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A Mother's Love

2009-02-09T16:36:00Z

A pot of boiling enthusiasm and passion cannot continue to simmer without a constant flame. My mother is that flame. When my father lost his job around my 12th birthday I had just discovered the art of photography. I was so passionate about taking pictures that I could hardly sleep at night.

Because there was no discretionary money after my dad was retrenched, I was unable to buy film or chemicals for developing my photographs. I was heartbroken but understood the circumstances, so I hid my disappointment to save my parents from feeling any worse than they already did.

There were absolutely no jobs to be had for kids my age so there was no way for me to get money to buy film for myself.

My parents struggled financially for a number of years and during that time my mom began making little felt-stuffed dolls called Gonks. They were round, red little characters with Beatle haircuts. One morning I overheard my mom on the phone. She was in tears and talking to her friend Millicent. I put my ear to the door like any twelve year old eaves-dropper would do. Between her sniffles I heard my mom tell her friend that she only needed to sell a few more Gonks to have enough money to buy film and chemicals for me. I heard her say, "He is so passionate about photography. You should see his eyes when he talks about it. It breaks my heart because I know he is dying to take pictures."

Two weeks later my mom called me into my room and shut the door. She handed me a roll of film, some photographic paper and chemicals. She asked me to please not say anything to anyone about it, especially my dad, because the money was needed elsewhere.

I hugged my mom and thanked her profusely. I was so excited I just wanted to burst.

"I'll take great pictures for you,I promise" I said.

"Don't worry about taking great pictures for me." she said. "Just have fun."

As she walked out of the door I noticed she was crying. "Mom," why are you crying?" I asked.

"Because I just love you so much." She said, ruffling my mop of curly hair.

Inspiration

2009-01-22T19:46:27Z

Some time ago I had the honor of spending a weekend with a group of delightful kids who are suffering from childhood cancer. (See above) It was one of the most memorable weekends I have ever experienced.

The strength, faith, hope and love flowing from the families of these children is unbelievable. I honestly don't know if I could ever handle what these families are going through myself. Their steadfast hope and resolve is unbelievable.

I was with these families to take photographs for a book and a television piece we (the Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation) were doing to gather national and international support for children in treatment, survivors and the families of those who have passed away from cancer.

During the weekend I spent most of my time on the floor of the National Children's Hospital doing my job as the Doctor of Mischief. My task was to make the kids feel at ease so we could capture their personalities on film. I wrestled on the floor with little kids with cue ball heads. I joked and shared incredible stories with an amazing teenager from Bulgaria. I made an idiot of myself trying to distract kids from the camera and that awful cancer shadow that stalks them twenty-four hours a day.

My friend Jed Share (a world class photographer) Ruth Hoffman (Executive Director of the Candlelighters) and myself (world class buffoon) cried and laughed the whole weekend. I cannot tell you how full my heart feels after celebrating life with these kids and capturing their courage and hope on film.

Jed Share is a much sought after photographer and has shot pictures in 80 different countries. Some of his work has appeared in the National Geographic.

I drove Jed nuts every five minutes asking him for photographs of me with the children. I wanted pictures because I never want to forget my time with these great little people.

We spent three days taking hundreds and hundreds of pictures and then on Saturday night we all joined together in the old Post Office in Washington D.C. to light the incredible Candlelighters Christmas Tree. The tree was adorned with thousands of gold ribbons to support kids in treatment, honor those who are no longer with us and celebrate the precious lives of those who have survived childhood cancer.

After the tree lighting I had a real hard time saying goodbye to my new friends, especially to a little four year-old chap named Alex. We really bonded and I had a huge lump in my throat when I saw Alex's bald little head hang in sadness when he said goodbye to me.

"Can you be my friend for always?" he said when I hugged him goodbye.

"Yes, Alex," I whispered in his ear. "For always."

Don't Wait

2009-01-15T21:48:00Z

Some time ago, while spring-cleaning a closet in my studio, I found a package containing a new, un-opened set of lovely Windsor & Newton watercolor paint, a very expensive pair of Sable hair brushes, a set of Dr. Martin's inks, a set of Rotring pens and a nice thick block of Arches Hot Pressed paper.

