V-Day Blog Archive

Emotional Creature Thriving in Paris, Igniting V-Girls Movement in France

Emotional Creature Thriving in Paris, Igniting V-Girls Movement in France

V-Day and MCR Productions curated workshop productions of Emotional Creature in Paris at Cine 13 Theatre are bringing the V-Girls revolution to Paris and the media is taking note! The show has been running since mid September and was extended until October 29. Performed in English with French subtitles, the cast includes French cast members, Sophie Lor, Mégane Mandin, Gaëlle Marie, British cast members, Neve Faulkner and Eno Williams-Uffort and Karabo Tshikube from South Africa. Mégane Mandin shared on the V-Girls blog, “I chose to get involved with Emotional Creature to accomplish myself as a girl of this world, the inner girl that is alive in each one of us. Carpe diem, baby.” Tickets are now on sale and available at www.cine13-theatre.com.

CHECK OUT what they are saying in Paris!
– The L-Word Art Interview with Eve Ensler
– Review of Emotional Creature Paris: Turn Your TV Off and Open Your Mind by Gladis Dit
– France Culture Art & Spectacles Interview with Eve Ensler
– Les désarrois des adolescentes in Le Nouvel Observateur
– Emotional Creature in Le Figaro
– Emotional Creature in L/ONTOP

WATCH Emotional Creature Premiere in Paris >

V-Girls Action Team Gathers in New York City

The V-Girls Action Team, a dynamic team of girl activists from around the world, gathered in New York City to envision and plan the next phase of the V-Girls movement. Team members convened from South Africa, France, Israel, Peru, New Mexico, Maine, Arizona, California, South Dakota, and Washington, DC and met with Eve to share their thoughts, dreams, and ideas to connect and empower girls globally and inspire activism for the next generation of V-Leaders. Mai Shbeta, V-Girls Action Team Member from Israel, shared, “I was told not to cry. I want women to be able to express themselves: what they want, what they hate, and what they love. There is no ‘in five years.’ There’s only now.” The V-Girls Action Team also planned and led an open workshop with Eve Ensler for teen girls in the New York City area at the Brooklyn High School for the Arts.

VIEW the photo gallery from the V-Girls Action Team Gathering >

Join the V-Girls Revolution!

– Start an Emotional Creature Club
– Teach V-Girls in the Classroom
– Read the V-Girls Blog
– Join the V-Girls Network
– Like V-Girls on Facebook
– Follow V-Girls on Twitter

Ambiguous UpSparkles From the Heart of the Park: Mic Check/Occupy Wall Street (Part 2)

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/eve-ensler/ambiguous-upsparkles-from_1_b_1…

This past Sunday we had our second Ambiguous UpSparkle Story group at Occupy Wall Street. This time there were hundreds of people who came to tell of what brought them to the park, and to listen and repeat the stories of the others. There was something Greek and theatrical about this huge group of people repeating every line of every story. It was a story chorus. It took time in a culture and city where there is no time. It took attention in a world where we are trained to not pay attention. It required people to listen when people have stopped listening.

There was something so generous and receptive, as if the words, the stories were visibly permeating and engraving themselves on each person’s soul. No one could leave. It went on for hours. It was a feast. We were feasting on each other. Stranger devouring the stories of stranger. I needed to know the Burmese man with the camera who stopped filming to say he had been searching for an America that wasn’t like the oppressive silenced police state of Burma, and that he couldn’t find anyone he thought was free until he stumbled into Zuccotti Park. I wanted to wrap myself around the thin black woman whose arms moved her story into the air like a gymnast. I found myself smiling this mad smile as a young white woman who stood at the top of the stairs spoke her story and with each line became happier and happier as if she were about to fly.

There was no way not to speak truth in that circle, on those steps. A man from Guyana was on his way back to Africa because he decided his education was not worth a life of debt and then he stumbled into the park where he said he fell in love. We were all in love. The crowd, telling and repeating and listening, urged people to be braver, more honest, more passionate, more political, which I define here the way Adrienne Rich did many years ago — “the moment a feeling enters the body is political.” There in that circle, the 99 percent rewrote the dominant narrative created by the corporate elites and their media – the narrative that does not represent their grievances, their morality, or their dreams.

There on the steps in broad daylight I saw the confidence that comes and the leadership that evolves when people are listened to and taken seriously and honored, and I saw people’s willingness to tell the truth and express disappointment and pain and embarrassment, and how that vulnerability inspires support and solidarity. I did not hear whiners. There were no beggars, no one looking for a hand out. There was no one unclear. I heard seekers, grappling with greed and gross economic injustice and fat cat bankers and a barricade of cops who were being paid overtime to police the poor but were never sent in to arrest the thieves. What I heard in each person was a much deeper vision and hunger, not for fixing or reform but for something new, something they would have a hand in, something radical, from the roots, from the park.

I have always trusted stories more than messages. I prefer confessions to demands. Movements to parties. Poets to politicians. When you tell your story, you enter the circle. You become part of the messy broken divine fabric that is humanity. You can’t pretend that you know the way or you’re somehow better but the trade off is you get to be lost and a part of something so much bigger than you.

So here’s a few bites of what came through the cracks in the cobblestone on Sunday, a taste from the holy space between the towers of money.

W. Kerry Huang

Political oppression is woven into the very fiber of my family. I was born in China in 1979, in the wake of the Cultural Revolution and the death of Mao Zedong. Under the Mao regime, My grandfather, an architect, was deemed an intellectual and suffered repeated arrests. My parents, like millions of others, were forced out of schools and sent down to labor camps. Such are the experiences that shaped my upbringing. In 1989, when the government rolled the tanks into Tiananmen Square and opened fire onto the pro-Democratic demonstrators, my father, already in America on a student visa, knew he had to make sure such atrocities would never reach us again.

On January 9th, 1990, exactly two months after the fall of the Berlin wall, I landed in this country, and began calling Houston, Texas my new home. There I was, a pre-pubescent fresh off the boat math wiz — at least according to American standards — thrown right in the middle of the Texas public education system. I spoke no English, and was terrible at sports — which meant zero social currency in the lone star state. My father, thinking I needed a way to improve my language skills and perhaps have an outlet of some kind, suggested that I take a theater class. That pragmatic decision would forever define the life of this foreign boy. American theater gave me my voice. It literally taught me how to speak like an American. More than that, it allowed me to be who I am as I am, and it gave me the imagination to be anything I dreamed of being — all the while being a part of a community, much like this one, that are made up of people, experiences, and passions both different and similar.

Twenty years later, I’m still a student of the theater, now with a theater company that I run with a passionate, devoted, hard working team, creating original work that celebrates the stories of diverse individuals and communities: from the plights of refugees living in New York to the struggles of artists reckoning with creativity, success, and the fragile bond of friendships. I am hungry for these stories because they all contain the stories of my family — each story is a fight for recognition, for progress, for the freedom to work, to create, to transform. And it is for that fight that I am occupying Wall Street. America nurtured the creative community that gave me my voice and the opportunities for that voice to resonate. However, recent history is proving that voice has no audience, no reverberations worth a damn. Power is outmoding liberty, greed is overtaking compassion. I am a child of the American dream, But I feel it fading, along with everything my parents fought so hard to earn.

