Change: A transformation or transition from one state, condition, or phase to another
Wamunyima is usually a bit off. His watch seems to be perpetually late, or early, or conveniently different than mine. He stands up near the end, or sometimes in the middle of my class to do his duty, hammering hard on the rusty tire wheel that serves as the school’s bell. I’m not surprised at his apathetic response to timing, Zambian as he is. But I’m continuously surprised that a 16 year old 9th grader is just as excited to do his job at 5 am each morning. It seems I have yet to figure out what we are signaling in at that ghastly hour, or why we need to add noise to the cow bells, the cock’s crowing, and the rhythmic pounding of the day’s maize meal. But maybe it’s the sun which also needs persuasion to peak over the horizon and commence a bright new day.
Thursday morning was wet and cold, and I was equally as hesitant to have to meander through the murky fog. The vivid dreaming of a rainy night’s sleep kept me clutching to my blankets, but the daylight had been rung in. A new term, a new year, and a picture of Obama still engrained in my mind, with his other worldly inauguration speech about transforming the tides of dark undulating waters (yes, I resolutely made it a priority to see the country/world’s representative of change).

I had finally returned to the village, bringing with me new eyes to perceive a different set of changes. The masuku fruit once littered throughout the school has turned into freshly gnawed cobs of maize, mapopwe. The green shoots up so high you can only see the flailing, shimmering blades of the young children forced to slash it down. The maize is tassling, and people are now sitting expectantly behind the back-breaking work of spot fertilization, plant by plant, field by field. It’s our family who was late to dish out the extra umph of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium, the sugary looking top dressing that sweetens and revitalizes the crop. But line by line, reviving the roots, I realized I too wished to sprinkle some sort of magic on the withering parts of my spirit, to encounter growth, to cultivate new stems of creativity, to foster nourishment.

Reluctantly I pulled myself out of bed after reviewing the last month nostalgically; the false sense of attachment I recently had to the world of family, friends, and familiar customs/language/food. But I looked more closely at the purpose of being here, like velcro though, holding on with vigor to the last moments of “normality”, of “home”. The cool morning breeze washed over me, and as I lit the candle in my darkened room I made a conscious decision to see the light, to replace sadness and loss, with joy and inspiration, and to be present in each moment ahead.

It’s my students who grant me the capacity to do so. They make my day, every day, and put a bounce in my step. After reviewing my list of new and difficult names while walking through the doorway of room #7, my two classes of 80 plus grade 8 students rose to meet my gaze…a habit they’ll soon have to break. They laughed nervously as I greeted them and told them to sit down. They strained to understand anything coming out of my mouth, and worked even harder to try and respond. Therefore, their first assignment was a challenge. Standing in front to present themselves individually. “My name is Muchimba. I am from Nakeempa, and I want to be a doctor”. “My name is Heizy, I am from Nakeempa. I like to sing, and I want to be a teacher”. Big dreams for this small town. But my grade nine class had already been through that routine. They knew me from last term, so they welcomed me back with broken, but better English, smiles, and hard slapping hand shakes. The two new classes as well as a promotion to “class teacher” were surprises, but I very much welcomed the new faces and responsibilities.

In so many ways I do feel responsible for each student, and after slowly filling in the gaps of many of their stories and struggles, I am even more keenly aware of my presence in their lives as teacher and hopefully friend. I find things out along the way, some which bring laughter, and most which bring tears. And I hope that if nothing else, I can provide them with but one message of unconditional love.

one story, and thousands more
She’s taken from any familiarity she might have and transplanted somewhere new, a distant village. But moving isn’t necessarily unfamiliar, as she makes short or long appearances wherever her hard work is needed. She’s told she might be able to go to school, but hope is all she can tangibly hold on to. The money never seems to surface, the uniform is just too expensive, and really, let’s be honest, her priorities should be in the home. She lives mostly as a slave, bowing down, and serving her father, her uncle, whoever, until marriage age (anywhere between 15 and 19) when she can be sold to any man willing to fork over the appropriate dowry. Her father/male guardian gains a few cows (which could potentially improve his own life) in exchange for the less important life of his daughter, a reciprocation for the loss of her working hands, and young body. She gets pregnant, maybe it’s a boy, maybe it’s a girl, maybe the story repeats itself over and over, and maybe the characters in the story make up 95% of my village.

“You have a new pupil” I’m told, as she walks through the door, standing expressionless as I try to introduce her to the roomful. Her eyes are sticky and red, and she looks up only to follow my finger to her seat in the back row. Oviness arrived the third week, so I hastily suspected she was like nearly every other girl in my class, that is, miraculously making it into any school at all. What was it this time? I pondered cynically…sexual abuse, orphan hood, pregnancy, neglect, or maybe just a cruel concoction of them all (as is often the case). She enters into our algebra lesson half-way through, but I can plainly see she’s disoriented by the level of math not to mention my strange english. So I deliberately stop by her desk to look into her hollow eyes. Lies. I see them all. The cavernous vacancy of everything that has been stolen from her is deep in her being. Lies she’s been told about her worth as a girl, as a student, as a human being. Lies about what she can and can’t do, about her intelligence, about her strength. Lies about authority, hierarchy, and rights. Lies.

I get angry. Once again I don’t know what to do. I know I can’t even show my empathy, because I lack true understanding. I know I can’t get close enough to her. I know I can’t catch her tears. I know I can’t hold onto her pain. Language and culture build walls that are hard to tear down, but even though I can’t get close to her in words to know what she knows, it’s all written in her eyes. It takes only a moment’s gaze to hear her speak to me more loudly than any verbal language could. I smile, and grab onto her hand, hoping she knows that I care. Hoping that she knows my authenticity. Hoping that she feels my belief and acknowledgement of her worth and importance.

I still see what is at the core. There is radiance tucked behind the despondency. I see it in each of my students, Oviness, and all the rest. And though some days the light barely peaks through, the luminosity from within each one of them silently teaches me lessons every day. They teach me about true beauty, about patience, humility, and grace. They renew my faith when so often I question the meaning of it all, and they show me the power of that which is greater than myself. That which they represent, which is liberation through the supremacy of love.


“Write me a letter”

It’s an English assignment, sure, but the messages are sent not only into their notebooks, but into my heart.

A letter from Oziline:

Hai Sweet
How is your life but I think and trust that you are doing fine
Back to me I am not fine why because of missing you sweet
Come to the main purpose of writing this letter. The programme that you was give me is not good. My parents was not take the money. They said that they don’t bring now the money you bring after finish grade 9 because my school fees is not come from my parents is come from the headmaster of Nakeempa Basic School. They want to protect me from the head if it is here that programe they can sadi to me don’t come to the school because you are want to get marriage. So that is my parents tell me. So I can’t do anything I just agree what they was said to me. I just write the main point onthers I tell you wen you come here my sweet. Don’t think bad things just continue to think good things so that is that. My grandfather was agree and grandmother and uncle was agree but my father was not agree. All these words that I said is my father who said all these word.

Yours faithfully
Sweet O
God bless you all the time my sweet

A translation: MCC is supporting her, so her school fees have been paid for up until this year. She will finish grade 9 though, and her father wants to marry her off afterwards since she likely won’t pass or be able to afford secondary school She doesn’t want to be married but she has no say, and she knows she has no power. So she writes to me…Just one among the masses.