The James Foley Awards, ‘24

Much love to mom for having the strength to take the trip to D.C. last week to honor our Luke at the 2024 James Foley Awards.  The aim of these annual fundraising galas seeks to honor journalists' lives , as well as award individuals who devote much of their time and energy to save and protect them, and to ensure their safe passage home.

Many of the speakers and award winners, along with journalists who had been rescued and returned home, were individuals aligned with a government entity in some capacity, whether from The White House, FBI or Department of Defense.  

Six years ago, our hearts were much more closed off to the experience, given an inherently (justified) bitter attitude toward the U.S. government for the way they handled Luke's case which, ultimately, got him shot and killed.  To observe politicians and federal agents in their finest cocktail attire, speaking of terrorism in black and white brush strokes, did nothing but provoke more ill-will and cynicism, given our vulnerable, highly sensitive, traumatized states.

Six years later - last week - ma and I went in with a much more deliberate intention to accept this invitation in good faith from The James Foley Foundation, as well as keep our hearts open and minds clear, regardless of the weightiness of the subject matter and the individuals with whom we may share fundamental disagreements.

The trip, in this respect, was good for the both of us.  We were treated kindly and gracefully at the event, and we reconnected with some lovely souls whom we have gotten to know over this journey.  We were seated at the same table of a woman who lost her sister and her sister's husband on October 7th.  Before mom and I left the hotel, I confidently placed my Yemeni pin to one side and a Palestinian pin to the other side of my jacket.  While connecting with this woman with tragic Israeli ties I initially felt a bit conflicted with my decision to flaunt these little shiny flags. Yet we talked at great length, we hugged it out, and we found a common ground that appears easily lost in a world so polarized to the extremes; where debates are shut down and labels are haphazardly proclaimed when any nuance is introduced into the conversation.

Sting was a special guest and he sang two songs for us in the ballroom.  When he was singing his second song, the in memoriam slideshow of journalists who had been killed (the list was not very long) played, and there was our Luke hovering above as Sting serenaded the attendees.  Mom and I held hands, we shed tears - the only time we had been truly cracked open on the entire D.C. trip.  So, for what it was worth, the presentation aroused something in me and mom that is still both very raw and real and very welcomed.

Naturally, I felt familiar reactive impulses arise as political speakers and awardees spoke of kidnappings and terrorisms as if they happen in a vacuum. "They take our loved ones just because they carry a little blue book," one award winner said.  Once again, I was faced with a familiar revelation -  that in some of these speeches, there is a tendency to negate and overshadow the U.S. government's complicit and nefarious roles in creating, funding, and propelling the very violence and crimes that they decry - the actions that indirectly place our loved ones in harms way.

We once sat across the table from Barack Obama in the White House in 2015, two months after Luke's death.  He told us he would have moved heaven and earth had his two daughters been in Luke's situation.  He told us that the terrorists will pay for their crimes.  Yet the more research I had done and the more details that came out about Luke's case, the more I had realized how successful the government was at getting us to play their game.

This does not negate the fact that many of the government personnel we had worked with likely had good, pure intentions to bring my brother home - or anyone's loved ones for that matter.  Yet they were still going in accordance with a certain systematic code that is far more pervasive than the individuals who represent it; a code that both opened and closed the seal on Luke's fate.

In essence, it has been a conscious undertaking to not invest my energy in playing the blame game.  Rather, it has been a long road of cultivating compassion, finding forgiveness, and understanding that life possesses an unquantifiable number of possibilities and vantage points, and it's up to us to determine which narrative best aligns with our societally hardened, yet spiritually malleable belief systems.  Growth and flowing in accordance with the only universal constant, change, are paramount if we are to open ourselves up to expansive thinking, communicating and creating from a place of non-judgment.

All of that is to say, I am thoroughly grateful that there are countless individuals out there committed to a cause that inevitably promotes empathy, acknowledgement and understanding in little-big ways.  Diane Foley has done such profound, impactful work in spreading awareness and action for our loved ones who are held captive abroad.  To experience this energy and awareness that she has created is truly remarkable.

And I turn this back to ma, who has inspired so much curiosity and wanderlust and flavor to her two sons.  Thank you for putting those ripples of nurturing motherhood out into the world; a special energy representative of the ways that Luke was an unofficial ambassador for curiosity, passion and beautifully unbridled connection with fellow humans, no matter where he was in the world.

