My good friend, Jeff Woodke. We first met in the climate negotiations sometime in the first decade of the new millennium. I was with Greenpeace International then, and he was with Tearfund, a non-profit set up by evangelicals, which was quite surprising. Jeff had a wicked sense of humor; we laughed often, at others, at ourselves, at the utter idiocy of representatives of so-called enlightened nations, most of whom did not deserve the decision-making positions they occupied either because they were vile, cowardly, incompetent, arrogant, or disinterested. The default position seemed to be dithering, and Jeff and I did great work together chasing the lazy and the duplicitous, always offering something better despite the flaming cynicism that met us in corridors, great hallways, washrooms, and meeting rooms.
Jeff was folksy, a man as full of charm as he was full of manners. He was such a great listener from the time our paths first crossed, and he was never loud, and he always – always – had a twinkle in his eye. I remember he had so many questions yet he was never annoying. He was always curious and I loved him for this; his demeanor reminded me there was always something to discover.
But I think he took a step back from working on climate, and I made a sidestep – without having to leave climate issues completely. We took different directions even if we both answered to the same calling, but we kept in touch almost every year. A casual email, asking how one was faring and where the other was. Jeff went to the Sahel and lived with poor communities. He’d send me photos on occasion, many in a ‘guess-where-I-am’ and ‘guess-I-am-in-this-group-pic’ kind of photos of a mostly barren desert, or a group of people completely veiled save for their eyes.
One day he was kidnapped by extremists in Niger, and he stayed in isolation for over six years, in chains, often beaten up and fed poorly, in poor health, with no medication. He disappeared completely, but for some reason I had this quiet confidence Jeff was alive. I’d often visit his Facebook page just to let his lovely wife, Els, and their family that I haven’t lost hope, and I’d send post messages to Jeff on his page just to say I thought of him often. I often thought aloud that I’d really like to give him a great big hug and then enjoy good beer with him right in Humboldt County once he’s freed, and I could finally meet Els, after which I’d go and enjoy the Redwoods, and so he better stay alive so that when his time comes and he is released, we could laugh together again.
And it happened. The hug. The beer. Meeting Els. The Redwoods. And today Jeff maintains an Instagram account where he posts lovely poetry he had accumulated over years of incarceration, waiting only to be set on screen and paper, as he travels deep into the interior – his own – to converse about life’s mysteries, life’s cruelties, love, joy, beauty, the elements. Jeff Woodke, broken and remade, the Ransomed Poet, a mighty, gentle being who has gone far behind the veil where most would never imagine traversing and returning intact. Or maybe coming back with hand-held fragments and shards with jagged edges, and love that stitches things back together. I’d love to see him again just to listen to his music.
That’s the lovely Els with Jeff. The pic with me was taken by good buddy Jeng Maceda, who drove me through Humboldt County’s Redwood Forest.
Kamuning Republic 