Over the years, I’ve grown cynical of protests, sensing their ineffectiveness for lasting change. I’m also weary of revolutions, for the damages of violence, chaos, and social instability seem to outweigh the all-too-brief euphoria. Yet Occupy Wall Street, Now a movement spreading around the globe with its organized and evolving direct democratic structure, gives me hope. It has reclaimed our voice, the voice of the 99 percent, and it has the potential to achieve the necessary lasting attention to ignite the change we believe in. And this time, I hope America is listening, instead of resorting to tactics reminiscent of a police state — tactics that remind me of the oppressions that my family faced, and the injustice that many in China, like the artist Ai Weiwei, are still facing. Instead, I hope America responds with the same set of values that taught me to be the American I am today — where creativity is celebrated and encouraged, where individual thought is recognized and honored, where liberty cannot be taken away, and where hard work for a better life is validated with opportunities unique and dynamic. I am occupying Wall Street Because this is the America I am fighting for.

Catherine Feeny

I stumbled on the occupation on day 12, after falling down a Facebook rabbit hole of European economic doom. Arriving at the occupiers’ website, I was immediately captivated — someone was doing something, standing for something.

Excitedly, I told my husband what was going on. We watched the videos on the site together. Sebastian is of Anglo Indian descent and a devotee of Ghandi and passive resistance. I am a fourth generation American of Irish descent, and a believer in the democratic system whose faith was fundamentally shaken when the supreme court gave corporations the rights of individuals. Both of us wanted to go. But we live in Portland, Oregon and didn’t have money for the flights.

As musicians who play house concerts all over the country, we come into contact with a lot of interesting people. A few days after we discovered what was going on in Liberty Park, I received a text from some folks who had hosted us at their home in Idaho. They said that they might be able to help us if we wanted to participate in the occupation. They had a gold coin to donate to the cause.

A gold coin? This was a bit trippy. But it turned out to be true. They sold it and gave us the money to pay for our flights to New York City.

My apprehension in the days before we left was great. I believed in the cause, but I was scared to sleep on the sidewalk, especially in New York. I was also nervous about being accepted, and being useful.

This is our fifth night in the park. The ground is hard, but the atmosphere is electric. It’s the greatest school of democracy I’ve encountered. People are excited and open and kind and articulate and smart. Everyone is conversing all of the time, and everything seems to be happening at once. We have a month before our return flight takes off, and I have a feeling we might have a hard time leaving.

Dania Gharaibeh

When I first arrived to Liberty Plaza, I sat next to a middle-aged man who just arrived to from New Jersey. I asked him what brought him and he boldly confessed that he doesn’t know. He said “it just felt right.” I, too, cannot articulate what brought me here. In fact, I do not want to articulate what brought me here. It is a sense of empathy and solidarity that is bigger than words.

On the 25th of January when a group of my friends decided to storm Tahrir Square in Cairo, they didn’t know what they want. We were frustrated with many things in Egypt. Many that fell under the category of inhumanity but we didn’t have specific demands. The vision was a block of marble that we carved everyday until it became the Egyptian Revolution. Having lived the Tahrir Square experience, I observe the same pattern at Liberty Plaza:

– Step One: Groups of people share an overwhelming emotion of urgency and passion for justice. They do not know where it comes from and where it will lead them but they know that it will be a crime against themselves to ignore it.

– Step Two: People across the country begin to join them. This group of people is usually a group that had the same calling but wasn’t sure if they should listen. When they heard that someone spoke up, they were relieved that they are not alone. They were assured that they were not mad.

– Step Three: As the numbers of like-minded people increase, they organize and assemble. They organically form a structured and sophisticated community driven by a passion to thrive and a common belief system in their core despite their diversity and apparent differences. An intense sense of love and selflessness makes everyone eager to contribute. Volunteers, committees, lectures, arts, entertainment, and other activities begin to take place. Meanwhile, the cause is still nothing but an intense emotion that is beyond words.

– Step Four: As organized groups begin to assemble, and knowledge and opinions are exchanged, people begin to articulate the message.

– Step Five: Slowly, as this newly formed community becomes a large family, the vision and cause are echoed and demanded in unity.

At this very moment, Occupy Wall Street is in Step Three. A stage I call the “Adolescent Days of the Revolution.” To me, revolutions are a living organism with a life cycle and its energy is constantly reincarnated. It is the force that allows humanity to emotionally evolve. And just like humans, The Adolescent Days of the Revolution are the best days of its life. These are the days of innocence, fearlessness, and openness. These are the days where you form your identity and you demand to be different. I plan to savor these days for as long as they continue. I plan to immerse myself in the love and passion of this movement and nurture it as if it is my child. Tahrir Square restored my faith in Egypt but Occupy Wall Street restored my faith in humanity.

Steven Syrek Every day that I spend at Occupy Wall Street, I ask myself the same question: Am I doing the right thing? Ten years ago, when I was in my early twenties, I unhesitatingly participated in every rally, march, and protest that coalesced around the traveling circus of acronymic, economic summits: WTO, WEF, IMF, etc. I whole-heartedly believed that, as the saying then was, another world is possible. We would show up, play cat and mouse with the police, and then disperse to tell war stories. I loved it, and I thought what I was doing was not only important but imperative, because my country had done and was still doing so many evil things in the name of virtuous principles–the public had to be educated and our exploitative systems dismantled. But nothing much changed, and it never felt like anybody was really behind us. Then came 9/11, two terms of Bush Jr., two wars in the Middle East, and an ongoing crisis of governance perpetuated in a climate of fear. The last ten years were enough to make a man cynical by the time he turned 30.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, came Occupy Wall Street. And suddenly, out of nowhere, I found myself neglecting the dissertation I am supposed to be writing to work at the Occupy Wall Street People’s Library. It seemed easy to protest when I was younger. What else did I have to do? But now, like every other adult, I take myself and my work far too seriously. Every moment not spent on my personal career advancement feels like a moment squandered. Lately, I’ve been squandering a lot of moments. With my professional future in question and serious deadlines looming, how could I not constantly ask myself, am I doing the right thing? I’ve grown proud of our little library and the recognition it has received over the past weeks, but it’s still such a small thing: a small, fragile, cardboard and plastic bricolage that shivers in the shadows of the world’s most intimidating financial institutions. We could be swept away tomorrow, by weather or police action. Today, in fact, we almost were — by both at once — and I wasn’t even sure there’d be a library afterward or, indeed, a reason to write this article. Somehow, miraculously we survived. Yet I still ask myself whether I’m doing the right thing, whether it can continue, and whether it makes any sense at all to put such stock in something that has the odds stacked so precipitously against it. And the answer is, I really don’t know.

Occupy Wall Street is much more than a protest. It is an ongoing experiment in a truly open, transparent, diverse, and radically democratic society. This means that it can sometimes be impossible to get things done. Most of the people who gravitate to Liberty Plaza have very strong opinions and even stronger personalities. Achieving compromise with such people is a challenge, a frustrating but exhilarating challenge. We are all stubborn idealists, after all. Often, our ideals overlap. But not always. And it can be hard to compromise when you believe compromise itself to be the root of all evil. Why add all this stress to my already stressful life? Why sit around all day weathering my skin in the elements, exhausting my body with constant work that is more work than work, and talking so much that I can barely swallow at the end of the day? Why put up with all this when the powers arrayed against us seem so inexorable, their resources inexhaustible, and the pressure on us to leave unremitting?

