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- [00:00]
Dan Kennedy
As we approach the end of the year, I'm thinking about the next. Next year is the year I finally make my Spanish better than my 9 year olds. Rosetta Stone is the most trusted language learning program available on desktop or as an app. And it truly immerses you in the language that you want to learn. I can't wait to use Rosetta Stone and finally speak better than my 9 year old who's been learning Spanish in his own way. Rosetta Stone is the trusted expert for 30 years. With millions of users and 25 languages offered. Spanish, Spanish, French, Italian, German, Korean, I could go on fast language acquisition. Rosetta Stone immerses you in many ways. There are no English translations, so you can really learn to speak, listen and think in that language. Start the new year off with a resolution you can reach today. The Moth listeners can take advantage of this Rosetta Stones lifetime membership for 50% off, visit rosettastone.com moth that's 50% off. Unlimited access to 25 language courses for the rest of your Life. Redeem your 50% off@Rosetta Stone.com moth today.
- [01:10]
Catherine Smica
Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Dan Kennedy. This week we have two stories for you on the podcast. The first one is in honor of Pride Weekend here in New York, we bring you a story from Catherine Smica that was told at a show we did in Seattle in 2013. The theme of that night was Detours. Here's Kathryn.
- [01:36]
Sasha Chanoff
So my father is a man of very few words, but there are three topics that really get him construction zones, traffic jams, and the Detroit Red Wings. So up until a few years ago, my relationship with my dad was not very interactive. When we talked, he would ask how things are going. And then I just list off everything in my life. My roommates, my friendships, my internships. And he'd listen quietly until he thought I was probably done, and then he'd say, okay, that sounds good. And those were our conversations. Like, wasn't a lot of conversing that happened. And mostly I would present him with information. He would take it in, acknowledge that he'd heard that information, and then pass the phone to my mom. And I didn't mind that. I actually found it kind of endearing. And, you know, we loved each other and that was enough. And I knew that both of my parents supported me, even if they didn't have a whole lot to say to me. And my whole life, I felt very at home with my mom and my dad, but I didn't always know how they'd react. Like when I decided it was time to tell them I didn't like boys, and so just completely lost my train of thought. I didn't like boys. And so, you know, coming out to your parents is gonna be really challenging and scary for anybody, but coming out to a parent who doesn't say many things is kind of terrifying. So it was the day that I moved home from college, and my dad drove the two hours to come pick me up. We put everything in the car, we get on the road, and we drive for, like, the first 90 minutes in a very peaceful silence. We listened to Journey's greatest hits. I opened up a big bag of lay's potato chips. Those are his favorite. And I prepared to tell him my big news because I had a very sneaky plan. I was planning to wait until we were, like, 10 minutes from the house, and then I was going to tell him all about being gay. And I never shut up. So that would take at least 10 minutes. By that time, we'd already be in the driveway. And we completely avoid talking about feelings or emotions or genders or anything that would make him uncomfortable. And this seemed like a really foolproof plan because it just involved me talking a lot, and, like, very few things could go wrong there. So I'm sitting in the car and I'm like, okay, Dad, I like girls. And for the first time in my entire life, I couldn't think of another thing to say. Like, there were no more things, and I hadn't prepared, like, a speech or anything because I thought it would just come to me in the moment, like word vomit, like it normally does. And. But the things that I was planning to tell my mom about, like, love and relationships and cute girls from my playwriting class, I knew my dad wouldn't want to hear about any of those things, so there was nothing else to say. And so I started panicking. And he didn't say anything, probably because he didn't know whether or not I was done, because that's kind of an awkward way to break any silence. And his typical like, okay, that sounds good, didn't really work in this situation. So he's panicking. And so the logical thing that I thought was, like, I'll just repeat myself. And so I said, I like girls. And so he's gripping the steering wheel. I'm so nervous, I think I'm going to throw up. And so, in a true state of pure terror, I said, did the Red Wings play last night? This is a true story. And so he launched one of the most elaborate descriptions of a hockey game I have ever experienced. And I'm sitting there thinking, like, everything's cool. Like, I'm fine. He's fine. We're cool. And, like, I just outed myself to my dad. Like, that's great. But before I could congratulate myself, I looked up and saw the one thing that every person in the Midwest associates with. Summertime orange construction cones. The highway ahead of us was closed for no reason at all. He's already out of things to say about the red wings. And we're about to take a very, very long detour. And I was like, fuck, now what do I do? And so I'm trying to think of what else is there to say? And he said, katherine, check out all this traffic. And I was like, yeah, tell me about all the traffic and the construction. And I was like, tell me about the cars and the gravel and the dirt and the road. So he starts, like, talking and talking and talking. And, like, we get off the highway on these long, windy roads. In my mind, I'm thinking, like, this is crazy. In this conversation, we have successfully detoured from gay stuff right over to hockey stuff and right into construction stuff and traffic stuff. And we'd never, ever have to talk about me being a lesbian, because why would we talk about that? We could talk about all these cars. It's like we're talking and talking and talking, and now we're actually pretty close to the house, and it's still really congested, which is weird because we're, like, miles past the construction and, like, lots of car talking. And he said, because all of the cars are on us. And he's like, I've never seen so many cars over here at this hour. And I was about to be like, yeah, well, tell me about the cars. And he said, I think everybody heard that my baby was coming home today. And I was like, oh. And I was thinking, like, are we about to have a real conversation? And I looked over at him, and he's just got this big smile on his face. And, like, everything about him, I could tell he just really wanted me to be happy. And he didn't quite know how to say that. So he just, like, kind of gave me, like, the dad nod and turned back towards the road. And in the back seat, I could hear, like, all of my moving boxes and, like, everything important, everything in the car just, like, settle into place. And I said, yeah, dad, it's really, really good to be home. Thank you.