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Christmas in Moclips

Since 1998, mom, Luke and I had been visiting a little coastal town named Moclips for the holidays.  It was always our little escape from all the hustllin’ and bustlin’, and it gave us grounds to lean that much deeper into ourselves, where we channeled utter silliness, indulged in a gratifying laziness, and treated ourselves beyond our perceived means; all while breathing in the clean, salty ocean air and hearing the ever-present lapping currents and roaring waves.

Of course, I didn’t perceive these moments as deeply as I perhaps do now.  But a recent trip with ma and little Chloe this Christmas invoked a depth of certain solace familiar to that of the early days.  

Since Luke died, we have made a few little trips to Moclips over the years – but this is the first time in over a decade (to my knowledge) that we really, truly granted ourselves the time and space to let go, release, and channel that bonafide childlike ease and contentment from the ol' trips of past.  Even to the extent that it felt like Luke was there with us in tangible form, beyond spirit.

We played games; we dined out; we traversed the vast, uninhabited shoreline each day; we made art; we indulged heartily; we slept in; we hosted surprise guests; we caught up with Mr. Wacky and bought trinkets in the Somers favorite, “Wacky Warehouse;” we shared gifts; we laughed until we couldn’t breathe.  We even extended our stay to delay the inevitable just a bit more.

Driving back to the city, I felt a familiar, abrasive whoosh of energy that, when left unchecked, has the tendency to stifle that sense of veritable love and presence that ma, Chloe and I touched in Moclips.  The shift can feel rather abrupt, yet it is amid such transitions that we are afforded lessons to (re)discover just how meaningful these experiences are; to embrace our societally (and self) perceived faults – and celebrate them; and to cherish and find stillness the spaces in between. 

We did just that.

Much love to you, mom, for sharing that experience with me, and for being an exceptional mother and human.

Much love and happy new year, everyone ❤

An Evening with Earl Sweatshirt

On September 13, 2013 my brother, Luke, sent me an Earl Sweatshirt song (Molasses ft. RZA) while he was living in Yemen working as a photojournalist during the Arab Spring.  I loved the song after the first listen and virtually became a big fan of Earl’s overnight.  Although Luke was thousands of miles away, he still had a wonderful grasp on the Western hip-hop scene, and he’d always make a point to keep me apprised of noteworthy songs and artists on the rise.

What I didn’t anticipate is that this would be the last email I would receive from my brother.  He was abducted four days later on September 17. And after 15 painstaking months of working with a negligent U.S. government to secure Luke’s release, he was shot and killed in a purported rescue attempt by the U.S. military on December 6. 2014.

Since losing my brother - my best friend and stand-in father figure of sorts - I have been working to pick up all the pieces and live a bonafide life worth living in his honor and my own.  Not surprisingly, I have become enveloped in the photo-taking and storytelling sphere as both a passion and career, bridging a cathartic, latent artform with deep, meaningful connections with individuals and communities alike.

Last week, I had the privilege of taking photos of Earl Sweatshirt (and legend, The Alchemist), as well as hanging with him and his crew backstage.  I even got to tell him about Luke, if ever so briefly, and express the profundity of my and his presence there on that night.

So, this post is for you, Bruv; for the beautiful experiences that continue to present themselves amid the journey in the deep well of grief.  Thank you for propelling me to do what I love both in life and in death.  I love you.

P.S. It was a damn good show.

For those who have lost dear extensions of themselves:

An ever-present well of grief

Transmuted into forms of relief

Spell the sounds and shift the gaze

On this path of Love in a pitch-black maze

Grief is love in a veil

With so many secrets to tell

These very parts that I berate

Are also mine to Love, to celebrate

Grief is a well

Of discovery

Of utter isolation

Of expectations being questioned, obliterated

Grief is hell

In an age bereft of storytelling

The essence of those we’ve lost lives patiently, solemnly beyond our conscious grasp

The loss of this portal to Love is mine and mine alone to bear

Grief is discovery

A subtle transcendence of belief systems

An erupting compassion of the heart

Indeed, this rippling love is what I will forever impart

Thank you, Luke.

For exuding a wisdom well beyond your years.

For caring so deeply.

For pushing me to think critically.

For gently prodding me to question authority and our governing systems.

For challenging my and others’ philosophies, especially your own, from a place of curiosity.

For subtly giving credence and acknowledgement to my strengths and latent potentials.

For your deep guttural belly laughs.

For your unique swagger in your thrift shop threads.

For taking pleasures in the little things.

For standing your ground.

For your stubborn reticence.

For being a wonderful son to ma.

For being my Brother and my best friend.

For staying strong until the very end.

Thank you for continuing to teach and flow through me.

Happy birthday, Luke.  I miss and love you deeply, every day.