For the past week and more I’ve been constantly exhausted, overwhelmed with the blitzkrieg of media attention, and in a constant state of anxiety about both the success of our movement and at what personal expense it might come. I’ve gotten into pointless arguments, had valuable possessions stolen, and nearly had an accident while driving in an emergency situation because of lack of sleep. It would be wisdom to go home, do the solitary work of academic writing, vie for grant money for my own projects, and leave the protestors to endure the challenge on their own, with my tacit support and the occasional touristic visit. And every day I have to decide if the goals of the group effort underway at Occupy Wall Street are more important than myself, than my own, personal, individual success and prosperity. And every day, so far, I have answered in the affirmative. But fear and doubt gnaw away at the strongest resolve. I have no idea what I will decide tomorrow.

Mesiah Hameed

My name is Mesiah Hameed, I am 16 years old. This is my eleventh day at occupy wall street.

What an 11 days it has been! I have witnessed police beat my friends, arrest my neighbors, and scare our youth.

Amongst all of the chaos I have never experienced more beauty. The serene feeling i get while re entering the park from a long day of school is absolutely indescribable. The people I’ve met and the things i am learning seem to be endless.

I have been attending protest since a very young age. Both my parents use to be quite involved in the world of activism. That may be one of the reasons i knew i had to attend wall street but that is not all of it. Since a young age i have questioned the rules of authority. It never made sense to me. With age came lots of fights and misunderstandings dealing with issue. Authority is everywhere we go it is inescapable! My disagreement with authority has continuously led me back to the worlds biggest authoritarian figures, The government.

I am the 99%. Though my age may surprise some i take advantage of it. I make a statement. I inspire youth of all ages to be more independent and learn things on their own. I am embarrassed of my age group because other 16 year old’s discuss shoes, iPads, and sex while I invest all my time in protest and justice.

I have read newspapers and watched videos on this revolution. Many of them share false and fabricated information regarding our purpose. What the media does not know is that the purpose is much to big to be titled. i have met everyone from in debt students to homeless grandmas. We all fight together. Personally i am here to represent the youth. It is an issue when you are not born knowing about the corruption of our systems worldwide. it should not take several years to come to reality that we are being cheated of our freedom! I was raised in such a way that even if it does not affect me i am aware and do all i can because it could very well affect me anytime or moment. I am very passionate about this movement. I wake up at Zucotti Park with such drive, an open heart, and wide ears to listen to all. I know that my passion for this sparks passion within others! This is so important for the world. We must get our youth to the protest and tell them what is happening. ALL AGES NEED TO BE APART OF THIS. we need to stop having authority over the young and let them find their own understanding of life. That is why i am here. I will stay until we see change.

Follow Eve Ensler on Twitter: www.twitter.com/eveensler

V-Day Founder/Artistic Director Eve Ensler Honored At Two Upcoming Events

TOMORROW: Eve Joins Mother Jones For Second Annual Bearing Witness Dinner

On Thursday, October 20, Eve Ensler will be the honored guest at the Mother Jones second annual Bearing Witness Dinner to benefit The Anita Fund and celebrate courageous voices in investigative journalism, human rights, and global justice. This special evening will honor The Anita Fund’s support of Mother Jones‘ reporting on global injustice, including in Haiti, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and within the United States.

The evening will also launch the first annual Anita Roddick Award for Courage in Action, which will be awarded to KOFAVIV, an organization in Port-au-Prince, Haiti established by and for rape survivors, combining support for individual women with the power of grassroots organizing.

For Tickets & More Info >

Eve To Receive the Peace Over Violence Lifetime Achievement Award At 40th Annual Humanitarian Awards

Peace Over Violence (POV), the first domestic violence and sexual assault agency in Los Angeles, will celebrate their 40th anniversary on Friday October 28th. The annual POV Humanitarian Awards will recognize and honor the work of those who have impacted the lives of survivors and the community at large in innovative, compassionate, and groundbreaking ways. This year, V-Day is pleased to announce that V-Day Founder/Artistic Director Eve Ensler will receive the POV Lifetime Achievement Award.

Established in 1971 by pioneering feminist activists, Peace Over Violence (formerly known as LACAAW) is a sexual and domestic violence, stalking, child abuse, and youth violence prevention center headquartered in Los Angeles. One of the longest standing violence prevention centers in the country, POV has been committed to social service and social change for 40 years. Peace Over Violence is a non-profit, multicultural, community based organization providing intervention and prevention education services with a strong volunteer component.

JOIN US: Tickets and sponsorship opportunities are still available.

FIND OUT MORE >

WATCH: Women, War & Peace On PBS

Women, War & Peace

is a bold, new PBS mini-series exploring women’s role in conflict and peace-building. Airing every Tuesday evening from October 11 through November 8, Women, War & Peace tells the stories of women in conflict zones from Bosnia, Afghanistan, Colombia and Liberia, and is the first major broadcast campaign to show that women are not only suffering unprecedented casualties in today’s wars – but are also emerging as leaders in peace-building and post-conflict resolution.

Produced by Abigail E. Disney, Pamela Hogan and Gini Reticker, and featuring narrators Matt Damon, Tilda Swinton, Geena Davis and Alfre Woodard, Women, War & Peace prompts us to ask: what if we looked at war as though women mattered?

This Tuesday, October 25, tune in for Peace Unveiled, the story of three women in Afghanistan risking their lives to make sure women’s rights don’t get traded away in peace negotiations with the Taliban.

On November 1st and 8th, you can catch the two final episodes: The War We Are Living

, the story of two extraordinary Afro-Colombian women from Cauca, a mountainous region in Colombia’s Pacific southwest, who are braving a violent struggle over their gold-rich lands and War Redefined, the capstone of Women, War & Peace, which through incisive interviews with leading thinkers, Secretaries of State and seasoned survivors of war and peace-making, challenges the conventional wisdom that war and peace are men’s domain.

CHECK your local listings >

WATCH the trailer >

FOLLOW Women, War & Peace on Facebook & Twitter

Join us for a special free conversation and book signing with Eve at Berkeley Rep!

V-DAY AND BERKELEY REP INVITE YOU TO A FREE CONVERSATION WITH EVE ENSLER

Friday Oct 21, 2011

Doors open at 4:30 PM, event starts promptly at 5 PM

Roda Theatre, 2015 Addison St in downtown Berkeley, CA

RSVP at 510-647-2949 or http://eveatberkeleyrep.eventbrite.com/

V-Day and Berkeley Repertory Theatre are thrilled to invite you to a free event – including a special announcement – from Eve Ensler, the Tony Award-winning playwright, performer, and activist. Be the first to hear about Eve’s next big project in the United States!

Eve Ensler is the author of The Vagina Monologues, which has been translated into 48 languages and performed in over 140 countries, including sold-out runs off Broadway and on London’s West End. Her experience performing that show inspired her to create V-Day, a global movement to stop violence against women and girls. Her other work includes plays such as The Good Body, the memoir Insecure at Last, and the novel I Am an Emotional Creature: The Secret Life of Girls Around the World, which became a New York Times bestseller in 2010.