- [07:24]
Catherine Smica
Katherine Smaika is a freelance writer living in Chicago. She thinks the moth should run for President in 2016. Ah, thank you, Kathryn. That means a lot to us. But. But I think we like our jobs too much. Our second story is from a show that we did with the theme Coming Home. Here's a story from Sasha Chanoff.
- [07:48]
Sasha Chanoff
I'm looking out a hotel suite window in the capital of Congo in the middle of Africa. There are bullet marks on the buildings out there because war is raging, but it's nighttime and quiet. There's a nasty cockroach infestation in the kitchen and a putrid smell in the air. I've turned the TV volume up loudly because the Congolese government has bugged our room. I turn and face Sheikha. She's a woman from Kenya with the brown skin of the coastal people and thick black hair and intense dark eyes. Tears are welling in her eyes and she's pleading with me. Sasha, we have to take these people along with the rest. If we don't, they'll die here and their blood will be on our hands. Please, you have to trust me. I'm facing a terrible decision and I'm afraid no matter what I do, people are going to be killed. A month earlier in Kenya, my boss, David, at the International Organization for Migration where we worked, called me into his office. He handed me a list with 112 names on it and told me he was sending me into the Congo on a rescue mission. The job was to evacuate 112 massacre survivors. He warned me really explicitly that under no circumstances could I include anybody else on that list. If I did, we would fail to get anyone out and they would all die. David knew because he'd spent the past six months in the Congo evacuating people. I'd met one teenage girl that he pulled out. She had these nervous eyes, and she told me that the killing started when the President of Congo went on TV and said that all people of the Tutsi tribe are the enemy and need to be hunted down and exterminated. This was an extension of the Rwandan genocide in ways. This teenage girl went into hiding that day, but had to eventually come out to look for food. And as she was sneaking around town, she saw a mob chase down and catch another woman. And they put a tire over her body, pinning her arms to her side, and doused her in gasoline and set her on fire. They were killing people in terrible ways because Tutsis were seen as the scapegoats for the Congo's problems. This teenage girl had lost her own parents, but she had four brothers who were still alive and they were on the list that David handed me. David also warned me about Sheikha. She'd been on every previous mission with him. But he told me that I couldn't trust her, that she always tried to include additional people, and I had to stop her from doing that. Sheikha and I flew into the Congo and we rented a car and a driver and went to the safe compound where the 112 were gathered. These big black gates swung open as our car drove into this 2 acre compound with 10 foot walls and jagged shards of glass topping the walls. There were guards with AK47s slung at their sides, standing around a one brick story building. A one story building was in the middle and a large tent off to the side and latrines on another side. Somebody saw Shaikha and all of a sudden there was a mob around our car and they were pushing it up and down and chanting her name. And I remember David telling me that people are going to go crazy with relief when they see you because they think they're going to die there. And when they see you, they'll know there's another flight. But it felt really scary and out of control for me because there were way more people than the 112 on our list. We set a table up on the top of a little hill and the crowd gathered below and I called people up one at a time and I took their name and their birth date and their photo and I told them we'd be flying them out in a few days time. I had to give this information to the Congolese immigration officials. I got really excited when I saw the four brothers of that teenage girl come up. When we were done and trying to leave, A guy who was working in the compound said, before you leave, you have to go into that tent over there and look at the people who just came in. And I thought, I don't want to see anybody else. We can't take them, so why even look? But my feet were walking towards the tent as I was thinking that, and I stepped inside and it was like time stopped. It was really hot in that tent and I remember the sweat trickling down the small of my back. But what struck me was how completely quiet it was, which seemed impossible because there were 32 widows and orphans standing and sitting in that tent. The guy who brought us in leaned into me and said they were in a prison camp for 16 months where most of their family members were executed. We don't know how they survived. They all looked traumatized and emaciated and they had these hollow Stares like there was nothing behind their eyes. Shaikha leaned down to a little girl holding a doll and said, let me see your doll. And all of a sudden the doll's eyes popped open and its tongue lolled out of its mouth. And we realized it was an infant child that looked more dead than alive. I went over to a 13 year old boy and said, what's your name? And another, smaller boy grabbed his hand and said, he doesn't talk anymore. I talk for him. That 13 year old had been brutalized so badly, he just stopped speaking. Sheikha and I left. And that night in the hotel room, she was holding the list of widows and orphans and begging me to take them. I held the list of 112 and I said, we can't. But I wondered, can I live with myself if we leave these widows and orphans here and they're killed? No, I didn't think so. But could I live with myself if we tried to take them and we failed to get everybody out and they all died? No. And then I thought about who Sheikha was. She had like this clear moral orientation. She did what was right in her heart and wasn't concerned about personal gain or recognition. And then I wondered, who am I? My great grandmother had come to the US as a