What a great surprise! Just to think that some of the materials I've been coveting in the latest Jerry's Artarama catalogue were actually hidden under my very nose in my studio.

Then I found a note tucked-in with the supplies and my blood went cold.

The note was to my father. The art materials I found were actually a gift for my dad who could not get good art supplies in South Africa.

My father was a wonderful artist and never asked for much, but I knew he wanted this package so badly. My mom told me that he would often say, "I wonder if Trev's package is going to come in the mail today." He mentioned a number of times, on the phone to me, how forward he was looking to getting the paints because he had a specific project in mind that he wanted to create.

For some reason I never got round to mailing the the supplies to him. They sat hidden in my studio closet for years.

Then my father died.

He never got the package he waited so patiently for.

Dad, I am so sorry.

"Now is the time to give me roses, not to keep them for my grave to
come. Give them to me while my heart beats, give them today while my
heart yearns for jubilee. Now is the time..."

Mzwakhe Mbuli

Drawing Hope

2009-01-15T21:34:00Z

Last year I had the privilege of sharing time with a group of orphans in Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, in Central Africa. I was working with the kids to help them express their fears and feelings by drawing pictures of their pain and then having them follow up with drawings of their hopes and wishes.

We were in a makeshift classroom with dirt-covered floors and no glass in the windows. The room was dark, close and depressing in the equatorial heat. At first the children gazed blankly at me, constantly swatting the flies away from their hollow eyes and expressionless faces.

These kids have been through hell. Many of the orphans, both boys and girls, have been raped, abused, prostituted and abandoned.

As we were about to start I noticed a young boy dressed in a traditional Burundian drumming outfit watching me through one of the windows.

I invited him to join us but he just stood there, leaning on a walking stick, watching. I could see the sadness in his eyes and it tugged at me. I invited him in again. But he didn't budge. He just stood outside the window and stared.

I respected his decision and started the session.

To begin the class, I took a blank piece of paper and did a drawing depicting the pain I felt when my father passed away. It was a dark picture with lots of clouds swirling in a squiggle of angry lines. As I drew I pressed hard on the paper telling the kids in the class how the heavy, rough lines represented the anger of losing my father. Among the swirls I drew a person curled up in a ball and told them it was me, in the picture, experiencing the pain of my father's death.

As hard as I tried I could not stop myself from getting misty eyed when I held up the picture for the kids to see.

Exposing my own pain stirred something within these kids. I realized this when one little girl wiped away her own tears as I shared my grief. It was incredible. I could feel invisible hugs reaching out from every one of those children in the room. Children who have experienced more horror and hardships than I'll ever know.

The kids looked around at each other and began nodding and discussing my picture as they whispered amongst themselves.

Then I put the painful picture aside and drew a picture of my hopes and dreams for the future. I drew a happy picture with a boy standing on top of a hill with his arms reaching up to a star. (I used as many warm colors as I could.)

The kids connected with the picture and began to chatter excitedly.

I will never forget the smiles on the kid's faces as they discussed my picture and suggested more things for me to include on the page like flowers, the sun and even kids eating ice cream.

Then I invited the kids to repeat what I had done. Draw a picture of their own pain, look at the drawing, acknowledge the emotions evoked by the picture, and then draw their future hopes and dreams.

I have no words to describe what happened next.

The entire mood in the room shifted.

I could feel the children's emotions change and grow as they drew. It's amazing how cathartic a simple line on a piece of paper can be. How extracting pain and suffering from your heart and putting it on paper can make the pain and hurt easier to process and clearer to see.

As they drew I saw the children grow and bloom. It was like a time-lapse film of a flower opening. And just like a blossoming bud, the children seemed to unfold from a tight curled-up balls, void of color or vibrancy, and grow into a magnificent flowers.

When we were done drawing, the kids danced around me and proudly showed off their pictures.

The group-hug we shared will never be forgotten.

I chatted to the social worker after the kids left the room. I packed my bag and I was about to leave when a movement at the door caught my eye.