Eve will sign copies of I Am an Emotional Creature for audience members after revealing her latest efforts to empower women and girls around the world.

Join us!

Kenya V-Day Video

In August 2009, V-Day staff and Board members visited the Narok Tasaru Ntomonok and Sakutiek safe houses in Kenya. Run by V-Day Kenya Director Agnes Pareyio, both provide shelter, education and alternative rights of passage ceremonies to girls fleeing Female Genital Mutliation (FGM). During the visit with Agnes and her staff, our team witnessed an incredible reconciliation between a rescued girl and her family, and also had the opportunity to meet with community stakeholders who attested to the community-wide positive impact that the safe houses have, as well as to the economic incentive that many families have for cutting their girls. Agnes’ sensitization work with parents and village elders has helped families to see that educating a girl will have far greater economic benefit for the family than cutting her so that she can be married off for a bride price.

“Being part of the V-Day movement, has allowed me to expand my work to end FGM and early marriage and to reach more girls and their communities than I could have imagined,” stated Pareyio. “Knowing that we in Kenya are connected to thousands of V-Day activists around the world inspires us to continue the work we do.”

READ: A Day in the Life of Agnes Pareyio by Kim Rosen

http://kimrosen.net/2011/08/12/a-day-in-the-life-of-agnes-pareyio/

A Day in the Life of Agnes Pareyio
~ July, 2011 ~

It’s 7:30 am at the V-Day Safe House in Narok, Kenya, and the morning symphony has begun. I am awakened by the sound of Mama Helen singing as she returns from the farm down the street with a large jug of fresh milk, which hangs on her back in a piece of colorful fabric tied across her forehead. Mama Helen is the matron of the center, and cares for the 50 or so girls who live there. Outside my door a girl hums Swahili gospel as she sweeps the walkway, bending low to make the most of the three-foot long bundle of reeds that is her broom. Other girls call to one another across the lawn as they amble between the dormitory and the dining hall, brushing their teeth in the sun, or carrying plastic tubs of water for bathing.

The V-Day Safe House, also called the Tasaru Ntonomok Rescue Center, was opened byEve Ensler and her organization, V-Day, in collaboration with Agnes Pareyio, a Maasai woman, who dedicates her life to putting an end to female genital mutilation (FGM) and early childhood marriage (ECM).

Eve met Agnes in 2000, when she was traveling the Rift Valley on foot from village to village, carrying a plastic model of a woman’s pelvis, which she used to educate her tribe about the dangers of FGM. To learn about their meeting and the profound impact each had on the other’s life and work, read “Waiting for Mr. Alligator” in Eve’s memoir, Insecure at Last. Here’s an excerpt:

I asked Agnes what V-Day could do for her, how we could support her. She said, “Eve, if V-Day buys me a jeep, I could get around a lot faster.” We bought her a jeep. The first year she had it, she was able to reach 4500 girls. So I asked what else V-Day could do for her. She said, “Eve, if you gave me money, I could build a house for girls so that when they were about to be cut they could run away to the house and save their clitoris and go to school.” So we gave her money to build a house.

In 2002, the first V-Day Safe House was opened in Narok, Kenya. In 2007, with support from V-Day and a group of V-Day activists, Agnes began construction on a second safe house at Sakutiek, a remote district about 45 kilometers north of Narok and the village where Agnes grew up. 50 or so girls live at each Safe House at any given time. In the three years since my last visit, there are many new faces.

As soon as I open my door, Mama Helen and 5 or 6 girls pour into the little guest room where I’m staying, bringing me milky tea and a basin of warm water for bathing. I see that they’ve already traded the gifts of jewelry and clothes I gave them when I arrived last night. Ann is wearing the sandals I gave Salula, and Brenda is sporting several bracelets that other girls had chosen. I notice that Dameris is wearing the wooden frog pendant that Brenda had on last night. Ownership among these girls does not exist as we know it, and one can watch a favorite outfit or accessory make its way around the community, appearing on a different person every day.

At 10 am, Agnes arrives to welcome me. As her “V-Day Jeep” pulls through the red metal gate of the center, the cacophony of giggles, shouts and gospel music, an almost constant soundtrack at the Safe House, quiets to a subdued hum. Agnes emerges from the vehicle and several girls run to her, bowing so she can touch the top of each head in the traditional Maasai greeting of an elder to a child. She asks them how they are doing in their studies and invariably tells them to work harder.

Though her relationship with them seems formal, I am beginning to sense how deeply these girls hold her as their mother. The night I arrived, Salula sat with me in the corner of the deserted dining hall and told me about her first weeks at the safe house in 2006. I had connected with Salula on my earlier visits and we have maintained a strong bond through the years. I knew the basics of her story: that Agnes and her team had rescued her two months before her 9th birthday in the midst of a forced wedding to a 42 year old man. But I’d never heard the details.

Unlike many of the girls who consciously chose to flee to the Safe House, Salula had no idea what was happening when a woman she had never seen before, flanked by a team of policemen, arrived at the wedding. Little Salula, dressed in ceremonial clothes and layers and layers of beaded jewelry, was guided into the waiting jeep and whisked away.

“When I first arrived at the Safe House, Agnes told Ann (an older girl) to stay with me and be my teacher and sister. But I disturbed her very much at night. I would sleep for only two hours then I would cry for the rest of the night, missing my mother. When Ann heard me crying, she would start crying too. Soon I was disturbing all the girls. So Agnes brought me to live with her in her house and took care of me until I got better. She became my mother. She is mother to all of us.”

I met Salula about a year after her rescue, when, at 9 years old, she was still the youngest at the Safe House. Now, though she’s only 13, she’s a true leader for the other girls, and her joy is contagious, especially when she leads the line dancing that erupts spontaneously almost every evening.

This morning, Agnes has many tasks at the Safe House. She’s already picked up sugar, maize and laundry detergent for the girls, as well as supplies—shoe polish, soap, toothpaste, sanitary pads, etc.—for four students who are about to depart for what they call “tuition,” an additional period of intensive residential study that takes place during school vacation time. Many Kenyan children spend a lot more time in school that those in the states. Often they have classes on weekends and most of the older students go to at least a week of “tuition” during each of their three month-long holidays.

As Agnes checks in with Mama Helen about a girl who has had a bad cough for several days, Grace, dressed in her school uniform and surrounded by a group of somber friends, shyly approaches. I instantly recognized her, as I had interviewed her four years earlier on my first visit to the Safe House. We had formed a tender connection as she told me how she fled her family and village in the dark and walked for several days to get to the Safe House, spending the nights under bushes for fear of the hyenas she could hear cackling nearby.

Now she is fighting back tears. Her mother has just died, leaving her an orphan. She must travel to her village for the funeral, but this is not simple for a rescued girl. She could easily be captured by those who would force her to submit to the tribal traditions she fled. Agnes and Mama Helen telephone an older sister who is sympathetic to the mission of the Safe House. Once they are satisfied that Grace will have protection, they arrange transport for the journey.

