The Story of my parents (Part 1) (7/29/2025)

My father was born in 1922 in Rotterdam; he was the youngest of three brothers. I would need to do some research one of these days to figure out if being the youngest had anything to do with how he turned out. It always seemed to me he was always running away from something; maybe not so by the end of his life; but that is even debatable. He committed suicide in 1984, which is a method of getting away from it all; but that is getting ahead of the story.

My grandfather owned a contracting business. I previously wrote about my family’s background in the construction trade in my blog, and the following is a quote from the post:

Uncle Willem (Wim), dad's brother owned a construction company, and when we moved back to the town of Capelle and den IJssel in 1996 he had developed and built almost ¾ of that town. As I mentioned before my opa (grandfather) owned a construction company, as well. However, my uncle Wim built his company on his own, from scratch. My great-grandfather (my grandfather’s father) was also into construction. He was a very skilled carpenter and his claim to fame was that he supposedly built the Bijenkorf (a large department store) in the center of The Hague (Den Haag). This must have been in the early 1900s.

The one thing he told me about his growing up was the meetings that were held at his home. I think they had maybe clandestine meetings of the Dutch communist party. I am not sure if these meetings were held before or after the second World War. He told me about his memory of the singing of the “International”, the communist anthem. He also mentioned often intently listening to Joaquin Rodrigo’s Concerto de Aranjuez; during or after discussions on the Spanish civil war of the 1930s; the same one Hemingway was in. This concert was published in 1939 and first recorded in 1947. My father played it a lot when I was young, telling me that it brought him back to those (post WWII) meetings; to the time, I guess, when he was 25 and about to marry my mother in 1948. The second movement of the piece may actually be a memorial to the bombing of Guernica in 1937.

My father had one best friend, Piet Doornbos and his parents lived in an upstairs apartment in the house owned by my grandfather. Piet’s father worked for my grandfather and stories abound that my grandfather would frequent the upstairs apartment, especially when Piet’s father was at work. My grandfather had a reputation of sleeping around; and my mother, Piet’s wife and my grandmother (oma) were always privately wondering if my father and Piet were half-brothers, since they were so alike in behavior. But on the other hand, they grew up together, so who knows? They confided their suspicion to me, but I do not think they ever told the two men. I am not even sure if Piet’s kids were ever told of the women’s suspicion.

My grandparents owned a vacation cabin and a daysailer on the Rottemeren, a lake on the river de Rotte, north-northeast of Rotterdam. I have photographs of the family outings to the lake, and my father and brothers (including Piet) as boy scouts sailing on the lake.

Germany invaded the Netherlands on May 10, 1940. My father was barely 18 years old. His brothers were in the Dutch military, and my understanding is that they took part in the Battle of the Grebbeberg. The Germans won that battle and slowly advanced. On May 14 they bombed Rotterdam and demanded unconditional surrender. Right after the bombing, probably on the 14th or 15th the city emptied; people fled the burning city. My father and his parents traveled up the Rotte to their cabin. It is my understanding that during that evacuation or maybe during previous outings, my mother who lived in Terbregge along the river noticed my father and vice versa and a love story developed. My mother was almost 13 years old at the time of the bombing, and she told me that her friends and her were fascinated by these older boisterous boys on the river.

My mother told me that she did not have a happy youth. Her mother was mean; and when I grew up, we all thought grandma looked like a witch. I realize that is not a nice way to think about your grandmother, but later I learned she had acted a little like that as well. When my mother grew up, she would tell her: “I don’t understand why I have three beautiful sons and you an ugly daughter. I am not sure where you came from; maybe the milkman left you here with one of his deliveries.” She also treated her husband like dirt, and he walked (was kicked) out of his home three times for six-month stints, and then he crawled back home. He (Simon van den Ende) was the proprietor of the local butcher shop and when he left home he moved into a boarding house near his store. My mother told us that he was somewhat of a pushover, a softy. Hence, my young mother’s interest in this happy family that had fun on the river.

Opa van den Ende died in 1956. I know that I met him (I have a photograph of me sitting on a potty in front of him); I was 3 at the time. I stayed with oma in Terbregge for 3 months in the summer and early fall of 1959. I briefly attended the first grade in the village and contracted mononucleosis; kissing disease at the ripe old age of 6. I remember the walk from school to the gate in oma’s back yard.

My grandparents on their sailboat on the Rottermeren

My parents.  I am not sure what the date is, if they were dating or married.

My eulogy/autobiography (7/4/2025)

I just turned 72 and am sitting here on pins and needles waiting for the word that my first grandson was born. This will be a thing of the past by the time this writing will be made public, either as part of a memoire and/or a blog post. Why now, can we blame turning 72, my grandson, or my daughter or her wife for this introspection? I don’t know; it is probably a combination of a lot of things.

I am in a men’s group, and we assigned ourselves the project of writing our own eulogy. If that wasn’t enough, during a birthday get together a good friend asked me all kinds of biographical questions, and unbeknown to me he taped the whole conversation. He showed me that he was recording it after my birthday dinner at a Mexican restaurant. This made me feel self-conscious, and together with the fact that I now will have someone to carry on the torch (a grandson), it made me want to record a little more of mine and my family’s history. I have done a bit of this already in some of my blog posts, and I may refer to them when appropriate. I expect that I will publish sections of this writing in my blog, again in the hope that those of my direct family that comes after me will read it and find it interesting, useful and informative.

