[Music]
let me tell you a story about what
exposure towards has taught me in 1982
as civilians fled Beirut southern
suburbs to hide from Israeli air raids I
rushed to a building housing the Reuters
news agency to file my story to the
Washington Post I bounded up the stairs
and stumbled into a crowded maze of
misery frightened and forlorn a hush
tapestry of men women and children
huddled on the floor from wall to wall
back to back head to laugh breathing
heavily in that dank dim space it was a
hot humid and sweltering night I tiptoed
and picked my way through a labyrinth of
limbs so as not to step on a sleeping
infant or an outstretched hand the air
reeks of sweat musty mattresses and
stiflingly dense human breath I must
have wrinkled my nose as the stale
stench rose to my face a small Haggard
man hugged his knees and looked at me
with hollow eyes his gaze looked on to
mine he said sister if we had soap and a
place to wash we would be clean I did
not step on anybody’s arm or leg but I
stepped on his dignity I was mortified
tormented by my offensive inconsiderate
body language I returned the next day
with boxes of soap and provisions but
the refugees were all gone Chimamanda
Adichie wants refugee from nigeria and
now celebrated author says nobody is
ever just a refugee a single thing we
are emotional beings with a shared
desire to be valued a desire to matter I
dedicated close to 40 years of my
years as a journalist covering conflict
I did not walk away unchanged I’m still
recovering it has been an education of
the heart and mind deaths and calamities
that upend lives and steal the future
haunt me journalists can acknowledge the
pain
listen inhabit describe the worlds of
those without a voice by observing and
reporting I push my students to write
compellingly
to give a vivid picture of what it is
like to walk in the shoes of those
vulnerable victims it can help but is
often not enough overexposure can leave
audiences and readers numb desensitized
from what is real Nora and Suleiman a
Palestinian refugee I encountered in the
Rafah camp in Gaza had no house to speak
of Israelis had blown it up into a pile
of rubble during the Intifada one of her
sons was dead four others were in jail
as was her husband that was her story
she was homeless and had no menfolk but
she carried a bag of rice and a small
pot tied to her waist whenever she could
she gathered her grandchildren and
cooked them a meal over a fire fed with
twigs
she smiled through it all why I asked
she said defiantly as what Vaishali
‘majide black in my gut and red for my
enemy that mother courage could not
suppress the impulse to give her
grandchildren a sense of home this is an
impulse for life not death let’s walk in
the shoes of those who are hungry tired
and dispossessed what these wandering
fugitives endure
happened to us democracy’s stability are
fragile never forget that during the
mountain war in Lebanon residents of my
village were expelled those lively
cultural characters who animated the
place where I spent many happy summers
were now living in hovels and basements
elsewhere I lived in my parent’s flat in
Beirut but I too lost a safe carefree
Haven farmers from my village who
proudly tilled the land of their
forefathers to sustain themselves now
worked as geometers housekeepers ironing
and sweeping for others it took 13 years
to return many died or emigrated but the
fabric of that tranquil village life was
never rewarding that is the hole in my
heart when the Syrian conflict started
Street children would ask for money
selling tissues or chewing gum now they
just say we are hungry a gangly girl
beckoned to me one afternoon as I was
walking home she cupped her fingers to
her mouth signal hunger her face and
hands black with grime
I said come let me buy you a sandwich
motioning to a nearby store bring it to
me she demanded as she squatted on a
flattened cardboard on the pavement I
bristled at her brazenness still I asked
the short-order cook to stuff a sandwich
with chicken tomatoes and cheese as I
grabbed two cartons of juice from the
grocery fridge the cashier himself a
displaced Syrian told me I’ll take the
food out to her he said that cardboard
and the spot are her bed for the night
if she leaves someone may take her place
many children as young as eight years
old are too scared to go home and sleep
outside their parents or
handlers warned them not to return
unless they have collected $10 or more
net worth has not shoot away a street
beggar instead chase away your fears
your discomfort the time to be brave is
now exercised mindful compassion every
little act of kindness every hour
volunteered counts collecting clothes
donating money books tutoring serving
hot meals everybody wins
there is a myriad of nongovernmental
organizations helping the
underprivileged do what you can
eventually we make the beds we sleep in
they do for do not forget that child
whose safest option is to sleep alone
on a dark street on a cardboard mattress
we live in an age of well-being workouts
mindful eating fit in a bit of mindful
compassion your safety and that of your
children depends on it thank you
[Applause]
you
let me tell you a story about what