Firmly turning off her iPhone (which rings constantly), Agnes takes me by the hand and pulls me into the guest room, shutting the door behind us. “Now, I want to welcome you. How are you? Do you have everything you need here?”

I’m stunned that Agnes can find time to sit and talk with me, given her busy schedule. I can only imagine how full her life is – especially now that she’s campaigning to be the first woman representative to the Kenya Parliament from Narok County. I also know that, besides running two Safe Houses, she’s an elected Counselor to the local government and serves as Deputy Mayor [is that accurate?] of the town. As we sit in the guest room and catch up, she tells me that she’s also building a Primary Boarding School for Girls, which has been one of her dreams for many years.

I ask her how she manages to do all this and maintain the serenity that seems to emanate from her. “I felt a little stress last year when I was in school getting my diploma in Leadership and Project Management. My teachers put pressure on me because they could see that I was a good student.”

I can hardly believe my ears. “You were in school on top of all this?”

“Yes, distance learning. My professors lectured to me on the phone as I drove from meeting to meeting. They want me to go on and get an advanced degree, but with the campaign it is difficult right now.”

She stands up, her many beaded necklaces rattling as she moves. “I want you to come with me today into the field. We’ll spend the night away, so pack what you need. Take warm clothes.” I have no idea what she means, but grab my toothbrush, sweatshirt and a few protein bars and head for the waiting SUV.

It turns out that “into the field” means that I am joining Agnes on the campaign trail. Today is Saturday, and there are two rallies where she will be the guest of honor. Over the next few days I become familiar with the pre-rally protocol of bumping along the rough road from the Safe House into town, filling the vehicle with Agnes’ friends and supporters – women and men in traditional Maasai dress – and heading out, the car bucking and thrusting like a wild horse over dusty roads riddled with potholes as big as craters.

Today, my first day joining the campaign, it is all new. I mistakenly assume the state of the road is due to the fact that we must be heading for a particularly rural area, as we are bumping along for miles without seeing another car. But suddenly, rounding a bend, there are hundreds of people in the road – women in colorful shukas (bright cotton material that they tie around their shoulders), layers of beaded necklaces, collars, bracelets, and earrings hung both from the bottom and tops of their ears; and men in red Maasai blankets tied over one shoulder and wielding beaded or polished wood sticks, called rungus. They are running to greet the car, chanting “Counselor! Counselor!” to Agnes, and singing songs in Maa (the language of the Maasai) that celebrate her achievements.

“Get out,” says Agnes, the first English words I’ve heard in the buzz of Maa and Swahili that has filled the crowded car since we left town. We all climb out and join the cheering crowd marching up the road. Joseph, Agnes’ driver, slowly follows behind us in the car.

When we get to the crest of the hill, I’m stunned to see several hundred people gathered in makeshift bandstands, all cheering. I notice that there are no cars except ours, and realize that all these people must have walked, some great distances, to get there.

A flock of women, many wearing matching shukas, surround us. Hands are extended with the Maasai greeting, “Sopa!” to Agnes and the rest of the campaign party, and, to me, “Howareyoufine!” running the English together as if it were one Maasai word. As the crowd of women clears I see an almost endless line of men in western clothes, their hands extended.

“I want the people to see me, to shake my hand, to know who I am and what I stand for,” Agnes had told me earlier. “I want them to feel a personal connection. They need to know that I want to hear their questions and concerns. It is time for the government to stop being far away and disconnected. They need to know I come from their world, their village, their neighborhood, and that I will hear them and carry their needs to Parliament. So I go out to meet the people face to face every chance I get.”

When hundreds of hands have been shaken, and “Sopa!” or “Howareyoufine!” exchanged with all, we are guided toward the house of the man sponsoring the rally. A woman pours warm water over our hands to wash them. 25 people crowd into the one room, which is about 15’ by 15’. Often, the women who came with Agnes are the only females in the room. The animated conversation is interrupted by the arrival of plates heaped with steaming food: ugali, mashed potatoes, jhapati, and meat – goat or cow, I cannot tell which. Most people eat with their hands, but I notice they’ve given me a fork, a concession to the only Mzungu (white person) in the room. Next come several huge basins of meat on bones or in strips, a second course, or perhaps a dessert. Given that I haven’t eaten red meat since the last Kenyan goat I reluctantly tasted three years earlier, I try to politely avoid this delicacy. But Agnes notices that I am not partaking, pulls off a piece of hers and cuts it up into tiny bits for me, since my teeth are not used to tearing and grinding the tough meat.

When the basins are empty, soda is distributed to all and we are taken outside where the crowd has been waiting. I am led to a seat next to Agnes in the front row on a stage area, where all the guests of honor sit, facing the audience.

The rally begins with the minister offering a prayer in Maa. Then, from a distance, the sound of singing heralds the approach of a group of women in matching shukas. Agnes whispers to me that their song is about her, about the ways she has helped the community—raising money for water tanks, getting government support for the betterment of their schools, and, of course, saving and educating the girls. This group is followed by three more, each offering two or three dances and songs. Agnes leans over to speak into my ear, “Look how young some of them are! Yet they all are married.” Several of the dancers look like they could be no more than 14 years old.

After these colorful offerings, a series of perhaps 10 or 15 men stand and speak to the crowd. I cannot understand what they are saying, but each seems to be passionately expounding on some theme, which, I assume, is in support of Agnes’ candidacy.

At this point we’ve been at the rally for about 3 hours. Finally the last speaker sits down and all eyes shift to Agnes. Yet even now she does not speak. She motions for those of us who came in her entourage to stand and say something to the crowd. When it is my turn, I greet the crowd. “Sopa!” I exclaim to the women who are sitting on the ground to the left. “Sopa!” they respond, laughing, probably at my strange accent. Then I greet the men, who are seated and standing in the bandstand to the right. I tell them I’ve come from the other side of the planet to let them know that Agnes is not only changing the lives of girls in Maasailand, their families, and communities. She is changing the lives of girls and women around the world with her work. “I would go any distance to support her leadership,” I say. “And I hope you will to.” There are shouts of solidarity. Hands reach out to shake mine.

Finally it is time for Agnes to speak. As soon as she opens her mouth, the audience, which was looking a bit gray and sleepy in spite of the vibrant colors of their dress and jewelry, is electrified. They cheer and shout back to her. They applaud whenever she pauses. The men shake their rungus in the air and the women elbow each other whispering animatedly.

Over the next few days, I will see this happen again and again. In most gatherings the format is the same: the meal while the crowd waits outside, the dances and songs by the women to celebrate Agnes, then many speeches, mostly by the male leaders of the community. These formalities can last several hours, and by the time Agnes stands to speak the eyes of many have grown dull and tired. But as soon as she lifts her voice, everyone in the room, including most of the children, are riveted.

In the car, as we leave this first rally, I asked Agnes what she said that so ignited the crowd. “I told them that my opponent is using the work that I do at the Safe House to fight me. She is saying, ‘There is a woman running for Parliament who is spoiling your culture. She is denying your girls the ceremony of the cutting to become women.’ I say to the people, ‘I am that woman! But I am not ruining the culture, I am helping us to catch up to the rest of the world. It’s true, I do stand for an end to FGM and early marriage. But a girl does not need to be cut to be a woman, she needs education so she can make her own choices. Educating girls will bring benefit to all of us. When a girl graduates and gets a job and brings leadership and financial support back to her family, she changes not only her own life, but the life of her village and the culture as a whole.” Agnes tells people that her opponents are educated women who have not been cut themselves, yet they are advocating that girls should continue to undergo this violence.

