After she opened our hearts with her poem, other issues also came up in the healing space:
During all this, a camera man was still filming. He kept angling the camera in front of each person's face as he walked around hunched over, winding through the circles of people sitting on the stage and crying hurting praying. As he neared me, I gently asked him if we can please stop filming because this is a sacred and scary space for many people.
He kept walking and filming.
After a minute, I followed and knelt beside him asking him to please stop videotaping because I felt very uncomfortable and unsafe having this moment filmed. The family was singing a Filipino chant ikalat muna, pass it around. He said to me, pass it around, that's what I'm doing. When I repeated my request, explaining I understood that but I still felt safety and comfort was more important, he patted me on the head and tried to give me a hug. I pulled away and walked off to the other side of the stage, behind the curtains.
My internal debate: Should I let it go (because I did trust his good intentions) and support a visual video artist just using art to record a powerful, even if painful, moment? Or should I heed my instincts that I am not alone in feeling unsafe and uncomfortable with his intrusion into a moment that is more important to experience than to document? In the very space created supposedly to support each other after hearing of a sister's experience of silence and violence, this man completely ignored a request from woman in his community. Feeling hurt and disrespected left me too angry to feel the healing power of the chant: ikalat muna, pass it around. For a split second, I turned to one of the men to speak up and help, then said f&*% that.
I interrupted the chant and the closure of the circle to share, with respect, that I need my community to help me and ask that video cameras be turned off. Never have I been at an event or conference being filmed where ground rules were not set allowing people to opt out of being recorded at different moments if they requested. I believe the power and beauty what has happened can still be included in a documentary film about this summit without filming this moment.
Since then, the camera guy and I have talked. Organizers asked both of us to have lunch together with them for a facilitated discussion about what happened. I understand that he, like many most others, wasn"t thinking. Mind numb, he just picked up the camera and tried to flow with it. Though hurt and frustrated made me mad the night before, I wasn't upset the next day. I could sympathize with people trying to do their art, to participate in a different way that makes a record of what happened. (I still maintain that artistic freedom does not preclude respecting privacy and above all safety.)
Since then, a number of people also upset by the filming thanked me.
"You were right on about saying something. We wanted to punch that camera guy out."
"If he had just left the camera on the stand it would have not been so obtrusive, but he was up in our faces."
"At the time, I was torn because I did not know what to think. The organizers had empowered the film crew to really have access. Last summit, we were like, who are these people and what are they doing up in my grill, but the documentary film they made is so powerful. Recording these moments is critical, especially given histories of silence. But I also was thinking, if he stuck that camera in my face again, I would grab it away from him."
Some people said that they saw me ask him. "I couldn't believe he just ignored you like that." As I write this, it occurs to me to wonder, then why didn't any of those who witnessed the exchange not say anything either at that moment or when I interrupted the circle?
"I was going to say something when I saw him ignore your earlier request," one person said, "I was thinking, how can he do that? Now, in addition to the revelation that triggered all these emotions, we have a man not listening to a woman. His guesture did look patriarchal. Then I saw the glazed look in his eyes. I could see that he didn't mean anything by it, and that he clearly wasn't really thinking about anything."
Since then, I've been teased about my camera sensitivity. "Would you please sign a waiver giving us permission to take and use a picture of you?" A couple people have stuck a camera in my face, then pulled away suddenly, oh I'm sorry, hehe. When a crowd of cameras circled the 15 month old of two well-known poets/artists in the community, everyone trying to snap shots of the cutie dancing, a woman whispered in my ear: "That baby's gonna have to autograph tons of release forms."
Since then, another sister expressed her deep concern and sadness that the chant was interrupted. And I feel terrible that I made things end on such a bad note.
Since then, new questions and discussions have arisen about how we collectively respond to all the issues brought up. Some people, who were not present at the showcase, later watched it on video. A journalist revealed his ethical dilemma about how to write his article on the Summit, torn between believing that the crux of the conference revolved around this one woman's revelation and between respecting that some people do not want it mentioned. Does not talking about what happened respect survivors or play into history of being silenced?
Even as I write this, I question: Is sharing this story appropriate? Was asking for the video camera to be shut off appropriate?
As artists, we all commit to sharing stories. Ultimately the only answer is continued conversation with people in our communities, self-introspection, respect, and commitment to truth.
If people have thoughts, please email [email protected]. I think this is a crucial dialogue.