11/24/06

Et içi nous sommes.

It's eleven at night, and I'm listening to radio via iTunes as I type this. iTunes, like iPod, is an immeasurable increaser of my quality of life this term. This is the hardest term in medical school, and I am a happier person because of music conveyed by iTunes and iPod. Thank you Steve Jobs et al.

The language I'm listening to right now is French. They're talking about US troops in Iraq. It's called Sing Sing Radio under the Eclectic stream on iTunes radio, for the fans out there. There was music for a while, without lyrics, which I sometimes prefer, and now it seems to be a news update. Now they're talking about Somalia, and other African politics. I'm surprised they're not talking more about the recent riots that were widespread in France. 4 to 5 figures of cars burned over the last month or so, due to unrest over disparity in the French socialist society. It's ironic that there would be a sort of class unrest in a country where the national motto is egalité, fraternité, liberté. Equality, fratertnity, and liberty are clearly not being acheived.

Don't get me wrong when I observe this. I love France. I like socialism, although I probably don't know enough about it to really say that. I should say that I like the idea of equality among all of society's members, at least in terms of opportunity. We should all get an equal shot, at the very least.

I've loved France from the days as a child when my mother and grandmother spoke French to me sparingly, a result of their living in France after the second World War. I've loved it since my first visit in 1986 when, during a trailblazing assault of 7 countries in 21 days, I saw that France had the first integrated Black people in western Europe. But stash my Race favoritism...There's love in the air in France. And there's all those old buildings. And man, you can walk the streets of Paris at all hours of any day and see something that's inspiring, whether it be people or historic buildings, or what. The myth of the French being rude to Americans is just that - myth. I believe that it is because we Americans have been so isolated that we haven't learned to make the effort to extend a bit when encountering other cultures. It's a matter of training and opportunity, and it's a deficit on the American side, in my view, not the French side. What would we think, if folks who came to Birmingham to the see the Civil Rights Museum only spoke French except for hello and good-bye, and got frustrated every time they tried to understand what was on the menu at Chik-fil-a, and no one could explain? I bet we might also lose patience after the first hundred thousand.

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Sometimes, when writing, I want to sit down and write one thing, but my brain takes me on a different tack. It's as if one gets on a horse to go out in one direction, but the horse has a mind of it's own, and decides otherwise.

This session is just such an instance. I've a half a notebook of writings on work in Zambia from the Summer, burning holes in my bags, waiting to be released into the world, and those are what I sat down to transcribe. But I've got a sort of rule that supersedes that - that I let the writing flow, that it dictates where my thoughts go, not the other way around, and that I just get to go along for the ride, my fingers flying across the keyboard as the French music plays in my earbuds.

So here we are in France, instead of Zambia, or Zambie, comme on dit en Français.

Last time I was there I had the privilege of presenting a poster on antenatal care in Lusaka, courtesy of the opportunity of working with Dr. Susan Allen, one of my key life mentors. With the help of some scholarship support provided by the International AIDS Society (IAS), Maggie came along, and we had high times. High times. We arrived separately, I a day earlier than she, affording me the chance to walk the city in anonymous glee, seeing some sites, taking the metro, finding my way about, and loving each and every second of it. Maggie arrived after a travel ordeal that forced her to stay overnight at Brian Cook's place in Atlanta. Gracious host and friend, he is...

Maggie and I went to the conference for a few days, and had great times with at least 10 others in Susan's group who were also presenting. (It could have been called the IAS-Allen conference.) Among the highlights was hearing both Drs. Luc Montagne (sp?) and Dr. Gallo speak about the state of AIDS research, as well as a heartfelt address by none other than the revered Nelson Mandela.

I got a close seat in the 3,000 seat amphitheatre, and when Nelson Mandela walked out, tears immediately came to my eyes. I've never had that effect before. To see this man, who spent 26 years in prison, and then became president of a country that once was his people, was stripped away by a repressive regime, which was then toppled and regained by none other than the very man standing before me...that was part of it. And to see him weakened, walking with assistance, but still vibrant - that was part of it. And to know that his life's ambition at this late stage is to make AIDS the priority on a global political stage - that was part of it. This statesman, who was eloquent and forceful, drew tears of respect out of my usually dry eyes.

He spoke, and despite the clear messages proscribing flash photography, the place lit up like it was paparazzi. He wore a golden, African style shirt, and his blue eyes were clearly seen in the reflection of the lights. A red AIDS ribbon pin tied his collar together, close to his neck. At the end of his speech, there was a movement of protestors who stood up in  unison in the first few rows, chanting. I don't recall the words exactly, but it was something like, "Here's the 30 million, where's the ten billion?" It was in reference to the disparity between the need for care for HIV and the monetary commitment to HIV care, globally. One of the protestors went to the stage, and the bouncer moved to intercept her from contact from Mr. Mandela, but he stopped the bouncer. In fact, he hugged the protestor, and chanted with her, and the others joined the stage, and before it became a photo opportunity, it was a moment of THE Mr. Nelson Mandela joining in a group of vocal activists in one voice decrying the need for treatment for people dying of AIDS in a world where that is simply not necessary.

This is a guy who lived in a South African prison for nearly three decades, rose to the highest ranks of political power within his own country, rose to the highest levels of respect across the entire planet, and here he is, embracing activists who are crying out to have their voice heard, much as he did from the wilderness of RSA prisons for so many years, and they are embracing and united in one cause. We need more Nelson Mandela's in our world.

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Aside from that experience, there was meeting Kayvon Mojjarad in the De Gaulle airport, serendipitously, because he was there also to present at IAS.

There was one particular night where Eric Hunter, Susan Allen, Jareen Meinzen-Derr, Mary Dougherty, Maggie & I, and others went to an Irish pub just next to the Moulin Rouge. We essentially got drunk, for lack of a better way to put it, in good company and with good Irish beer, and had a wonderful time not talking about our work but talking in normal, everyday people talk about life. As usual, Susan, and Eric also, have a way of facilitating a gelling of people when they get together. A debt of gratitude, I owe them.

There was a daily visit to a café across the street from where we were staying in the 6th arrondissement. It was run by a mother and her son, of Arabic decent. It was a place where the local French came to unwind or just to hang out, idly. I came to know the regulars in the week we were there. The mom gave Maggie and I a gift of some table glasses when we left. I played a nice game of chess with an English ex-pat who was much more French than English, and worked in construction. I loved the place, and loved the greeting kisses, and loved the camaraderie of a place that made me feel like I was home.

I can't cease without mentioning Chateau Rouge, a stop off of the Gare du Nord, and a district where many francophile African ex-pats live. Maggie and I discovered it and visited it nearly daily after the conference. Maggie instantly discovered the places where one can purchase clothes and music (Rhumba) that is particularly African. We had fun trying to communicate with a Senegalese tailor near Le Sacre Coeur, but we managed. Maggie loved the place, and we must go back.