Where to start? But below is a section of the eulogy that I wrote for myself or maybe for those celebrating my life on this blue marble once I kick the proverbial bucket.

“What the heck is Kalemi? Well actually it is a town in the far eastern part of Congo. During colonial times it was the Belgium Congo, and the town was named Albertville after one of Belgium’s monarchs. I (my name) was born in that town on June ??, 195?. We are gathered here to celebrate the premature passing of Jan-Willem or as many of his friends knew him “Jan the man.” As he often told us that when at a doctor’s office no one got up when a name was called, it meant it was his turn to see the doctor. Everybody seemed to have difficulties pronouncing his name, and then when “Jan” got up they seemed even more confused. Is Jan a guy?”

Did it frustrate me that folks had difficulties with my name, my first and last name? Not at all, I found it amusing. In its own way it showcased the lack of cosmopolitan experience that I have observed in this country. Living in Cincinnati in the late 1990s I was always tickled when during our first meeting folks would ask me which high school I had graduated from. Like the majority in the area, they had never spread their wings, and they could obviously not fathom that there was actual life outside Cincinnati. Even more fun was when they told you about the great vacation they had in Indiana, a state maybe less than 20 miles to the west. Here in the Hampton Roads, where I currently live, it is a little less narrow-minded, since there is a large concentration of military and ex-military that have spent time in foreign countries on military installations or at war.

During the clandestinely recorded interview our friend Mason wanted to know how the heck I ended up being born in a small town situated on Lake Tanganyika (or now Lake Tanzania). Well, my father had a job there as director of a furniture company. That raised even more questions, so here we need to pause and start with the story of my father, which then raised the question of how my father and mother met. As you can imagine, the questions never ended.

I'll stop here.  If there is a next post it will be about my father before 1948.

Me as a 10-month-old on Lake Tanganika in the Congo

My dad and I around the same time.

Mother and son

Roosters Unite (5/26/2024)

People finally moved into the house two doors down from us, and they have a rooster. While our county allows you to have chickens, roosters are not allowed. They also have ducks, which seems to be illegal as well by our county's ordinance. I do not understand the logic behind all these rules, but why question the wisdom of our county's leadership since they clearly exhibit that they have very little. They spend millions on building a new “law enforcement” building or palace, but do not seem to care one bit about education here in York County, Virginia.

I realize now that this is not what I intended to write about in this essay, but it must be said. My wife and I have been following the saga of our local school board. It seems that members were elected to the board under falls pretexts of being apolitical. However, that changed the minute they were elected, and they started to push an ultra conservative agenda which in the long run would hurt our children. One member used to be a substitute teacher in our school system but was fired for incompetence. Now she knows how to run the entire public school system (or take political revenge?).

Let's get back to the subject at hand: the rooster. It crows or cockle-doddle-does incessantly. This reminds me of the rooster we had in Uganda, we called him “Turkey” or "Turk."  I realize that the name exposes my inert cynicism or playfulness, but our rooster was something else. Being in Uganda my wife had no full-time job to do; we were in our mid-twenties and so we amassed a menagerie of animals. We eventually had two dogs, at least seven chickens, our rooster, at least three goats, and an East African crested crane. We also took care or two horses. Later in Nepal we had a load of chickens, our two dogs and a cat we had brought from Utah. The dogs and cat traveled the world with us and after returning to Europe and the U.S.A., they ended up going to Yemen with us for our next assignment. I do not remember having chickens in Yemen. I guess you could say that we scaled down with age.

But more about Turk, our rooster. Turkey ruled the roost. We relented when some locals wanted to sell us a baby crane. We really did not believe in taming local wildlife, but otherwise it might have become a crane stew or a hyena snack. So, we bought it and raised it. Turk was the boss and quickly established a pecking order with our crane who was at least five time larger than our dominant rooster. The crane and the rooster also had fun with our dogs. The crane easily jumped over our German Sheppard when he charged them, and this became a game. Turk would chase the dogs all over the yard.

The funniest thing with the rooster was his love of opera. You need to know that my wife is a huge opera fan and was, even at the ripe old age of 23. We had a stereo with us, with records and Donna would often put on an opera record. Turkey would run in the house, the minute that the music started playing, and he just stood there still, did not move and listened. When the music was over, he would shake and ruffle his feathers like any good rooster would do and walk out. We always had our home wide open and at times, the horses would come in to beg for a banana, or the kid goats would jump all over the furniture. Uganda wasn't that buggy, although we both got malaria and Donna became quite ill. But I hope you can imagine why the crowing of a rooster two houses from here would take me back to a time almost 46 years ago.

Ladies and Cranes, here is Turkey, our rooster from Uganda

One of my favorite pictures of the time, Donna and Buddha our German Shepard pup.

On Ken Burns and Hemingway (4/24/2021)

I watched Ken Burns’ special on Ernest Hemingway. I found it interesting. But boy, being a member of Unitarian community; however, it was a different story. Unitarians are notoriously more liberated, forward thinking, more liberal thinking, feminist folks; and a lot of them saw the documentary as an acknowledgement of a man who was a drinker, womanizer, into bull fighting, and racist. In other words, he was an example of anything that was wrong with a man. However, from what I saw he was a reflection of the time he was living in.