exposure towards has taught me in 1982
as civilians fled Beirut southern
suburbs to hide from Israeli air raids I
rushed to a building housing the Reuters
news agency to file my story to the
Washington Post I bounded up the stairs
and stumbled into a crowded maze of
misery frightened and forlorn a hush
tapestry of men women and children
huddled on the floor from wall to wall
back to back head to laugh breathing
heavily in that dank dim space it was a
hot humid and sweltering night I tiptoed
and picked my way through a labyrinth of
limbs so as not to step on a sleeping
infant or an outstretched hand the air
reeks of sweat musty mattresses and
stiflingly dense human breath I must
have wrinkled my nose as the stale
stench rose to my face a small Haggard
man hugged his knees and looked at me
with hollow eyes his gaze looked on to
mine he said sister if we had soap and a
place to wash we would be clean I did
not step on anybody’s arm or leg but I
stepped on his dignity I was mortified
tormented by my offensive inconsiderate
body language I returned the next day
with boxes of soap and provisions but
the refugees were all gone Chimamanda
Adichie wants refugee from nigeria and
now celebrated author says nobody is
ever just a refugee a single thing we
are emotional beings with a shared
desire to be valued a desire to matter I
dedicated close to 40 years of my
years as a journalist covering conflict
I did not walk away unchanged I’m still
recovering it has been an education of
the heart and mind deaths and calamities
that upend lives and steal the future
haunt me journalists can acknowledge the
pain
listen inhabit describe the worlds of
those without a voice by observing and
reporting I push my students to write
compellingly
to give a vivid picture of what it is
like to walk in the shoes of those
vulnerable victims it can help but is
often not enough overexposure can leave
audiences and readers numb desensitized
from what is real Nora and Suleiman a
Palestinian refugee I encountered in the
Rafah camp in Gaza had no house to speak
of Israelis had blown it up into a pile
of rubble during the Intifada one of her
sons was dead four others were in jail
as was her husband that was her story
she was homeless and had no menfolk but
she carried a bag of rice and a small
pot tied to her waist whenever she could
she gathered her grandchildren and
cooked them a meal over a fire fed with
twigs
she smiled through it all why I asked
she said defiantly as what Vaishali
‘majide black in my gut and red for my
enemy that mother courage could not
suppress the impulse to give her
grandchildren a sense of home this is an
impulse for life not death let’s walk in
the shoes of those who are hungry tired
and dispossessed what these wandering
fugitives endure
happened to us democracy’s stability are
fragile never forget that during the
mountain war in Lebanon residents of my
village were expelled those lively
cultural characters who animated the
place where I spent many happy summers
were now living in hovels and basements
elsewhere I lived in my parent’s flat in
Beirut but I too lost a safe carefree
Haven farmers from my village who
proudly tilled the land of their
forefathers to sustain themselves now
worked as geometers housekeepers ironing
and sweeping for others it took 13 years
to return many died or emigrated but the
fabric of that tranquil village life was
never rewarding that is the hole in my
heart when the Syrian conflict started
Street children would ask for money
selling tissues or chewing gum now they
just say we are hungry a gangly girl
beckoned to me one afternoon as I was
walking home she cupped her fingers to
her mouth signal hunger her face and
hands black with grime
I said come let me buy you a sandwich
motioning to a nearby store bring it to
me she demanded as she squatted on a
flattened cardboard on the pavement I
bristled at her brazenness still I asked
the short-order cook to stuff a sandwich
with chicken tomatoes and cheese as I
grabbed two cartons of juice from the
grocery fridge the cashier himself a
displaced Syrian told me I’ll take the
food out to her he said that cardboard
and the spot are her bed for the night
if she leaves someone may take her place
many children as young as eight years
old are too scared to go home and sleep
outside their parents or
handlers warned them not to return
unless they have collected $10 or more
net worth has not shoot away a street
beggar instead chase away your fears
your discomfort the time to be brave is
now exercised mindful compassion every
little act of kindness every hour
volunteered counts collecting clothes
donating money books tutoring serving
hot meals everybody wins
there is a myriad of nongovernmental
organizations helping the
underprivileged do what you can
eventually we make the beds we sleep in
they do for do not forget that child
whose safest option is to sleep alone
on a dark street on a cardboard mattress
we live in an age of well-being workouts
mindful eating fit in a bit of mindful
compassion your safety and that of your
children depends on it thank you
[Applause]
you
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