree to a cease-fire.

How the expression "awww" has saved my day!

It's getting close to that time to reinvent myself. I do it at least every 7-8 years. It involves completely uprooting myself. Giving away some of my prized possessions that I would normally hang onto like an old blankie. Then boxing up the rest and putting it all in storage or on a truck to be shipped to "destination unknown".

In the past, my feet would itch to skip town and move to new surroundings, but I think my love-hate relationship with T.O. is taking a turn. Although I still can't get used to many aspects of this urban jungle, I've met some awesome people who are struggling as I am to find balance and connection amid all the concrete and chaos. They're the folks that keep my feet firmly planted, and I thank them for all the support, care, time, resources, and friendship they've shared, even when I hide away in my cave on evenings and weekends that ought to be spent in warm company. Sorry.

Hopefully the above friends will be happy to know that I am committing to making some positive changes in my life to quell my sometimes intense episodes of anxiety, particularly during the commute to and from everywhere in this city (the main, primary, dominant reason why it's so hard for me to leave my safe cell). When I'm having one of those episodes, my breathing slows down quite a bit, like I'm holding my breath for what might happen next. Then my body becomes as rigid as a surfboard. I try to focus on what I'm reading or listening to on my wee mp3 player, but the closeness of the crowds, the clattering clop clops of hurrying feet, the bumps and jostles, the stepping on toes by the ones who don't hold onto the bars (ok I know it's great for strengthening balance, but do they have to stand so close to me?), the folks talking behind me on their cell phones, the folks talking like they're talking into a megaphone, the tobacco smoke wafting from entrances and alleys, the strong perfumes and musky smells, and then, then there are the ones that head straight into me as I head straight into them, both of us holding our ground in anticipation of the collision!

T.O. - my love-hate relationship. It's a binary. There's no in-between here.

You can imagine what state I'm in by the time I get to my destination. But there is a real comfort in knowing that probably half the population of this city (maybe more) has experienced/is experiencing very similar situations and symptoms, if not worse. Whenever I have commuter stress now, I've found some strategies that work for me:

1) Observe interactions between parents/caregivers and their children - it's so comforting to watch people give love and care to kids, and also how the kids respond to their affection.

2) Stop to watch the chirping sparrows, squirrels, and pigeons and say "awww". "Awww" is a good expression because it helps dissipate my anger and impatience. Try it! It will give you an instant feeling of goodness!

3) Expanding on #2 - watch dogs walking alongside their owners or dog walkers. OMG, the dogs on the sidewalks of T.O. are the cutest, the friendliest, and most well-behaved, except when they're taking a piss or poo - nasty!

4) Look UP! If I'm looking up at the clouds moving across the sky and up, up at the tallest buildings in the city, I immediately feel a sense of calm surround me, but oops! cut the construction noise, please!

5) Listening to slow piano instrumentals are always nice and helps me look at people with happiness, but then the track changes to a Rihanna song, and I get back to being mad poker-faced me!

There are also behaviours that only aggravate the anxiety and frustration I feel:

1) Walk too fast - when I walk too fast, I tend to have less patience - yeah, please move out of my way, thanks.

2) Walk while listening to fast-tempo music (like the Rihanna tune) - this steals away presence and distracts my mind; it also sometimes inflates my ego depending on the song (lol, wish I could dance like Rihanna!)

3) Walk while thinking negative thoughts - these will definitely contribute to some displays of meanness!

Ok, I've digressed from the original point which was about coming to some transitional period in my life. Well, one of those transitions is ironically staying put. But a few other transitions are: getting rid of my electronic piano (I will get an upright later on in life - I'd rather practice on the real thing!), possibly adopting a pet companion to offer them a forever home (here I go - "awwww"!), changing my diet - slowly, slowly, baby steps towards more plant-based consumption, getting back on the running schedule (entering a few 5Ks in the fall!), and the biggest change that will require a heck of a lot of commitment (and sacrifice): setting clear boundaries in my relationships with various people and communities that show respect and care to all. I've spent way too much of my time enabling others because I have the insufferable quality of always feeling sorry for the lot of humankind! Ugh! This trait has brought me many rewards and some valuable transformative lessons, but it has also brought many failures. I've been working on it though through reading, talking to folks, training my brain to think and act differently, and finding some very strong mentors.