I do not want to defend Hemingway. In fact, I have only read one of his books, his “Old Man and the Sea” which I really enjoyed. I need to read more. I found Mr. Burns' documentary eye opening. A man with his struggles. A man who was in a way tormented by his parents, a thing I can understand. Mine were not the easiest ones. Hemingway was someone who was disciplined or maybe tried to be disciplined, in his writing but had to let loose when he did not write, usually in the afternoon, evenings or when he had writer’s block of some kind.

I did not watch it thinking what a misogynistic guy Hemingway must have been, falling in love with all these younger women that he ran in to. Hell, I think I could as well, if I were someone rich, famous, and decent looking, because I think those are some the prerequisites of being attractive as an older male to younger women. But as an older male, I know, there are some young women who just walk past me to whom I feel an instant attraction. I know it is their odor. Not perfume or cologne, but as I explain to myself: the smell of a woman, of fertility, of ovulation, receptiveness. I wonder if that was the thing that handcuffed Hemingway. I just miss the swagger he must have had, the fame.

No, the documentary grabbed my attention because of a number of other things. As I mentioned before, the rise and the fall of a person. How this outwardly manly man had a feminine, maybe even subordinate side in his relationship with his wife. The development of a writer was spellbinding to me; maybe because I still aspire to become one, hence this blog. But here again, I am likely over the hill and missed the boat; no “Old man and a boat or the sea” for me, I guess. However, I was also fascinated by the places Hemingway visited and lived. This was partially because our lives, my younger one and his, overlapped at times and in certain places.

Let’s start at my beginning. Some of you may know that I was born in Eastern Congo. I have written about it a time or two. You all can search the keyword list, there are two mentions (three with this one). In her book “How Dare the Sun Rise” Sandra Uwiringiyimana describes growing up not far from where I was born, but then takes it on a very intense ride as refuge (I briefly mention it here). When I was one and a half years old, my parents and I traveled back to Holland. We did this by taking the ferry across Lake Tanzania, into Tanzania, and the train to Dodoma, and (I think) on to Arusha. From either Dodoma or Arusha, we had to take a taxi to Nairobi to catch an airplane to the Netherlands. My mother always loved to tell me that when we arrived after dark in Nairobi, no hotel was willing to take us in, and no we did not need to sleep in a stable, but we ended up sleeping that night at the YMCA on army cods. The reason was we drove that day, afternoon and evening through an area that was in the hands or infested by the Mau Mau. The Mau Mau were the freedom fighters against the British colonial rule, and at the time they were known to be as one of the most ruthless group of guerillas known to mankind. No one understood how we had come through the area in one piece, especially at night! We (my parents) were basically suspected of being Mau Mau sympathizers. Now from Ken Burns I learned that at the time of our crossing (1954/55) there was a famous American author in the area: Ernest Hemingway! He actually married a local young tribal woman, while was wife was ill and convalescing in Nairobi.

I was born in Kalemie (previously Albertville) in the Congo.  Dodoma the place we took the train to is on the far right on the map.  

After a brief period in Holland and Belgium, we moved to the Caribbean, where I spent my youth. I lived there 13 years. We did some deep-sea fishing, boating, sailing. I even visited Cuba, probably after Hemingway left. It was in 1959, a few months after Castro had taken over. I visited the far eastern coast, and we went up the tallest mountain of Cuba and we visited Havana. Being only 6 years old, I still remember being cold on top of the mountain (9000+ feet) and that Havana looked almost deserted and eerily empty.

But Mr. Burns’ stories about Havana, the sea, Kenya where I returned in the late 1970s, the tropics in general and the stories about Hemingway were fascinating and brought me back to the stories of my youth. Together with stories of Hemingway’s tormented life, I therefore had no problem looking past the not-so nice parts of his character and forgiving him for his flaws or enjoying the series.

A country for frustrated people (6/16/2020)

Being originally from Europe and immigrated to the US at the ripe old age of 41, at least that is when I officially became a US citizen I have always had a somewhat unique view or opinion of my newly adopted country. This came back to the foreground 26 years later during the recent Black Lives Matter demonstrations, the reactions to them by certain groups and after listening to a radio show on NPR.  Let me explain. 

In the past folks always asked me to contrast the difference in religiosity between Europe and the US.  Not that I am an expert, or ever went to church while living in Europe, but I try to oblige.  It seems to me that here in the US folks are so much more religious than in Holland or in Europe in general.  My superficial take has always been that the religious heretics, fanatics, outcasts, or persecuted, whatever you may call them fled to the US, for the so called freedom of religion.  Good riddance!  Here in the US religion flourished and like it or not this is what we ended up with.  This is why I think we have such a plethora of different religions and splintered off groups and really fanatical groups.  There are all kinds of different denominations and groups; on top of that they came up with a couple of new ones here as well.  Very unlike what I experienced in Europe (I think).

This theory is mostly something I developed in my mind and it makes sense to me.  It has been bolstered by some materials I have read and heard.  I am sure that I am completely wrong, but I like the theory.  To me it is an interesting way of looking at things in these times of racial upheaval, after the George Floyd incident.  It also relates to what is currently happening.  I am very encouraged to see that in the current Black Lives Matter demonstrations there are so many white folks that have joined in; in particular young people.  It shows that racial attitudes are slowly changing (as they should).  In the rest of this essay (or blog post) I would like to explore why I think it took so long.  But I do not think it is unlike what we are seeing with the religiosity above.  