It was the young boy in a traditional Burundian drumming outfit who watched me through the window at the beginning of the session. He was now standing in the doorway.

In his hand he held a blank piece of drawing paper.

In his eyes he held a familiar vacant stare.

He lifted the paper slowly toward me.

"Okay buddy," I said, patting him on the back. "Have a seat. Let's see if we can draw us a little hope and happiness shall we?"

And we did.

Laughter From Within The Sadness

2008-12-22T21:49:00Z

The bullet went through the little boy’s shoulder and out of his back. He said he did not even feel the pain until he realized that the boy sprawled on top of him was dead. He held his breath, although a scream was tearing at his chest, trying to escape from his mouth. He said the first thing he wanted to do was cry for his mother but he knew if he did not pretend to be dead, the soldiers would shoot him again

The Congolese government troops fired at the group of young boys once more to make sure they were all dead. By some miracle the boy lying on top of him shielded him from the deadly AK 47 fire.

The troops left the group of dead boys lying in the forest outside Goma where they had fallen.

As part of a UN and UNICEF delegation to Goma in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I met the boy some time after he was nursed back to health and put into a rehabilitation center. I spent the afternoon with the boy and a number of ex-child soldiers who were being cared for by a non-profit group.

Recently I came across the name Sean D. Carasso after visiting his web site "falling whistles.com". According to a powerful and moving narrative on his site, Sean had a life-changing experience with another group of ex-child soldiers during his visit to Goma, where he made the following journal entry.

“Many of us have heard the stories of child-soldiers. Invisible Children and stories such as A Long Way Gone have been groundbreaking in granting us glimpses into their tortured lives.

I had heard. Known. Cared. I had even reacted and raged. But when these boys told me of the whistle blowers, the horror grew feet and walked within me.

Captured by Nkunda’s rebel army, the boys not big enough to hold a gun are given merely a whistle and put on the front lines of battle.

Their sole duty is to make enough noise to scare the enemy and then to receive – with their bodies – the first round of bullets.

Lines of boys fall as nothing more than a temporary barricade.

Those who try to flee are shot at from behind. The soldiers call it “encouragement” to be brave. Without a gun to protect themselves, the smallest boys are placed between the crossfire of two armies – forces fighting for reasons far beyond their ability to understand.

With falling whistles, their only choice is to feign death or face it.”

The ex-child soldiers I met with shared very similar stories to the ones Sean heard. And like him, meeting kids who have walked through hell and managed to crawl out of the other side, shook me to the core.

I fought back tears all afternoon as we sat in a circle on the ground and shared stories and drew pictures in the journals I had brought for them. The talk was pretty superficial until I exposed a painful event I had personally experienced with a child who was dying of cancer. I told the boys about my little five year-old friend Rene who was at the end of her life and how I would visit her at the hospital. I explained that I volunteer at the cancer hospital to comfort sick children. I told them how one afternoon, as I sat with Rene, rocking her in my arms, she took a deep breath, said she loved me and passed away. While sharing the story I began to cry. One of the kids reached across and patted me on the shoulder. Then another. And another. A group hug ensued.

Then everything changed.

Once the children saw my tears and felt me open up to them, they did the same. Story after story came pouring forth. And with the stories came tears and pain in torrents. And as the afternoon progressed and the stories were released from deep within these children, so too was some of their pain. Harrowing stories were soon comforted by stories of bravery and finally the laughter came.

It started with a simple self-deprecating joke I shared. The laughter was infectious. Soon more funny stories were shared and the group was bellowing with laughter. Seeing those kids, who had been through so much, laughing so hard is a sight I will cherish forever.

The sad thing is, these broken angels are just sweet kids who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and to see their pain-hardened little faces break into smiles is indescribable.

Sean had a very similar experience with the children he shared time with. His final words say it all:

“As with us all, the boys gained freedom from sharing their stories. Tears turned to smiles and smiles to laughter. Little in our respective lives was similar, but storytelling is strange and powerful. Surrounded by angry and on looking guards, we found some small comfort in one another.”

As this year ends and another begins, I pray from deep within my soul for all children who are in pain and suffering terribly while we sit around warm hearths and enjoy holiday celebrations with our families.