I guess as I work through these transitions, I'll eventually get to my goals/destinations, a thought that might also help in my daily commute where the endearing and the infuriating converge.

Awww!

The 3-Day Novel Contest: An Exploration of...

Procrastination.  I've learned in the last 3 years since taking up the challenge of writing a novel in just three days that I'm a procrastinator.  No need for a rocket scientist to tell me that.  And years of therapy didn't quite hit the nail on the head either.  But, alas!  A wee little contest probably originating from some mountainous hut in the backwoods of B.C. (this is my creative guess) gifted me with that momentous epiphany!

And geez, do I ever enjoy those moments of sheer procrastinating bliss!  It might involve something as profound as clicking between Facebook and yahoo mail in elegant repetitive motions (my nimble fingers come from years of practicing beginner piano, and I didn't quite make it any further, and well...you can only guess why) in the middle of writing a descriptive passage of yet another phantasmagorical oddity of a character...because it's always complicated these relationships writers have with their characters.  Or I might take a few or several moments away from the laptop (ok, more like a few hours maybe) in order to stare fixedly inside my refrigerator looking for that palate-perfect combination of snacks.  I have to eat, and this putting together of food might take some time the same way writers put together words.  Switching back to some semblance of normality - and there is no shame in saying that Facebook is my normal - allows me some space to breathe and disconnect from those aggravating characters who can't seem to get it together.  I mean seriously wtf - you non-existent people, get your shit together, puleeeeze!!!

I recently attended a panel discussion on writing fiction, and one of the writers said to the audience that when she wrote, she would let the story take care of itself and that she was the objective element, allowing her characters and plot to essentially run the writing.  My simple-minded reading of her comment is that in allowing my characters to speak for themselves and remove my interfering fingers from their lives, the words would just come out without any censoring.  I'd simply be these characters' transcriber, and that could take only a matter of hours before the story is finito.  Um, why can I not do that?  I mean, why can't I stop controlling my characters, and let them go so they can find their own way of telling these deadline-driven stories, while I can focus on sliding and tapping my way through Candy Crush?  It would be so easy!  Three days would seem like a quick switch of candy in Dreamworld!

Y'know, that is possibly the crux of my procrastination issue.  I want to control every waking moment of my characters' lives so I get stuck on that cruelest of words: perfection.  Why can't I just accept my characters as they are, in all their flawed glory?  In truth, some of the characters in my stories have some serious issues to deal with, and I'm always trying to figure out how to wag my finger at them and tell them what they should do.  If I just accepted them unconditionally, then my novel writing could probably make the 3-day deadline and I'd finally end up with the 100-page whopper that I've been talking quite extensively about (but never producing in all these years) on Facebook and Twitter updates (sadly, it's a conversation I have had with myself on most occasions if the number of "likes" gives any indication of interest).

More importantly, I'd have heaping hours of time well-spent on doing what I normally do when I procrastinate except there wouldn't be a novel for me to get back to 'cuz it would all be done!  Like, how do you say "yay"?!  My characters would take care of it.  I wouldn't try to give them bad advice or try to mold them the way I'd like them to be.  I must say, it gets me quite emotional thinking what a real leap of faith it is when we writers learn to just let go of the puppet strings or cut the proverbial umbilical cord.  We do not need to hide ourselves in embarrassed silence anymore because of the stigmatizing language against procrastinators.  We no longer need to carry around that ill-fitting label that shames us for wanting to spend more time with our Bejeweled Blitz rather than with those dog-gone imaginary and irreconcilable folks who just take up way too much battery power in our heads.

Of course, in taking that route where I hand over the power to these little people on the page, it would mean giving up the title of Procrastinator that I've held with such dignity and perseverance for the new title of...and I'm sure you knew this one was coming...a woman of leisure!