I stood on the sidelines at the 1969 race riots on the small island where I grew up.  I watched them march by our school that day and I can still see it.  They stopped in at the Portuguese owned grocery store across our high school to buy something to drink on their way downtown.  I was 15 at the time, in awe and itching to join; fascinated and curious but scared, so I did not join them.  I don't think any of the students did.  I really did not understand the issues anyway, and when I got home I noticed that my parents were deadly afraid.  We had moved out of the Congo in the mid 1950s, where many colonialists (including friends of my parents) had been killed during the war of independence in the early 1960s (read V.S. Naipaul's A Bend in the River, or Margret Atwood's A Poison Wood Bible.  Both are novels but very well researched on the subject.) 

With this migration of the religious bunch also other persecuted folks came along: the poor, day laborers, the enslaved, indentured servants, sharecroppers, in essence the downtrodden looking for a better existence.  So it should not be surprising that the people who were so used to being discriminated and being used and were now freed, were happy to return the favor or at least did not see anything wrong with slavery, discrimination and the false idea of racial or ethnic superiority.  In other words, they had no problem with their opinion that they were better than than those people with a different skin color or even those that spoke a different language.  They came from a culture in Europe where they had been treated that way, and thus that attitude and thinking was normal; now finally they had the upper hand.  In my opinion this is partially the root to a lot of the racism we see in this country.

While most Europeans realized the mistake of their ways, in particular after what happened under Hitler and other fascist regimes, the folks that immigrated to North America never did, and superiority of the white European race was still being held on to.  It is a terrible thing to let go off and we still see this in the current occupant of the White House, his followers, (or is he blindly following them?), many of the Republicans in congress, the white nationalists, Nazis, and like folks.  

As I mentioned above, I am encouraged to see that the movement appears to be sustainable for right now.  However, we need to make sure that these folks go vote.  We need to get voter registration tables out there at the protests and get everybody registered, because that is the only way to change things.

          

George Floyd or Black Lives Matter (6/1/2020)

I am upset. This country is being torn apart, hijacked by certain people, a noble cause is being drug through the mud, allowing dog whistles to fly.

Let me explain, I am white or Caucasian if you have not figured that one out yet. I was born in the darkest of Africa, the Congo. I often joke that this makes me an African American, although I have a distinct advantage of having a white skin color. I can only imagine what real African Americans go through.  I have actually been subject of reverse discrimination of which I write about here.  I grew up in the Caribbean and had white, brown and black friends. We did not see the difference (and this was in the 1960s). In my adult life, I worked in Africa, the Middle East, Asia, and on a Native American Reservation. Again, it acknowledged to me that we are all the same. We all put on our pants in the morning, one leg at a time. Currently, in front of our home we have a sign that reads “Black Lives Matter.” 

The sign in our front yard.  We got this at our church and we proudly show this in our front yard.  We get people stopping by, who tell us how much they like it.

I have not been blogging much lately, this Covid-19 business has gotten me down, but as you can probable surmise, the George Floyd murder and what is currently happening to this country is really upsetting me. Yes, I am as upset about it as everyone else. While I am against the death penalty, I almost wish the police officer would face a similar penalty: “death by knee strangulation.” What upset me almost as much was the video of one of the police officers quickly looking at the scene and then looking away.

What also upsets me is what followed. I really liked the nationwide demonstrations. They are needed to focus attention on what is happening to the black community and they are needed to bring social and political change. Boy, do we need social and political change (I might write about it later). However, I do not like the looting and the burning of buildings that accompanied it all.

Our church is on the border of a black, somewhat poor neighborhood, and since the outbreak of Covid-19 I think it was burglarized 3 times. In my mind and I have explained it to my wife by telling her that probably these folks cannot or have a hard time getting unemployment or even the stimulus check. To be able to survive they have to go to food pantries, food kitchens or rely on burglary. Case-in-point, the food was stolen out of the fridge at church, in addition to the laptop. So the looting of grocery stores maybe, but fancy sneaker stores, not really. In addition, it seems that there are right-wing agitators in the crowd that maybe egging them on or are really the Molotov cocktail throwers and fire starters. 

It was Dillan Root the white-supremacist Charleston Church killer, who hoped that his killing would “start the revolution.” Other white-supremacists were hoping their action would do the same thing. I am afraid that this is what the agitators are trying to do, assisted by Trump, who is sending dog whistle after dog whistle to his troops and supporters, and the failing Republican Party. We need to go back to peaceful protest and do the following things:

1. Elect Biden as our next president
2. When we do that, make sure that Biden selects a young, dynamic person as vice-president. Because, we all know that Biden will serve for one term and this person will be next. We need a new generation of leaders and thinkers in this country. I am a 66-year-old baby boomer and I realize it is time for new thinkers. Mayor Pete or a younger white or black male or female would be a good choice.  (I used to be a Klobuchar fan, but it seems that she did not prosecute the cop that killed George Floyd for a previous violation when she was the District Attorney).
3. Trow the republicans out of congress and the senate, they are obstructionists and cling to the old ideas of yesterday that don't work and have caused the situation we are in now (the riots and the Corona pandemic).
4. All these protesters should understand what Trump is doing, keep up the demonstrations (peacefully) and they should use the power of their vote to force social and political change. Get people registered and get people to the poles in November. Yes, Trump and his cronies are going to call them socialists or worse communist. Remember, he is in bed with Putin, the real communist dictator.