As we lurch over the road to the next rally, Agnes goes on: “When I go to these meetings I try to introduce myself by telling them who I am, where I’m coming from, and where I want to go. I tell them I’ve been a counselor in the area for a long time and I’ve tried to help the people with the funds that I get. There’s a big difference between my ward and the other wards. I have friends who have helped me to drill wells for villages, yet in other wards there is no water. V-Day has helped me to build two Safe Houses, and now there are about 50 girls in each, all going to school for free. In other wards there is nothing like this. V-Day gave money so I could build a dam so there is water for the cows. I’ve started a market where women can sell what they grow and make some small income. I feel, if elected, I will make even more of a difference in some of the issues confronting my people.”

After the second rally is over, on the way back to Narok, we drive past field after field of drooping, dried out stalks. “So much of the crop has failed this year, the people are starving, ”Agnes says to me. All along the road are people who have walked with their donkeys for miles to find a place where they can buy maize for their families. We stop at the hut of a farmer and Agnes negotiates for several bags of the precious food.

It is already dark when we drop off Joseph, the driver, and Agnes takes the wheel. She turns off the road into what looks like a vast, pathless black space. “I do not know if I can find the way in the dark,” she says, as the jeep shutters across the dusty field. I can see no sign of a road. The darkness closes around us. Paths appear among the low bushes, but whether they are roads or the tracks of the Thompson’s Gazelles whose amber eyes glint all around us, I do not know.

Driving through this territory is so athletic, I can hardly believe Agnes is doing it after giving speeches at two four-hour rallies. Finally, out of the darkness there appears a small mud and stick house, a traditional Maasai manyatta. “Ah!” she sighs. “We found it.” In the headlights I can barely make out a pen full of sheep and goats, and several structures. A man in a shuka emerges from the dark to greet us.

This is Agnes’ herd. “It is much better than having money in the bank,” she explains. “Because sheep and goats give birth twice a year. So the herd multiplies very quickly, and each is worth at least 4,000 shillings. When you get sick and you need money for the hospital, you just sell some of them. Also, people respect you if you have a big herd. It gives me credibility in the campaign.”

We duck through the low doorway into the little hut. “This is my place of rest,” Agnes says. “I come here with friends to relax.” Nonetheless, she begins bustling about the small space, pulling out cooking utensils, finding sheets for the two single beds, building a coal fire, dousing the mud floor with water to keep down the dust, scrubbing the pots she will use to cook ugali and cabbage for dinner.

Agnes and Narikuni, a friend who has accompanied us, make dinner as I sit on a three legged stool and watch, hardly able to believe where I am. The wind whistles outside, but the fire keeps us warm. Agnes turns on the battery operated radio and a Swahili talk show overflows into the night.

In the morning, Narikuni cooks pancakes over the coal fire. Out of nowhere women start to arrive. Four women in beads and shukas appear out of nowhere and crowd into the dark hut. As they duck through the door, I can see that the sun is shining outside. But inside there are only splinters of light from the two small ventilation holes in the mud walls. Within 10 minutes, three more women arrive, one with a baby strapped to her back. All are fascinated by my camera and crowd around to see themselves in the photos I’m taking. I wonder if these women have any mirrors, or if this is a rare moment of reflection.

“Where did they come from?” I ask Agnes when we step outside. “How did they know you were here?” Agnes gestures to what seem like endless fields of dust and scrubby bushes. In the distance I can barely make out several round manyattas. “They saw my car. They want to talk to me about the campaign. And they know there will be food and tea when I am here.”

Agnes has brought supplies: salt and antibiotics for the herd, and the bags of Maize she bought yesterday for the two men who take care of the animals. This will be their food until Agnes arrives again, in a month or two. They have no car and there is no village within walking distance.

On the way back to town, we stop at the building site for the new “Tasaru PrimaryBoarding School for Girls.” Three dorms, which will house 60 girls each, a huge dining room/recreation all and kitchen, a

classroom building and several smaller constructions including apartments for teachers and the matron of the school. The site is abuzz with builders. A concrete mixer spins in the field by the classroom building. The head builder emerges to greet us.

Agnes is not satisfied with the progress of the work. She confronts the builder, reminding him that the school is to open in just over 3 months, asking him how he plans to be ready. Though she speaks English to him, his answer is in Swahili. Whatever he says seems to satisfy Agnes for the moment.

“Are you in charge of all this too? Did you design it? ” I ask, incredulous.

“I designed this. This school has been my dream for some time and finally it is happening. There will be 6 classes of 30 girls each. 20 of the girls will be paying students and 10 will be rescued girls who will go to school for free. So eventually all the girls from the Safe House who need to go to Primary School (Grades 1 – 6, in American terms) will go to school here free of charge.”

While the school is the last stop for me before being dropped back at the Safe House, Agnes’ day will continue to two different gatherings where she will be the featured speaker. I am relieved to stumble out of the jeep, exhausted, to join some of the girls on the lawn in the afternoon sun as they do beadwork, study or braid each other’s hair. There is a sweet quietude here at the Safe House, though the air is full of laughter, talk and even the pulse of gospel cds from the kitchen. Yet the peace that comes from a community of girls who know they are safe is palpable. We wave goodbye as Agnes’ jeep lurches back into the world on the other side of the Safe House gate.

A Look at V-Day’s Empowering and Exciting Work in Kenya to End FGM and Early Childhood Marriage

Across the globe, in some of the most underserved areas, V-Day partners with local activists to transform the lives of girls and women at risk of violence through safe houses – community centers where survivors can develop their innate leadership, be safe, heal, and learn. Since 2001, V-Day has worked with V-Day Kenya Director Agnes Pareyio to establish, build and operate V-Day safe houses in Narok (V-Day Tasaru Ntomonok Rescue Center) and Sakutiek, providing shelter, education, and alternative rite of passage ceremonies to over 100 girls annually who are fleeing FGM.

We invite you to WATCH and READ to learn more about V-Day’s work in Kenya, JOIN US!

WATCH: Take A Peak Inside V-Day’s Work in Kenya

In August 2009, V-Day staff and Board members visited the Narok Tasaru Ntomonok and Sakutiek safe houses in Kenya. During the visit with Agnes and her staff, our team witnessed an incredible reconciliation between a rescued girl and her family, and also had the opportunity to meet with community stakeholders who attested to the community-wide positive impact that the safe houses have, as well as to the economic incentive that many families have for cutting their girls. Agnes’ sensitization work with parents and village elders has helped families to see that educating a girl will have far greater economic benefit for the family than cutting her so that she can be married off for a bride price.