Peath on Earth

2008-12-16T22:35:00Z

Angels In The Dust

2008-11-20T19:05:00Z

I have been away in Africa for a number of weeks. While I was there I spent some time at Botshabelo an orphanage run by my dear friends Con and Marion Cloete. I took the pictures above of some of the amazing childrens in the village. Most of them are AIDS orphans and many of the have been raped, both boys and girls. While I was there I remembered a saying I once heard. “Most people don’t know that there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don’t get too comfortable and fall asleep & miss your life.”

Wonder

2008-10-22T14:48:00Z

Tea

2008-10-13T15:21:00Z

Chico

2008-10-10T18:42:05Z

On this day many years ago I set Chico free, although Bruce J. was there at the time. (Chico was a baboon. Our army unit’s mascot. He was captured on the South African border with Zimbabwe and brought back to our base camp.)

Chico was tied to a tree with a long chain which allowed him to climb the trunk and sleep in the branches. Chico was a wonderful animal. I really liked him because he was affectionate and had a sense of humor similar to mine. Well, maybe not his sense of humor per say, more like his laugh. (I was often told I laughed like a baboon by the school bully.)

A number of us were opposed to Chico’s capture and tried hard to make him happy. We often hung out with him and enjoyed his hugs. He always tried to groom us and he loved to look through our pockets for change, which he’d grab and run off with.

We gave Chico a teddy bear to keep him company while we were away (sometimes for days) on maneuvers. Chico loved that bear and could often be seen nurturing and caressing it.

My decision to free Chico came after I brought him some left over fruit from my dinner in the mess hall one day. As I approached his tree I saw a group of new recruits taunting him. They were trying to get Chico to smoke a cigarette. Because I out-ranked the men, I told them to move along and not to let me catch them messing with the baboon again.

I stood guard later that night and my shift ended at 2am. My friend Bruce and I walked past Chico’s tree on our way back to our tent. It was pretty dark and we couldn’t see Chico very clearly. I walked a little closer and suddenly realized that he was not alone. Chico and another baboon were huddled together at the base of the tree. It was so touching and heartbreaking to see the two of them holding each other like scared little children.

When the other baboon saw us it scampered off into the bush and I saw Chico look longingly after it. He then turned and looked at us. The sadness in his eyes and the slight tilt of his head was all it took. My heart broke. I decided there and then to release him. (It was a tough decision though because the consequence of letting him loose were dire. Staff-Sergeant Reyeneke (who considered Chico HIS pet) promised he would make the life of anyone who released Chico a living hell for the remainder of his two year service. Reyeneke was a tyrant and nobody wanted to be on his bad side.)

Bruce acted as a lookout while I approached Chico. The baboon backed away from me, probably thinking I was going to taunt him like the new recruits had done earlier that day. I stepped back and approached him again, this time crouching and softly whispering to him. (I must admit I was afraid of being bitten because baboons can be rather nasty when provoked.)

I got to Chico and reached out my hand. He took my hand and climbed onto my hip (Like he often did when we brought him fruit.) He clung to me like a child.

I unhooked the chain from around his neck and walked away from the tree with him. Chico hung onto me for dear life. He whimpered a little as I moved toward the edge of the clearing. It seemed like he did not want to go.

I put him down and without hesitation he scampered away from me toward the bush. Then he stopped, turned and ran back over to the tree where he was previously chained.

“No. Chico,” I whispered. “Go. Get out of here.”

“Shoo.” Whispered Bruce loudly. “Go on, get.”

Chico got to the tree and jumped up into the fork. He dug around for a few seconds and then dropped down to the ground and scuttled toward the undergrowth.

“Get out of here,” I urged.

As he neared the bush, he stopped and turned toward us. That’s when I noticed Chico was carrying his teddy bear. I smiled to myself now realizing why he had gone back to the tree.

Way off in the distance I heard an echo of the other baboon howling in the bush. Chico heard it too.

He tucked the teddy bear under his arm, gave us one last chatter of ‘monkey words’ and disappeared into the undergrowth.