My Sermon (2): Liberation (4/5/2020)

As part of a group that takes a sermon writing class at our Unitarian Church, I am asked occasionally if I present a sermon on the days that our minister is either off or has a commitment elsewhere.  I relented and said I would do one.  Originally I was thinking of presenting a sermon on growing bonsai and spiritual growth and church growth; however, when the request came out, they asked me if I could do something on liberation.

So here it is:

It started with a low rumble in the distance which progressively grew louder. Of late this had been an ominous sign of another impending raid by marauding soldiers trying to escape north to the Sudan in advance of the liberators who were in the process of overthrowing the current government of the country. I remember it like yesterday, being liberated. 

Let me set the stage, it was May 1979 and my wife Donna, and I were living and working at a Leprosy Center in the eastern part of Uganda, a country that had been ruled by the ruthless dictator Idi Amin. We had been in the country for over a year, and I had been working at the Leprosy Center as a Farm Manager, managing a 2500-acre dairy farm, with close to a 1000 head of cattle, that was part of the Center. In January of that year, rebels with the assistance of Tanzania to the south had invaded the country in an effort to overthrow the government. In April, I think it was actually on Donna’s birthday or just before that, did Uganda’s capital Kampala fall. The Amin army fell apart, deserted and tried to flee to the Sudan to the north. The problem was our Leprosy Center was located just off the major highway to Sudan. We had been unable to evacuate in time and we were stuck at the center. During the past weeks we had been subject to the looting and harassment sprees of these fleeing soldiers. Moreover, while under siege for the past month to a month and a half we were running out of all things essential (sounds familiar?) and had to live on one candle a night; two or three matches a day; we only ate sweet potatoes and eggs three times a day; drank rainwater and locally distilled moonshine. I’m amazed that I still have a liver and my eyesight. 

Hearing the vehicles approaching in the distance meant that we needed to get ready to deal with another wave of obnoxious soldiers (corner me over a beer one of these days and I can tell you some stories, but this is not the place today) when all the sudden tanks and jeeps rolled in, very unlike the deserters who came in with stolen ramshackle cars. Here they announced that they were the liberators, the Tanzanians! It was unbelievable feeling of relief that moment, being liberated, we laughed, we cried, we knew we had made it. Let me tell you, there had been moments the past month that we thought we were not going to survive it. Really, being liberated never felt so good. On top of that, the evening of our liberation Radio Netherlands read an announcement over the shortwave radio in which it told the listeners that we were missing in Uganda and asked anyone who had heard of us or seen us to call the Netherlands foreign office, but that they feared the worst. 

But, we were liberated and we were alive, we could live again without fear! Almost everybody was rejoicing and celebrating; and that night we burned two candles and had a small get-together, followed by a center-wide party the weekend following. 

During that party, the flood gates opened, the people were finally able to express what they thought of Idi Amin’s reign and the past 10 years they had lived through. We heard more horror stories about the oppression, the difference between the haves and the have nots, how you could not even trust your closest relative, because they could rat you out and that could cost you your life. 

Living in Uganda and working with lepers, we were working with a part of society that were outcasts and heavily discriminated against. Nowadays we would call this social justice. Social justice is not a new thing, but unbeknownst to us we were practicing it. We were not using those words; we were there to help. Some could ask me why the hell we put ourselves in such danger to serve and work with these folks. It was a combination of a lot of things including compassion, empathy, naivety, and the thirst for adventure. I have always been a teacher at heart and in my way, I also was there to observe and teach. While we had already learned a lot about the difference between the ruling class and the common folks, it was then and there that we really appreciated the importance of liberty and being liberated. 

The center where we worked was sponsored by the Church of England and the local Bishop was on our board. He was a regular visitor to the center; however, he would return to his Ivory Tower after his visits. 

Other religious folks we encountered were the Dutch catholic priest and the Italian nuns. Those Catholics were a different breed all together. One of our favorite story was about father Meindert van Acht, the brother of the Dutch prime minister at the time, who we frequently visited. One day, just after we arrived at his remote village on the slopes of Mount Elgon, a 14,000-foot-tall volcano located between Uganda and Kenya, we sat on his porch and watched him exiting his church. He had just finished mass. There he came, walking towards us with the bible under one arm and a crowbar under the other, a sight to behold, a priest, the brother of the second most important person of the Netherlands, in a tattered and torn robe with these two items under his arms. We never asked him if and if so, how, he used the crowbar in his service. 

Father Meindert had one request, which was that he did not want any visitors on Tuesdays because that was his weekly whiskey night, so he did not need an excuse to drink. All other days were great. The guest room was always open, and, in the evening, he would break out the mass wine or some additional whiskey for his visitors and himself. During visit with the Italian nuns at a Leprosy Center in Jinja in north central Uganda we always enjoyed fine Italian wines and good conversation. 

But it was not always fun and games or drinking to excess. It was a form of stress relief in a country where it was very difficult to work in. It was a country where we saw a lot of murders, assassinations, political and social injustice, and where we all tried to work with those folks who were oppressed and looked down upon. We youngsters, in our early and mid-20s, were in awe at what the missionaries were doing, how they were living, coping, and surviving. They lived alone; we were in a group of 6 Dutch folks who could give each other at least some mutual support. They were outwardly happy, content, even keeled and at peace with themselves and their god. I guess that is what their belief did to them. 