This year's 3-Day Novel Contest will be held from August 30th to September 1, 2014!  And folks, I hate to say it, but I've just registered!  Please, help me manage my control issues this year so I can finally spend quality time with all of you in cyberspace, and not have to run off again to write some novel.  Thanks.

Somewhere over the rainbow...

Humanism sees all the pieces of a being, and most importantly, all the potential and all the goodness.  Love can shine a light into the darkest corners and breathe in new life and new dreams, like glue to gather all of our broken pieces. PHOTO BY SHAZIA ISLAM

Today, I found out that someone I knew had lost his battle.  Today, I found out how much havoc our consciousness can wreak on us when the life we've been given ends up betraying us.  Exactly three weeks ago on Saturday, Feb. 15, my friend could no longer withstand his pain, and he took his life in the loneliest place in the world - inside his prison cell.

Today, I printed out the photo above to send to my friend to cheer him up, give him an opportunity to see another side of himself, not knowing that he was gone.  I had sent him an earlier photo before taken by another very good friend of mine of a rainbow poised in a graceful arc above a small idyllic town.  When my friend received this photo, he wrote to me and said it was the most beautiful thing ever, and that it was what he would look at during those dark days in solitary confinement.

I couldn't find the address information anymore of the correctional institute where he was being held.  We had been emailing earlier, but I had received a notice from the administration of the prison a few days ago that my friend was no longer on the email system.  So, I decided to send him another letter as I had done the first time we made contact last fall in 2013.  I would have included the photo of the shiny disco ball.  He would have seen parts of the park outside my office window.  He would have seen the light reflected from the ball in the shape of diamonds on the ledge.  Another rainbow effect with the idyllic scene in the background, and the shining presence of this beautiful ball of mirrors.  What would he have thought?

But when I looked his name up to locate the address, I discovered the news of his passing.  Nothing much was said about him that humanized him and his life.  His past actions had rendered him unworthy of any kindness from the press, and this, I do understand.  The people who had been tragically impacted by his actions also needed kindness.  But the press did not honour either side - the victims nor their perpetrators; the coverage was just one long gratuitous interlude of the violence that would continue to resound in press articles to come.  No critical analysis of or action against the horrific nature of war, and the debilitating effects of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), and how young American men and women from lowly backgrounds are often recruited to be sent off across the oceans to fight and kill people who they have been brainwashed to hate - their learning devoid of any understanding of people's histories, livelihoods, and communities.  They maim and kill with the same ferocity that they blame "the terrorists" for showing, and justify their armed invasions all in defense of freedom.  Operation Desert Storm was nothing more but a replay of the age-old crusade of the West to divide, conquer, and destroy the brown-skinned Muslims.  And so the destruction continues, not just in Iraq.

My friend was one of those young recruits.  With already a troubled life, the officers paid no mind.  He was another body/boy to be shipped off to the killing fields.  Killing he witnessed, and killing he did.  When he was discharged, he was charged shortly after, and sentenced to life without parole.  From then on, everyday became work to pay his dues and right the wrongs he had committed.  But those memories stayed fresh in his mind, like a festering wound coagulating into daily terrors with other inmates who knew of his crime and gave him no peace.  People will ask if he deserved any peace.  I ask, how else can one heal if not out of a place of peace, and not misery?  But then people will say, he didn't deserve to heal.  I ask, why do we judge the wrongs of one being while turning a blind eye to the society that created him?

I know my friend committed atrocities, but I also know of his profound guilt and sorrow in the brief letters we exchanged before his death.  He was on a mission at that time, to procure some semblance of friendship and understanding in his life, with someone who represented the enemy he had been taught to hate.  That photo of the rainbow had caught him by surprise.  He never expected such a thing to happen, that someone from across these stolen and plundered landscapes would reach out to him to tell him that there were other dimensions of his spirit he could reach into to find that rainbow.

