I walked onto Lot 46, an area of land on the corners of Rhode Island and 7th Ave NW and saw my community’s pain, met my community’s strength. Lot 46 was dedicated to low income housing several years ago but Mayor Fenty has not fulfilled his promise to turn this land into housing affordable for the residents of Shaw/Howard. And so for two weeks people have been peacefully protesting at Lot 46 to get the Mayor’s attention, to advocate for the community.

“This land has been liberated.” Has it?

// Photographs taken at Lot 46 in Washington, D.C.

Today is my birthday. I reflect. I recommit to the creating of, the laboring towards, peace. This moment was from my birthday last year, July 19, 2009, in Kiwanja, DR Congo. A small community ravaged by violence and massacre in the previous months. This group of children are child soldiers. Some have not yet chosen peace. We spent the day with them and Francois explained the myths that flourish, the lie that violence could lead to peace. He asked the children to imagine another way to be, a new way to live. “Qui veux la mort prepare la guerre, mais qui veux la paix offre le pardom.” (Who wants death prepares for war, but who wants peace offers forgiveness.”

Ndyio.

Ninataka amani (I want peace).

I commit this year to wanting becoming realized.

// Photograph taken in Kiwanja, DR Congo, during the filming of DTJ’s upcoming documentary about Heritier and Mwisha, two child soldiers and their journeys towards peace. Release date: Fall, 2010.

Unsafe drinking water and lack of sanitation kill more people every year than all forms of violence including war. These women gather rare clean water.

// Photograph taken outside of Port-au-Prince, Haiti

// Photograph taken in North Horr, Kenya.

// Photograph taken in Marsabit, Northern Kenya

The children played, despite their pain. These children were newly arrived refugees, fleeing the war in eastern Congo, safe within the shelter of Uganda’s peaceful borders. Some had lost parents, some had lost each other. But as the sun set, they decided to play. This choice is hope.

// Photograph taken in Nyakabande Refugee Camp, near Kisoro, Uganda.

Nyiragongo rises up from the earth and into the clouds.

// Photograph taken on the road out of Goma towards Rutshuru, eastern DRC.

A short film I co-directed and produced shot on location in Uganda, July 2009.

The story of Rose Nanyonga Clarke and her journey to becoming a child and health advocate in Uganda.

What does it mean to forget? What does it mean to remember?

We have been asked to be among the ones who do not let time or space erase memory. When the earthquake happened, we all thought to ourselves, “dear God, I will never forget what I have seen.” And now – three months later, have we? Have we done just what we thought we wouldn’t? Has our attention been drawn to the next crisis, mystery, pain?

How can humans persist in caring, in knowing, in offering compassion, in receiving it?

For our posture is not just to give, but to receive.

This is an effort of remembrance.

Three months ago to the day I stood in rubble. I held the hands of children crying because they faced a black future. I saw the hand of death extend into the hot air and pull life into the grave. I heard the persistent, faithful work of people looking for survivors amidst blocks of cement. I saw the joy of freedom when one, just one, was found alive. I passed thousands sleeping on the streets, under cables no longer carrying electricity. Lightless nights descended. I felt the terror of what could come when the earth shook beneath us, often on a daily basis. I waited in line for gas with hundreds of Haitians, vehicles stranded on the side of the road. I watched children in the sun, hundreds deep, hope for water. But what I remember the most, what doesn’t leave me, is the heart beating, raw, indescribable rhythm of beauty and pain that coexisted. Everything felt deeply real. Humanity united to love ones who were suffering, and each moment brought life altering discoverings of just that; life or, often, death.

I passed bodies on the road, I saw bodies crushed beneath buildings. I smelled death wafting through the narrow streets. I watched Haitians cover their mouths, overwhelmed by so much loss, with nowhere to go.

Often there were and are no words to describe such things. And beyond the death, between the moments of loss, I saw strength and character of such purity, the sight of something so beautiful renders

speechlessness.

This, this, is what I remember. May I someday posses a fraction of the character you have shown us, Ayiti.

// Photograph taken in Port-au-Prince, Haiti

When will Haiti’s children get to go back to school and learn? The earthquake not only took their schools, but it robbed them of the gift of learning.

// Photograph taken near Leogane three months before the earthquake, Haiti.