refugee fleeing anti Semitism in Russia. And she was a widow who raised four orphans or four children on her own. I'd been working with refugees since graduating from college six years earlier, but nothing had prepared me for this. And then Sheikha said words that changed me. Sasha, we're humanitarians. We're here on the ground now. If we don't do this, these people will be forgotten and they'll die here. This is up to us. It's our decision. And in that moment, I trusted her. So I called David. And he got really angry when we told him what we wanted to do. He said, listen, I'll tell you exactly what's going to happen. You have to tell the Congolese immigration authorities and then they're going to include their own people on your list. And then at the last minute, maybe even on the plane, they'll pull your people off and you won't get anybody out. You can't do this. And I said, david, I get it, but we have to try. And he was quiet. And then I heard him say, okay, then here's what you have to do. This is a US Rescue mission, so get the US Ambassador's approval and try it. We got the US Ambassador's approval. And then on the last night, as the sun was setting. We went to see the head of Congolese immigration, a stocky man with beady eyes who already told us how much he hated Tutsis. When we told him we were taking the widows and orphans, he said that he had seven additional people we had to take. And we said, that's fine. And then he pulled out this whole new list and said he also wanted to take all these other people. And we said, we can't. And we argued with him and we even tried to bribe him. But as we were leaving, all he said was, I'm in charge here. I say who leaves and who stays. We'll just see what happens tomorrow. Those words terrified me. Back in the hotel, we realized we had another big problem. We had too many people for our flight. But then we thought that the children all looked so emaciated that we could change the birth dates and make all the four and three year olds less than two, and in that way we'd free up enough seats. So I spent the night doing that. And at 3am as I tried to close my eyes, I couldn't sleep. I was so wired with exhaustion and fear and the uncertainty of it all. I thought, have we just condemned everyone to death with this decision? A few hours later, I went and got four buses, and I had four armed guards per bus. And I went to the safe compound, and we started loading everybody on, and the people who weren't coming started yelling. And one man grabbed me and he pulled my face close to his and he said, sasha, you have to take me with you. Look at my face. I'm a Tutsi. I'll be killed here. But we couldn't take him or so many others. And their cries faded into the distance as our buses pulled out. And now my heart jumped in my throat because this was the most dangerous part of the entire mission. The Congolese government had told us that they would let us do this, but unofficially, they didn't want us to succeed. And I worried that maybe a mob would attack our bus or maybe gunmen would start shooting from around a corner. How hundreds of thousands of people had lost their lives already, and no one would notice a few more. An hour later, we finally pulled into the airport, and we stopped 50ft away from the plane. And I thought, there's the plane. Let's just get everybody on that plane. Congolese immigration police hustled me and Sheikha off the buses. And then they started checking people, using the documentation we had given. And as the widows and orphans came down, they stopped them. And I had this terrible thought, oh my God, these people are witnesses to terrible atrocities. And the Congolese immigration police aren't going to let them leave because they don't want them talking about what they've seen. I thought everything that David said is coming true right now. And I felt so helpless. And I looked around for Sheikha and she was talking to the head of Congolese immigration and waving her arms. And the seconds ticked by and then they let them off the bus and they boarded the plane. And we all boarded the plane and I stepped on last and the cabin had turned into a furnace because the plane had been sitting on the tarmac for a couple of hours and it was so packed with people, There were so many children sitting on laps of adults. The door shut behind me and I felt the plane engines rumble to life and cool air came into the cabin and we started down the Runway and we lifted off the ground. I'd imagined that in that moment people would erupt into cheers of joy because they were finally safe. But when I looked, everyone was crying for the people we had left behind. It was at once the most joyous and heartbreaking moment. And in that moment I thought about Sheikha pleading with me in the hotel and I was so thankful. We couldn't get everyone out, but we got those on our list out and those widows and orphans and they were the worst off. I looked at the tiny infant and There was a 13 year old boy and there were the four brothers who, who are going to be reuniting with their teenage sister soon. And as their eyes met mine, I felt this incredible sense of connection and shared humanity sink into the deepest core of who I am. And that feeling has motivated and inspired me ever since.
- [20:38]
Catherine Smica
Sasha Chanoff is the founder and executive director of refugepoint, a humanitarian organization that finds lasting solutions for refugees in life threatening situations. He's also the recent author of From Crisis to Calling, which is out now. You can find it at your local bookstore or on Amazon. That's it for this week. Thank you guys for listening and we hope you have a story worthy week.
- [21:03]
Dan Kennedy
Dan Kennedy is the author of the books Loser Goes First, Rock on and American Spirit. He's also a regular host and performer.
- [21:11]
Catherine Smica
With the Moth Podcast production by Mooj Zaidy. Moth events are recorded by Argo Studios in New York City, supervised by Paul Rueest. The Moth Podcast is presented by prx, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public@prx.org.