I hope my friend finds that rainbow in the life beyond, for it is always somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, where that land of lullabies offer glimmering sights and sounds of a once loving and playful child.

"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raajioon"

I heard a rumour and it ain't pretty

Don't be like our friendly parrot and repeat everything you hear. PHOTO BY SHAZIA ISLAM

"Did you hear about so-and-so?"

"Did you hear what so-and-so did?"

"So-and-so should receive an asshole-of-the-year award for..."

"I can't stand so-and-so because..."

Do these intros sound familiar? They are the sound of gossip coming from the mouths of people all around us including you and me. Consider it an ancient form of bitching passed down the ages in order to safeguard our position among the lot in our communities, our workplaces, our schools, and now even in our social media worlds. Like Amy Toffelmire writes in her well-articulated and sensible article, "Gossip: good or bad?":

Researchers theorize that life in small tribal groups may have forced our ancestors to adapt and gain some pretty sophisticated social intelligence. Imagine living among a small group of people, competing for resources and for friends and allies. Sounds a little like high school, doesn't it? You'd have to figure out who you could trust and who would make a good partner. Among our ancestors, those who survived and thrived were those who could predict and influence the behaviour of the people around them. This took a bit of talking and a lot of listening and watching.

For those of us who need some clarity, gossip is sharing and expressing information and judgments about others in a derogatory manner, "Did you hear that so-and-so got the award? What a joke! So-and-so didn't deserve it, a real cheater for sure!" It can be used in all kinds of ways to seriously damage the reputation and character of others, and prevent them from being promoted or finding work.

Gossip in most cases can't be helped because we are giving voice to our own internalized struggles, frustrations, and fears. When we speak ill of others, it is just as much a reflection of the battles we're having with our own demons, and the fear that we're losing our place in our communities. But it also serves as a distraction and escape from our own personal conflicts. In order to placate those negative energies and insecurities, we engage in rumour-mongering of others, and in so doing, we are able to tell ourselves that we're not as bad as "those people".

Toffelmire writes:

Gossip can actually be a kind of deterrent or a punishment against those who deviate from the norms and values of a group. It's tough to be the one being negatively gossiped about or the one excluded because of a nasty rumour, so the social pressure keeps us from veering too far away from the group. Positive gossip can also encourage cooperation among people in a group.

The frustration that often can be heard in our tone of voice when we gossip can also be a sign of our own inadequacy to deal with an interpersonal conflict. We might have been brought up to shun confrontation and honesty, and instead survive these difficult relationships through pretense. Putting on a mask with a fake smile is far better than revealing what we really feel underneath. But there is no fault in not feeling a warm sense of affection for certain people in our lives because some of it has to do with our bodies' chemistry, our instincts, how we were raised and what personalities we feel the closest to, or maybe it's just karmic narratives from past lifetimes if we believe in them. So, the problem is not that we dislike people. This can't be helped, as it's part of our social/cultural/human-specific realities. The problem is, the environments we are often in do not give us the language we need to express our frustrations with the people we dislike in healthy, non-toxic ways.

Toffelmire writes:

Too much pressure can, of course, be a bad thing, and gossip has great destructive powers. People use gossip for their own selfish interests at the expense of others. Subtle social cues can turn to hostility or manipulation and quickly trigger anger, shame, and resentment.

Resentment intensifies if we suspect that the people we share our personal information and concerns with are using that information to slam our reputations, attain loyalties for themselves from others, and lower other people's esteem of us. Retaliation is our first reaction to something based on suspicion or actual evidence of other people rumour-mongering at our expense. We make an attempt to turn the tables, and start our own gossip clubs, which might involve gossiping about the gossiping behaviour of others!

It's a vicious cycle.

However, in certain situations, gossip-mongering can really damage not only the reputation of its target, but also that of the gossip-mongerer. These situations involve the kinds of work some of us do where highly sensitive and private information is shared in confidence. People struggling with serious health-related issues, or legal issues might require support accessing proper care, services, and resources. Sharing their needs and concerns with service providers places them in a highly vulnerable position.

