Protectors
In 1984, in Rio de Janeiro, among meeting friends, cousins, nieces, I also visit the Brazilian mother of one of my dance students back in Germany. This elegant petite woman in her late fourties takes me on a trolley trip above the favellas where her seamstress lives. Scanning the crowd in our open car, I notice Mrs. Cunha is wearing gold jewelry. Right then, the eyes of young male teenagers are already dashing about, barely perceptible, into our direction. A whiff of fear and excitement starts mingling with sweat, sun, breeze. Mrs. Cunha is removing her earrings and necklace to safeguard in her small shoulder bag.
At the terminal stop, Mrs. Cunha takes me down a dirt road to an outlook over the picturesque hills of Rio de Janeiro. I don’t really know this woman. A visit for tea at her home the day before, lets me know she is wealthy upper class. I am confused, nervously asking what we are doing. My Brazilian language skill is good enough to speak and understand. “Oh, I just want to show you this view here, and then we’ll pick up my mended blouse.” A few seconds later, four teenagers jump us, pulling violently on Mrs. Cunha’s shoulder purse, till she is on the ground. Still holding tight, she is dragged on the gravel, not willing to let go off her precious jewelry. In disbelief I keep screaming in Portuguese: “let go, let go.” In vain I try to pull the boys off the delicate lady, all of us engaged in a dance. On and off they are swiveling around me, slippery like a fish, I feel oddly safe. There is nothing to take from me – it is all about her purse!
As I am ripping at one guy’s shirt, he pulls a fighting knife out of his pants’ pocket – his eyes shining brightly green, with wide open fury now. Instantly I realize that they are on drugs, and we are in serious danger. In a moment, we might be dead. But unbelievably, like in a movie, I hear the roaring sound of a vehicle approaching. Looking up, a huge old construction vehicle is rolling down this unpaved and completely abandoned road. A heavenly salvation. I straighten and wildly wave my arms. The truck is not slowing down. How can that be? They don’t want to stop and save us? In total desperation, I jump in front of the monster, waving and screaming at the top of my lungs. Ready for anything, I turn into a wild beast. All is in slow motion. Miraculously the truck comes to a stop – the enormous bumper just ten centimeters away from my upper chest – brakes shrieking, clouds of dust. The boys flee up the hill, throwing rocks.
Mrs. Cunha is pale and bleeding. I pull her standing, then push her up the steep steps into the vehicle’s cabin. The driver and his companion are gruff, unfriendly. Barely do I manage to hoist myself inside, the truck now sputtering in reverse up the road. Stones still bombarding the metal casing, we are shielded. Back at the trolley’s final station, I am thoroughly relieved that Mrs. Cunha is still alive, that she did not die in my initially “useless” presence. We are safe, escaped unscathed, survived. Her purse with jewelry – which got us into trouble – still attached to her disheveled body. I help her to wash blood off skin and clothes. My only two years of intense T’ai Chi studies came in handy. I was 30 years old. A miracle saved us.
The impulse toward spontaneous courage surprises me still today. It is often unknown, untested. Jumping in front a monster truck, forcing it to stop. The driver clearly intended to ignore us, and could have killed or seriously injured me. The men probably knew the teenagers and did not really want to help two white women strolling down this deserted road, away from people and traffic. First a premonition, then a dance with life and death. Fate offered me a chance to be a protector. And be protected. In this famous city, so full of beauty, music, dance, and poverty. I was not afraid for my life. I only felt the weight of possibly failing to save Mrs. Cunha. First my helplessness, then without thinking, in extreme danger, a sudden decision was needed. My knowledge of the principles of T’ai Chi and skillful yielding (the soft overcomes the hard) made me a “warrior.” Guided me to literally take a courageous “stance.” We never know how we will act. I was lucky. Young back then – 41 years ago.
Life always brings occasions for us to show up as protector. Had I been more skilled back then in the advanced Art of T’ai Chi Ch’uan, I would have taken the early signs seriously and refused to walk down that road for a view. My intuition had already picked up the fleeting signals in the trolley, but I did not act on them. Getting older, I have been practicing fearless listening to intuition.
When dictatorship, police surveillance and war come….
What are we going to do? How are we are going to feed our kids, our greedy desires, our souls? Opening the mouth alone is a daring thing to do. What will escape? A howl? A whisper? A moan… What will enter? Disbelief, desperation, denial, frenzy. Will we swallow silently and dutifully? Will we shrug, avert the eyes, close the heart? Will we chide others who courageously look at how reality is manifesting for many. Another option is envisaging and preparing: how are we going to take care of those around us? Helping those in greater immediate danger or need than us. Perhaps we never thought of ourselves as a “protector” – outside of our family. But life might ask us to step up, to step in. In the flash of a second. No time for hesitation. This way, at least, we are lucky. Being a protector. For immigrants, Black and trans people. Critical thinkers and artists are always a prime target of fascists, so let’s brace ourselves. Nazi or Stasi times, I know about those regimes’ strategies and tactics from my own family and experience. It is a lot about good luck, too. Irrational, unpredictable, cruel, random, which is all the more fear striking.
Resisting a fear machine, inside or outside of us. How are we going to protect each other? This is the tricky task for Americans. “The courts come late,” said Corey Robin in a recent interview, “we have to save ourselves.” And each other, I say. Mr. Robin is an American political journalist and professor at Brooklyn College and CUNY, author of “Fear: The History of a Political Idea” (2024).
Listen to the first half hour of this excellent Brooke Gladstone interview with Corey Robin
Also, Amy Goodman’s recent interview with journalist M. Gessen
The speed of dismantling is frightening. Not all was good before the “coup d’etat.” Let’s hold tight to envision a more evolved society that practices true justice for all, equity, caring, courage, solidarity, and moral beauty. A shining of the heart that we all can model for others. Not for show, or via spiritual bypassing, or denial of current circumstances. But from our genuine need for goodness. Refusing to betray each other. Keeping our center and moral compass ever more strongly. This is what we’ll have to fight for – like “true warriors.”
May we all protect and be protected.
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