Anam Cara Conference at the University of Udine

Our first event is a two-day conference at the University of Udine. The conference is titled Anam Cara, and is a blend of themes: poetry, art, and women of peace. This unique mixture of speakers and subjects is unified by the conference’s title: Anam Cara is a Celtic term for a friendship of the soul, pure love that can supercede differences, which is the aim of shamanism. I first heard the term when practicing meditation in women’s circles in my hometown and reading the work of John O’Donahue. I read O’Donahue’s poems at my grandmother (my stepdad’s mom’s) memorial service the week before I came on this trip, so of course everything is in synchronicity.

The room is packed, mostly with women, and there are two rows of students standing in the back; the fire marshal warns that no more will be allowed in. Over 100 people are crammed into the lecture hall in Udine to take part in a two-day conference entitled Anam Cara, an exploration into poetry, the work of the soul, and women’s work for peace around the world. Over two days for sixteen hours, high school and college students listen to speakers and watch films detailing stories ranging from a Sufi healer from Uzbekistan, to a young poet from South Africa who performs her spoken word over John Coltrane’s sax, to a mother who lost her two children in the terrorist attack in Beslan, Chechnya, one year ago, to two American women describing the peace movement and apologizing for the immense failures of our country’s administration, for our inexcusable foreign affairs failures, and the failures of our domestic policy (now global evident in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina).

The two-day conference is an incredible experience—particularly the emphasis on the centrality of art to activism by the weaving of poetry and film throughout the presentations. We stay in the student dorms and eat in the school cafeteria. Every morning we have crusty rolls, cheese, jam, and bowls of coffee. One night I go out with Marco who takes me to the independent movie theater and art gallery, which has a bar with pink lighting!

Traveling to Italy

I boarded the United plane in San Francisco at noon on Monday and touched down in Milan at 1 p.m. Tuesday, with a lay over in London on the way. The airplane travel was rather uneventful with the exception of the following: while I was in line to get my boarding pass in SF, a woman called me on my cell phone and I subletted my room to her (ahh, craigslist); once on the United jet, which was totally booked, I realized that my laptop was completely out of power, so I approached a passenger in the first class to ask to plug it in, which he would have been happy to do, but it turns out you need a power converter, which costs $100 and I of course did not have. However, the man sitting next to this generous man did have the plug. I asked if I could borrow it to charge the laptop, and even offered to pay him, describing my desperation to read articles and type, but he refused, saying he had paid good money for it and would not share it. He wore a Texas-sized cowboy hat and when he spoke he had this condescending tone. Most people in the first class, like usual, were men in suits. I tried to weed out what were my own stereotypes, of the rich and of men, but in the end I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like the way the men in the first class treated me. I get that in this capitalist world if you work hard you can (sometimes) make lots of money and afford to fly first class, but I don’t get why people in the first class are so reluctant to share with people in need. Whenever I have been gifted by the opportunity to sit in first class (free upgrades due to airline problems, etc.), I have smuggled goodies to friends and strangers in the coach stowage area and offered any services I could. There is something about the red carpet mentality, however minor in the grand scheme of things, which I absolutely abhor. Other things that happened in transit:

I ate a hummus sandwich at the London Heathrow airport that was made with all organic vegetables and I had a soy latte—where else would you find such food in an airport?!
I listened to earsful of new iPod music—from punk to manfolk to world beats.

When we touched down in Milan the ground was covered with a fine dust of snow and big fat flakes were zooming by over the airplane wings. In the blur of the landing and as I cleared my eyes of sleep and tried to focus, the flakes of snow looked like tiny white feathers streaming off the metallic white bird’s wings. Molting. Shedding old pasts and stepping into new skin.

In the airport customs is like a drive through—I hardly realize that I have entered into a new country—just a quick “ciao” from the border patrol. For a brief second my mind flashes to the scene at Ciudad Juarez last summer, and the strict and demeaning nature of the US Border Patrol. Nothing like that here. I meet Liz, the American activist who invited me to come on the tour. Liz has short dark hair that shows hints of being dyed red and a nose like mine and a peaceful presence that is full of determination. She lives in Washington state and is a great leader in the counter-recruitment movement. Liz and I walk over to where the rest of the women are sitting. I am the last to arrive (except for one woman’s bag, which has been lost in transit in Paris). The women from Russia, Chechnya, and Uzbekistan don’t speak English and so our conversation is slow.
I have a real café and we wait at the airport for what seems like hours and hours for the Canadian woman’s bag which never comes and in the end we leave for a five-hour drive to Udine, where we will speak at the university tomorrow. What strikes me first about the women I am traveling with is their diverse expressions and stories.