WATCH here >

READ: A Day in the Life of Agnes Pareyio by Kim Rosen

V-Day Activist and poet and author Kim Rosen recounts a day in the life of V-Day Kenya Director Agnes Pareyio:

It’s 7:30 am at the V-Day Safe House in Narok, Kenya, and the morning symphony has begun. I am awakened by the sound of Mama Helen singing as she returns from the farm down the street with a large jug of fresh milk, which hangs on her back in a piece of colorful fabric tied across her forehead. Mama Helen is the matron of the center, and cares for the 50 or so girls who live there. Outside my door a girl hums Swahili gospel as she sweeps the walkway, bending low to make the most of the three-foot long bundle of reeds that is her broom. Other girls call to one another across the lawn as they amble between the dormitory and the dining hall, brushing their teeth in the sun, or carrying plastic tubs of water for bathing.

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Ambiguous UpSparkles From the Heart of the Park (Mic Check/Occupy Wall Street)

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/eve-ensler/ambiguous-upsparkles-from_b_100…

I have been watching and listening to all kinds of views and takes on Occupy Wall Street. Some say it’s backed by the Democratic Party. Some say it’s the emergence of a third party. Some say the protesters have no goals, no demands, no stated call. Some say it’s too broad, taking on too much. Some say it is the Left’s version of the Tea Party. Some say its Communist, some say it’s class warfare. Some say it will burn out and add up to nothing. Some say it’s just a bunch of crazy hippies who may get violent.

I have been spending time down at Zucotti Park and I am here to offer a much more terrifying view. What is happening cannot be defined. It is happening. It is a happening. It is a response to injustice and inequity and poverty and Wall Street corruption and soaring college debt and unemployment and homelessness, institutionalized racism and violence against women, the murdering of the earth, fracking and the keystone pipeline and the wars that the U.S. has waged on other countries that have destroyed them and bankrupted us here.

It is a cry against what appears to be scarcity and what Naomi Klein calls a distribution problem and, I would add, a priority problem. It is a spontaneous uprising that has been building for years in our collective unconscious. It is a gorgeous, mischievous moment that has arrived and is spreading. It is a speaking out, coming out, dancing out. It is an experiment and a disruption.

We all know things are terribly wrong in this country. From the death of our rivers, to the bankruptcy of our schools to our failed health care system, something at the center does not hold.

A diverse group of teachers, thinkers, students, techies, workers, nurses, have stopped their daily lives. They have come to gather and reflect and march and lay their bodies down. They have come from all over the country and the world. Some have flown in just to be here. I met students last night from a college in Kentucky who had just arrived committed to sleeping out for two nights in solidarity.

Occupy Wall Street is a work of art, exploding onto a canvas in search of form, in search of an image, a vision.

In a culture obsessed with product, the process of creation is almost unbearable. Nothing is more threatening than the moment, the living breathing ambiguity of now. We have been trained to name things, own things, brand things and in doing so control and consume them. Well, the genius of Occupy Wall Street is that so far it is not brandable and that’s what makes its potential so daunting, so far reaching, so inclusive, and so dangerous. It cannot be defined and so it cannot be sold, as a sound bite or a political party or even a thing. It can’t be summed up and dismissed.

What is also most unusual about Occupy Wall Street is that the evolving self-governing practices at the twice-daily General Assembly and the organic way the park is being organized, are literally modeling a vision of the desired new world. A rotating group of facilitators, a constant check to make sure all voices are heard, timekeepers, free medicine and medical help, composting, learning groups, a free library, learning circles, workshops on human rights, arts and culture, history, extraordinary speakers at open forums.

I had the fortune to spend the night with a group of about 30 occupiers — the talk could have gone on through the early morning. The depth of the conversation, the intensity of the seeking, the complexity of ideas were startling. But, what moved me even more was the respect, the way people listened to each other and honored and appreciated each other.

I would like to encourage another take on Occupy Wall Street. I would like to ask that perhaps we stop trying to define it or own it or discount it or belittle it but instead to celebrate it. It should make New York proud. It should make this country proud.

We say all the time how we believe in democracy, that we want the people to speak and be heard. Well, the people are speaking. The people are experimenting. The people are crying out with the deepest hunger to build a better world. Maybe instead of labeling it, we could join it. There is so much to be done.

Because the city has forbidden the use of microphones and sound systems, the group is using a human microphone. This system of communication is compelling and metaphoric. The group is forced to repeat the words of the speaker so the speaker is forced to talk slowly, with less words at once. The audience is asked to listen in a whole new way and to actually help transmit the message to others. Accuracy and transparency are the crucial elements. To make sure the human microphone is working properly the speaker calls out Mike Check and the crowd repeats Mike Check and by doing this it becomes clear if the voice of the speaker is being carried through the entire crowd. I think our media needs a general Mike Check. So last night I committed to creating a column that would carry the stories of the occupiers at the heart of the park.

There are certain hand signals that are used in the group to signify response. My favorite is the signal for agreement, or something you like a lot .

People lift their hands and wiggle their fingers. This has come to be called Upsparkles.

I have seen the people at Occupy Wall Street be demonized in the press and belittled and misrepresented and ridiculed. I want you to get a taste of the diversity and commitment, too. The magnificent Indian feminist who outlined the history of corporations and colonialism in three precise sentences or the buff white man who I assumed was a long-time activist the way he spoke for the need for distribution of wealth and freedom and only later did he confess to me privately that he worked on Wall Street, and although he felt guilty, he was working to change it within. Or the Latino man who said it was the first time he ever experienced really looking at anyone in the eyes and them looking back at him and he had not paid attention to his next door neighbors brother who he had written off as a thug and he ended up going to Iraq and getting killed there and now he knew there was so much more to that boy if he had only been looking. Or the older Jewish woman who told me she was there when they shut down NYU during Kent State and she had waited all these years for this to happen and it was her legacy. There was talk of poverty and war and but the most repeated theme or desire was connection, how we are all connected, to dissolve the illusions that divide us.

So here is the first offering of Ambiguous Upsparkles from the Heart of the Park. Here are the words of the brave creative resistor occupiers in the act of art or the art of act:

Melanie Butler

Every day of the first week of the encampment at Liberty Plaza was filled with the excitement that this was really happening; every day in the space was lived with the feeling that it could be our last. The Occupy Wall Street community survived many tests that first week — torrential downpours, dwindling numbers, people dropping out due to illness and fatigue, and of course, constant police violence and brutality. As #occupywallstreet tweeted: Building community at #OccupyWallStreet is hard, esp. when facing constant eviction threats. Now we know how so many Americans feel.

On the one-week anniversary of Liberty Plaza I watched the heart of our community galvanize before me. After the police attacked and pepper-sprayed protesters at Union Square and followed us down to our home in the park, we all prepared for a showdown. Paddy-wagons lined the streets. Masses of police officers lined the perimeter of the park, hands poised on guns, orange nets, and reams of zip-ties, while hundreds more assembled at the ready on the adjacent blocks. We gathered for a General Assembly (GA), as we do every evening, in a unified, determined group under an intense cloud of imminent danger, and asserted that we were not afraid. We developed contingency plans for when the police swept the square. People lined the park with small candles, creating a buffer-zone between the police and our central organ, the GA. Drums and brass instruments played. Messages on the projector screen read “Love is the New Fear.” “Feeling good.” “We shall not be moved.” “In it for the long haul.”