In those days we had not yet learned about those words “social justice” or another word called “liberation theology” that Father Meindert and his compatriots were practicing in the villages of Uganda or elsewhere in the developing world. 

Liberation Theology was first introduced by the Uruguayan Priest Juan Luis Segundo Gutiérrez in 1971. In his book “A Theology of Liberation” Gutiérrez proposed that the true task of theology was not to declare pristine abstract truths, rather ‘only by doing this truth will our faith be “verified.”’ At that time Gutiérrez and other liberation theologists in Africa, Central and South America were struggling to bridge the gulf between divine justice and social justice, trying to address the reality of human suffering and confront their own discipline. Some of them were trying to approach the Bible from the perspective of the powerless. 

In the opinion of the liberation theologists, the church should be a movement for those who were denied their rights and plunged into such poverty. Folk that were deprived of their full status as human beings. Liberation theologists were of the opinion that the poor should take the example of Jesus and use it to bring about a just society. 

A common way in which priests and nuns showed their solidarity with the poor was to move from religious houses into poverty-stricken areas to share the living conditions of their flock. The nuns that operated the leprosy center in Jinja and the Dutch fathers that were operating the boys orphanage in Mbale a town to the south of us or father Meindert on Mount Elgon, were working with folks that were either down on their luck, from a tribe that was on the fringes of society, the poor and the sick, or just simple outcasts. They were not the pious religious priests from my memory growing up on a Caribbean island, but real down to earth people who served the communities they were working in. They were not there to save souls; at least they never expressed that to us. 

Regretfully, we did see some missionaries from some other denominations in Kenya whose interest seemed only to be there to save souls in an effort to stroke themselves, somehow still living in their ivory tower, and seemed less interested in social justice. 

Most controversially, the Liberationists said the church should act to bring about social change and should ally itself with the working class to do so. Some radical priests became involved in politics and trade unions; others even aligned themselves with violent revolutionary movements. They were often accused of spreading or at least preaching the revolution, socialism or even worse, communism. As the Argentine theologian José Míguez Bonino said it was the revolutionary challenge of those who boldly proclaimed: “Jesus Christ is Che Guevara.” Liberation theologists were often not accepted by their regular church and told to shape up. Some tried to moderate it a bit with statements such as: “love for the poor should be preferential, not exclusive.” Things finally changed a little bit with the new Pope who led a less opulent lifestyle and paid more attention to the poor and sick. 

Although we live in a free country, even here in the US there are different levels of being free, isn’t there? If you are white, have money and often if you are male (especially a white male), you seem to be freer then others. It should therefore not be a surprise that even here in the U.S. liberation theology took root. The Protestant African-American theologian James Cone wrote in his 1970 book entitled A Black Theology of Liberation: ‘If God is not for us, if God is not against white racists, then God is a murderer and we had better kill God.’ Black religion, Cone asserted, began not with an abstraction but with the acknowledgment that ‘God is Black’ and present in the experience of black people, from the slave auction block to the urban ghetto. Others argue that that the Bible assigning a male gender to God was the original justification for the patriarchy. This was discussed by the feminist theologian Mary Daly in her book Beyond God the Father which was published in 1973. 

I travel a lot around the state and get to see the economically and environmentally depressed areas of the state, both black and white. The inner city and the Appalachian region. This is one of those things we have been trying to address this in our community as part of our social justice commitment. Here at the UUFP we have a social justice table that we can visit during coffee hours and find out about worthwhile causes. We go to marches; we have a black lives matter banner outside; you name it. But let’s not forget the other causes out there as well. 

We UUs have a rich history of social justice, ranging from our stand against slavery, to the voter registration in the south in 60s and 70s, to our support of the Black Lives Matter movement, to our push for gender equality, equal rights, marriage equality, and to the social justice committees that you find in almost all the UU churches and fellowships throughout the country. Social justice does not stop there, we are also concerned about environmental justice. 

After working in the 3rd world, the freedom to move around, to think what you want, to express it to friends and family, freedom of association, or even think to yourself and not be in doubt. All the things that makes me so happy to be a citizen of this country, to be a member of our UU religion, and especially of this fellowship. The UU’s 6th Principle which promotes: THE GOAL OF WORLD COMMUNITY WITH PEACE, LIBERTY, AND JUSTICE FOR ALL is so darn important to me after what we experienced in Uganda and the other countries, we have worked in. It also makes me scared of the things I see happening around me or what has happened, but at the same time hopeful about the countercurrent that is occurring as well. 

Remember, today social justice can mean different things for different religions and we need to watch out for false prophets. For example, some will even claim that preventing a woman’s right to choose is a form of social justice. Competing claims of being on God’s or at least the right side are testing the limits of a liberal social order straining to accommodate militant believers. Our fourth principle tells us that we: A free and responsible search for truth and meaning. This is something many dogmatic religions don’t allow; it is something totalitarian governments try to suppress, like the one we experienced in Uganda. Let’s use it wisely in defending it and applying to our efforts in social and environmental justice. 

That is what I try to do throughout my life, and I know many of you do. I had the privilege to get an education, but I try never to be condescending to anyone and share my knowledge with all who want to hear it. We are not rich but contribute to the church and other worthwhile causes both monetarily and by volunteering. We are socially active when we can and marched for women, for science, the environment and for gun control. All I can say is to stay true to yourself, like father Meindert, the Italian nuns, and the many liberation theologists and try to address the human suffering around us and in particular the suffering of those who are socially, economically, environmentally and racially disadvantaged. 