Doctors take the ceremonial Hippocratic Oath to commit to upholding a strong work ethic for their patients. People who provide counseling as psychologists and social workers abide by a code of ethics through membership in regulatory bodies like the Canadian Counselling and Psychotherapy Association, Canadian Psychological Association, or Canadian Association of Social Workers. In any support role, whether as professional counselors or community support workers, we have a duty to keep the information given to us safe. This responsibility comes along with our choice to do this work in the first place. There is no room for compromise in this regard. If we are blabbermouths and gossip about other people's personal lives and struggles, then clearly, we do not belong on this career path, and need to find something else more suited to our tendencies.

That latter statement might seem a bit privileged and judgmental since many of us find ourselves in these positions as a result of our own identification with the communities we serve. In identifying with these communities, we sometimes get confused about our role, such as when we are positioning ourselves as "support worker/counselor" and when we are "peers".  In my mind, there can be no confusion. If our job is to provide support to our peers, then our peers are not our friends, they are our clients through and through, no matter what we might say to distinguish those two roles we play.

It is easy to get on the self-righteous bandwagon and wag my finger at others, but I am primarily writing from having experienced and learned from the challenges of being in a support capacity. When I started to work in this field, I was not totally conscious of the boundaries I needed to set up in order to protect the integrity of my relationships with my clients. I belong to a number of different communities, all of which encourage close interactions and friendships as models of peer support; part of my helping clients was getting to know them as part of friendship circles and families. Very different from the more Western models of interaction espoused in standards of practice for those in a counseling role.

It's not a bad thing to have clients for friends, but if we are not wary or mindful of our primary role in the larger community, we could lose sight of those boundaries and divulge information haphazardly or maybe out of frustration or stress after a long day.

Alternatively, information might be disclosed to us via these channels and networks. The best thing is to stop it where it's at, and let the person sharing this information know that the story is none of our business and should not be talked about. Some people just leave the conversation abruptly because they don't want to be incriminated and targeted if news gets out that this information was shared. If it's gossip, then the gossip about this news being shared and who shared it will be shared. And we, as the listeners, might suffer an equal backlash for our role in spreading the offense.

These are not easy waves to surf. What others say about us can hurt in many significant ways:

• Mental Health - gossiping can drive us to paranoia when we are exposed to networks of people who use gossip to solidify loyalties and to exclude people they don't like; when we are exposed to malicious gossip, we start thinking that people are talking about us in the same way; the paranoia can lead to stress from having to constantly walk on eggshells to avoid being the target of other people's gossip.

• Physical Health - stress can have a destructive impact on our physical health, particularly for those of us who have various chronic illnesses to manage; our bodies often absorb the energy of unhealthy, toxic environments and situations; for those of us who are sensitive to the suffering of others, if we do not have strategies to release these energies, then our bodies will soon be saying NO in various, unpleasant ways.

• Emotional Health - because our bodies are reacting to the stress of "anti-us/them" campaigns, our emotions might be out of whack and we might have to take some time off for anger/stress management; our negative emotional responses can severely impact communication and interaction with others - our colleagues, our clients, our friends and families, other people in the community we do work with, which could then create more situations for others to gossip about, increasing our paranoia, our stress, and our negative emotional reactions, which could possibly get us fired or force us into handing in our resignation.

• Job Opportunities - criticism of the way people do their jobs without taking any action to assist them or give them support to improve their work ethic can seriously impinge on a person's chances of finding work if potential employers get word. Read Mary Abbajay's article on the damage gossip can do in the workplace.

We can't stop people, and even ourselves, from gossiping. We don't have to look in our papers to find examples of people defaming others. It's happening in our kitchens and in our offices as we speak. But for those of us who work in sectors that include a high number of people facing vulnerable situations and barriers, clients and colleagues, alike, putting a cork on the rumour-mongering bears a certain degree of salience when we realize we are actually putting our own reputations/survivalist needs on the line every time we open our mouths and ask, "Did you hear what so-and-so did?"