Older members of CODEPINK and the local activist community checked in or came by to see what was happening — asking, but not telling, what we were going to do. “We’re staying,” I told them. Some lingered on the outskirts like guardian angels, patiently, silently watching. “We’ve got your back.” The Occupy Wall Street bike bloc slowly circled the square in solidarity. “We are watching. We are with you.” I attached a hot pink “Make Solidarity Not War” sign to my back — added armor to go with the “Make Bikes Not War” signs adorning my bike — and joined them to burn off nervous energy. Putting on a brave face, I told the bloc how a cashier at a nearby cafe refused to let me pay for my sandwich earlier that day when she found out I was part of the demonstration. Other cyclists chimed in with similar stories. One guy struck up a conversation about what we were doing while in line for the bathroom at McDonald’s and when he came out, the stranger he had been speaking with gave him a burger and fries. As the night progressed, something incredible happened. The police started to pack up and leave. The bike bloc continued to circle until we were sure our home was safe, and then did a final victory lap, bells ringing, lights flashing, flags waving. The community had survived and we had won.

Daniel Levine

My name is Daniel and I have a story from the heart. Today I was riding the F train home to Brooklyn and a man came through, asking for spare change and any help. He said he was a veteran who would seek shelter at the Montrosse VA.

I’ve been coming to Occupy Wall Street every day since Wednesday when we had the huge march in solidarity with the unions. I’m pretty poor right now and basically waiting on a student loan check to be able to pay my bills and expenses. When I’m in Zucotti I usually eat some of the amazing food that’s been donated by people from all over the world! So I thought I should tell this man about what was available. But I hesitated. I didn’t want to encourage anyone to come just to take advantage of the resources in Zucotti that are feeding the protesters, many of whom have been working tirelessly, or have come from as far as Colorado (and everywhere!)

I don’t know where that moment of doubt came from, but the moment of clarity that shattered it was invigorating. “You should come to Zucotti Park!” I said.

I spoke to him about it for a minute. He’d read about Occupy Wall Street in the daily papers, but didn’t know about how things really went down there.

Growing up in New York City, on some level we train ourselves to be desensitized to homelessness, to separate ourselves from it. But the division is false. I realized we were both 99 percenters.

“Wow, thanks for the info!” he said. I have a feeling he’ll get there and be as inspired as I’ve been at what’s happening at the park. Maybe he’ll pick up a sign or people with a similar cause to get involved in. Whatever attracts people, the intellectual environment, their anger at the system, the friendly festival atmosphere, or even the free food, I think people will stay because what’s happening here is meaningful and real. And if America can’t feed its hungry, at least we can!

Some people say we lack a coherent message, but I think Zucotti park is about inclusiveness, seriousness, and the right to come together for positive change. i guess that’s just coherent enough for me!

Jordan Dann

After returning from Israel on a project a few weeks ago, I checked my Facebook feed upon landing at Newark International. With embarrassment I will admit that that is where the majority of my news comes from these days, I believe that the friends I trust will post stories and news that I should take note of.

I had a friend visiting from out of town and, after we deposited our luggage, I suggested that we take a run across the Brooklyn Bridge and down to Zuccotti Park to see for ourselves what exactly was taking place. Upon arriving I encountered a group of kids holding signs, and a handful of people occupying the park, and I quickly dismissed it as temporary. However, the sight of this group stayed with me. I found myself thinking about them for days and wondering why they were there. I found myself wondering if they knew why there were there. Most of all I found myself wondering what I would be standing for if I returned.

I didn’t return for two weeks. I have a busy and glorious full life. I am graced with a bounty of creative projects, work opportunities, and friendships that keep me feeling busy and full. I don’t have space or time for a cause. I don’t have energy to participate in a movement. How would my voice help?

A few days later I mentioned the movement to my best friend David and his response was, “Whatever. It won’t last” and, despite my disappointment about his response, on some level my own was confirmed, but then, a few days later, he texted me: “I’m sorry I was pessimistic about what is happening here. It’s something.”

I still didn’t return. I’m busy. How can my voice count?

Last Thursday, as I finished class, I received another text from David, “I’m here with your Dad at the park. Come.”

When I arrived I was given a tour of the plaza by David. He pointed out the Information Booth, the “People’s Library”, the Media Center, the kitchen, the “Sacred Tree”, the sign making station, and on, and on. Then he grabbed my hand whisked me away to an impromptu dance party at Rector Street where a bike with amplification blasted Le Tigre’s song “New Kicks” as a beautiful group of people gyrated and grooved to the chorus of people chanting, “this is what democracy looks like” and sound bytes of Amy Goodman saying, “It isn’t enough to talk about peace, one must believe in it. It isn’t enough to believe in it, one must work at it. And we here today are working at it.”

Garbage trucks stopped and lined up on the streets, honking their horns and pumping their fists in the air. Cab drivers got out and shouted “Occupy Wall Street.” Random passersby moved through the crowd of dancers and allowed themselves to be turned and spun by the dancers, shrugging to their friends saying “Why, not?” and “Come on. This is fun.”

I am aware of the myths that I have unconsciously swallowed during my lifetime: that money is the most important thing to strive for and accumulate; that we are supposed to participate in the institution of marriage and be monogamous and procreate; that we are supposed to own real estate and go to Bed Bath & Beyond, and Ikea to purchase things to make a home so that we can invite friends into our space to show off what we have bought; and that we are supposed to dress in the latest fashion and be able to quote lines from popular television.

Is this what makes a life?

Despite my participation and acceptance of these myths this is not my American Dream. This is not my Human Dream. I want a life that is based on my ability to authentically connect with other human beings and to offer goodness and health to the earth. I want to be a part of a world where people see one another, attune to one another, make space for ambiguity, and wait in silence for someone to find his or her words to articulate their individual and unique experience of life.

I saw a lot of chaos at Zuccotti Park. I saw a lot of tarps and vagrants, and at many moments I felt like I was wondering around a sketchy Phish show lot, but beyond that I saw people connecting. People taking care of each other. People loving each other. People listening to each other and people talking to each other.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay awake wondering what a new world would look like. I had a restless night wondering what kind of world the other people occupying Zucotti Park wanted to create and what it would mean if my voice could be heard and I had the agency and power to shape a new world that I feel proud to be a part of.

Wendelin Regalado

I am poor. I learned this a few years ago when I left my block in Jersey City for college to pursue what my immigrant mother is still convinced (but less so nowadays, after having been unceremoniously fired from her job of 11 years) is the “American Dream”. There I also learned what it takes not to be poor and even if I were ever given the opportunity (there are quotas to fill everywhere) I would not take it. I will always be poor because I will never enrich myself at the expense of my people. Exploitation is the only way capital can be accumulated. There is something dehumanizing about this condition so that your soul screams an everlasting silent scream that only you can hear and can’t do anything about.

So I came out to face this contradiction: the dehumanization of poverty and the exploitation of capitalism. A block away from the park where the second General Assembly was being held, I heard the words “I love you.” The words were as swift as the man who said them, for when I looked back he was already five paces away. But they were as firm as those paces — heavy with determination, purpose, depth. His words permeated the air in Washington Square, and the air on the march, and the air in Zucotti Park. Love was EVERYWHERE!

This is the first in a series from Eve Ensler.

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Read Part 2 >