I believe we all can learn from the example the liberation theologists gave us and incorporate them in the way we live our UU faith.

Donna and I visiting one of the male nurses and his family at his home in the village in Uganda

Invocation:

Rev. Karen G. Johnston

Do not be alone right now...

Gathering together grows courage...

These things add up: your one thing & my one thing; his one thing & their one thing & her one thing…

Do not be alone right now. Do not let me be alone. Any liberation – all liberation — is collective liberation. My freedom is bound with yours and yours with mine. Inextricably...

Reading:
The Gift— Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

We have not come here to take prisoners,
But to surrender ever more deeply
To freedom and joy.

We have not come into this exquisite world
To hold ourselves hostage from love.

Run my dear,
From anything
That may not strengthen
Your precious budding wings.

Run like hell my dear,
From anyone likely
To put a sharp knife
Into the sacred, tender vision
Of your beautiful heart.

We have a duty to befriend
Those aspects of obedience
That stand outside of our house
And shout to our reason
’O please, O please,
Come out and play.’

For we have not come here to take prisoners
Or to confine our wondrous spirits,

But to experience ever and ever more deeply
Our divine courage, freedom, and Light!”


Benediction:Barack Obama

Change will not come if we wait for some other person, or if we wait for some other time.
We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
We are the change that we seek.

Racism 101 (7/15/2019)

I was born in the darkest of Africa. No, not South Africa as many always want to guess since I am white, so South Africa is a good guess. However, I was born in what was called the Belgium Congo, in those days. In my young years, my family moved to the Caribbean. I will not bore you with my life’s story, but never in my early life did I encounter obvious racism in real life. Yes, my parents would make fun how folks on the island would exhibit status, by putting a TV antenna on their roof while obviously not having electricity at a time that battery powered TVs were not yet invented, or having a refrigerator on the front porch and not having electricity. Sadly, these disadvantaged people were mostly black folks, but again, to me that was more making light of the need to exhibit some form status and trying to keep up with the Joneses, than a form implicit racism. We had black families over and I was partially raised by Rosa our black housekeeper. 

This photograph of a mask was taken at an exhibition of Congo masks at the museum in Richmond, this past January.   It supposedly comes from the region I was born in.   Boy I would not feel comfortable going back there if our xenophobic leader would tell me to go back there.  Moreover, read the book: How dare the sun rise, by Sandra Uwiringiyimana which is partially set in that area as well and in the US, and you will also understand what the result can be of tribalism and racism 

The first time that I consciously encountered racism was during my first visit to the U.S. The passenger ship that we had taken from the island (Curacao) where we lived, to travel to Europe (Lisbon) had docked in Miami and we were allowed to take excursions. It was 1959, I was almost six years old and all I remember from that outing was taking a “train” ride through an Indian reservation and watching Indians do their thing. Half-naked Indians sitting in front of teepees, cooking above fires, etc. I have no idea whether these Indians were actually living there, or if they were actors and went home after the park or reservation closed for the night. However, I can clearly remember that it hit me as sad and exploitative. Closing my eyes, I am still on that open choo-choo train looking at those indians some 60 years ago. On the other hand, seeing alligators for the first time was kind of exciting, another thing I remember from that day.

Whether it was racism or tourism or a combination of it all, I will never know; however, the next time I noticed real racism was driving through the inner city of Baltimore with friends who we visited during our second visit to the U.S. four years later (1963). Our friends, who were Dutch, had recently emigrated from the island to the U.S. They were somewhat down and negative about the African American folks who moved into and lived in their neighborhood. They told us that when the blacks moved into a neighborhood, it was downhill from there. They were exploring to move out to the suburbs, away from it all. When we came back two years later in 1965, they had done just that and moved out. 

I think it was during my visits to Baltimore that I learned about the divide between black and white. At that time, in 1965, we had just left the Island of Aruba where we had lived for about 9 months. I remember so well that almost every afternoon after school, I would walk with a black classmate (friend) of mine to the harbor in Oranjestad to go fishing, and we would fish for part of the afternoon. If we would not go fishing, we would play soccer (football) or climb in either the mango trees or the tamarind tree in our backyard and eat the fruit. Fruit that was not ripe we would lay on top of the roof for a few days to ripen. We were completely colorblind although I had no idea what that word meant or that that word even existed. My father had a dark room where we printed photographs and that was where I learned the words black and white.

I think the sad part is that the common thread here is that the place I was exposed to racism was in the U.S., the country in which I now live; the country I have become a citizen of. I am sure that there was racism on the islands, in the Netherlands where we went on vacation, but it must have been hidden or more below the surface. Maybe my parents did not associate themselves with those people. Yes, we had the riots in 1969 in Curacao where half the town burned down, but my understanding was that these were more labor related than race; although some tried to relate them to what happened here in the US after the assassination of Martin Luther King around that time. However, I was young and naive and I am sure race played into it. After hearing what happened in the Congo, my parents were scared and we moved to the Netherlands fairly soon after those riots.

Where am I going with this blog post? I am a member of a religious community (the UU) that is mostly white and which has a “Black Lives Matter” banner hanging in front of the church. At home, we have a yard sign that says the same thing. I have written about this issue before <here>, where I wrote about my experience in New Mexico being stopped at immigration checkpoints in a vehicle with Mexican Americans, who were US citizens. I was the only non-citizen and experienced first hand that racial profiling in this country is real, but then in a ridiculous way. 

We have elections coming up where the leader of one party has been called a racist, actually acts like it or at least panders to them. This week he called out four female representatives of color with non white last names and two with non-christian religions and told them to go back to their country. Three of the four were born in the US and one is a naturalized US citizen. He has called neo-nazis good people.

It amazes me that in the 60 years since my first visit to this country there is still so much hate, fear and distrust to go around between the various races in this country. While it seems we made progress, I also see that in the past years we slid back. Maybe people filled with hatred and fear are coming out of the woodwork and dare to express themselves more? Whatever it is, it is going to take time to reverse this trend, but we are going to have to do it. We have to fight it and the people who refuse to call it out like many of the Republicans in congress and the senate who just shrug their shoulders and ignore what the guy at the top is saying.

Agree to disagree (2/14/2018)

Our local newspaper had an article that had a saying that was attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte: “The people to fear are not those who disagree with you, but those who disagree with you and are too cowardly to let you know.” I am not really sure if Napoleon was really the first one who said it, but that quote got me thinking. 

A good healthy fight at work never hurt anyone, or did it?

The article was about workplace arguments. It made me wonder who has not been in one, or at least seen one. I've had my share, and I want to bet that when I ask anyone who reads this blog to raise their hand who has experienced a workplace disagreement, probably 80% of you will do so. But who has said afterwards: Thanks for disagreeing with me, it has made my project stronger being able to argue with you about it. As Napoleon put it, the worst is when someone goes behind your back and tries to sow doubt about your capabilities with your colleagues or superiors without your knowledge and ability to defend yourself. A long time ago I read a book written by Stephen Covey in which he wrote that one of the thing you absolutely should try to avoid is, to “confess someone else’s sins.” That phrase has stayed with me ever since I read it; doing such a thing should really lower your stature in people’s eyes.

Truthfully, I have sinned and have been sinned against. It is so difficult not to talk about others and to confess their sins. I like to argue in my mind that I have been sinned against more than I have sinned, but is that really true?  Who am I to cast the first stone? I have been guilty as well. There is a guy at work we call Lucifer. I know he deserves it, but still. Also, when an ex-supervisor of mine heard that a certain individual was coming to work with us he warned me: “this guy is going to make everybody do his work for him; he is lazy SOB, watch out!” Well, I told my colleagues and have felt guilty ever since. They ignored me, and guess what? They are now doing his work for him and our boss is finally seeing the light and slowly putting the brakes on, after 4 years. Do I feel vindicated? No, still guilty for telling on him, and every time I get together with him I feel like embarrassed. 

But some people thrive on it. They actually get ahead in the workplace and still sleep soundly at night. Oh well.

During my international development career of the late 1970s and in the first two thirds of the 1980s, I worked in three countries with totalitarian regimes. If you are a somewhat regular reader of my posts, you know I talk about Uganda, Nepal and (North) Yemen. Of all three countries, I worked in Uganda stood out as totalitarian. It had a ruthless ruler: Idi Amin, who I wrote about before. However, Nepal and Yemen were somewhat similar. In my days a king, who called himself the reincarnation of God, ruled Nepal. We did not experience him as being too bad, but there was a communist uprising and in general, the people of Nepal were miserable under the King. There was corruption and he was also funneling a lot of money into his coffers. The president of Yemen was known to be a dictator as well and we know how Yemen turned (or is turning) out. In these three countries I saw how dangerous it was to talk behind people’s back, both in the workplace but in particular in the private life of people.

The one thing that all three countries had in common and many other authoritarian countries as well was poverty; corruption; a ruling upper class that was funneling money off society for themselves and only looking out for themselves; lack of education and literacy; suppression of free press; the development of a tremendous propaganda apparatus in support of the ruler; and a buildup of the military and police. One of the scariest things I saw in these societies was how people were divided against each other. They were encouraged to spy on each other, to tell the government about it and be rewarded for it. You were potentially even afraid of your family. Even your children, brothers, sisters or relatives that were further removed could turn you into the police or local security agency for anything you said. They would get rewarded and in the worst case it cost you your head. Just a joke about the leader could cost you your life and you could end up cut up in a cardboard box in a sugarcane plantation or being fed to the crocodiles in the Nile as regularly happened in Uganda at the time. Everybody was afraid of each other.

What I will be showing you here are three photographs taken in the countries that I worked that show the opposite of arguments.   The first one here is from Uganda when we visited the home of friends in the village.

This picture was taken in Nepal of our firend Warren and me at a tea shop on the trail during one of our treks.

An nice idyllic picture of us camping with friends at the beach on the Red sea in Yemen.  The weather was always nice and the water was always warm (almost too warm).  We just hung mosquito netting between two palm trees and that's how we slept.

In these three or other totalitarian countries Napoleon’s words really ring true. It is better to argue with people about life, politics etc. and then part either as friends or agree to disagree, than to run to a higher authority or someone else and tell on them. Or maybe it is better not to talk about these issues at all. The results in some cases can be deadly. Actually it was better to shut up and keep all those thoughts to yourself and not say anything. Beware, when talking to your spouse, there may be someone sitting outside the door or window listening in (as we experienced in Nepal but that is a different story).