Listen, Learn, Let go.
11 months ago I let go of my life in the US and arrived in Zambia. In one week I will let go of my life in Zambia, and arrive in Philadelphia.
In the beginning I learned to let go of family and friends, culture, food, efficiency. Somehow that was all ok.
Then I let go of my identity as I thought I knew it, and my sense of place in the world. Harder.
I was forced to let go of expectations, of what I knew to be "normal", "trustworthy", "respectful", "helpful". I've let go of my previous understanding of "poverty", "development", "aid", "love". I let go of ideals, to try to sort through the reals. Frustrating.
Let it go.
It took a while, but finally I feel as though I've let go of the frustrations which clouded me with cynicism and doubt. I've let go of loneliness overwhelming and stunting my sense of self-worth and purpose. I've let go of despair. And most importantly, I've let go of anger.
And here I am. One week remaining. And only now do I feel as though I have let go of enough baggage to introduce a place for Zambia in my heart. Only now can I see the meaning in relationships and experiences. Only now do I see how letting go was an integral part of listening and learning, for myself and others.
And now I'm forced to let go once again. To the things and people I've listened to and learned from. They will forever penetrate who I am.
I say goodbye. Goodbye to students, and friends. Goodbye to guinea fowl and groundnuts, to pounding and peeling. Goodbye to bucket baths and squat peeing, skirts and chitengis. Goodbye to ironic misspellings and strange zanglish terminology. Goodbye to sharing nshima, ofals, sour milk. Goodbye to traditional weddings, funerals, kitchen parties. Goodbye to fetching firewood and water. Goodbye to teaching maths and science. Goodbye to learning tonga. Goodbye to my host dad's firm hand and soft heart. Goodbye to my host mom's laughter. Goodbye to spoons and crazy 8s with my host brothers and sisters. Goodbye to the precious, crusty old men and women. Goodbye to the babies carrying babies. Goodbye to my "home" in Nakeempa, my home in other people's homes, my home in Zambia.
I let go of my life here, so that I can continue to listen and learn from the past, the present, and what is to come.
Nearly a year has passed. I've learned a lot. But mostly, I've learned to let go.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Strikes
The majority of the Zambian population (who actually work in the formal sector) work under the government…the Ministry of this or that. Privatization is much needed, seeing as corruption is blatant and obvious. The president, Rupiah Banda, recently decided to do something about the average mortality rate (39 yrs) by purchasing 100 beautiful hearses to take the bodies away in style…logic a bit reversed you might say. But what do you do? Zambia is always spoken of as a “peaceful” country, which is true in certain senses. So how do you fight for rights of the masses who are barely scraping by as subsistence farmers, much less those who are earning scanty salaries? I completely understand the desire to strike against that and those who rob you of adequate allowances, food for your family, education, health. However, the long term effects may not be so positive in all respects (then again I remind myself that forward planning is not a cultural value, contrary to my impulses). Most schools have had no teachers in the last 2 weeks since the strikes began, and a few in Nakeempa have joined the efforts…or lack of effort. Sitting at home awaiting Banda’s reply to their inactivity. The nurses have now joined as well, and the domino effect continues as the staff of most institutions drops daily, refusing to be of service to their fellow Zambians. Students aren’t learning, so they’re running the streets. ¾ of Choma hospital was given the boot, and those expecting to be operated on were handed a panado (Tylenol) and politely told to return next month. Of course the police force isn’t allowed to strike, so their own brand of corruption is now more likely. Yesterday I was asked if I was going to join a union, and I had to remind them that I don’t get paid by the government J Rather, I’m trying to make up for those who don’t work. I guess it’s a welcome change to invite busyness into my life. I’ll not refuse the clusters of students coming to me after school asking for extra help. It’s just a shame that as behind as they already are, they fall further and futher away from sufficient education. I have no answers, only more questions about the results of this movement against the Movement…for Multiparty Democracy (MMD). Ah the contradictions we humans hold so dear.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
She
Her skin wrinkles up more when she smiles. Deep grooves creating cravasses which meander down the valley towards the corners of her river mouth. Her eyes are big blue sky sitting up above sharp cheek bones, high hills drawing down toward her clean marbled smile. Dentures. The only thing fake about her. Squared perfectly at her parting lips. If only gravity weren't so cruel to keep pulling them from her gums with each word. She grabs my hand with her sandpaper grip and pulls me to look inside deeply. "Where's my suga" she sternly enquires and only cracks the hills of laughter after my accumulating tonga wit. I submit to gifting 1kg and see the sparkle of a woman who's eyes show gratitude only suffering can bring. 80 plus years of life gives her a clarity that I see but rarely. She knows things I have only splashed through in a shallow puddle. Her path has taken her across oceans of understanding, save having ever stepped out of the village. She encompasses Zambian women to me, and experiences I don't know how to talk about. Walking barefoot with a confident, yet broken gait. She is mostly silent, yet has a firm depth in which I sense anger, pain, fear, loss, betrayal, apathy, courage, confusion, understanding, strength, compassion, love. She is solitude, playing with solidarity, and mere words don't encapsulate her existence. She is the essense of why I can't write recently, because condensing an inarticulate summary doesn't work. I don't know what to say really, and don't feel as though I have a whole lot to contribute. Honesty isn't all that pretty most days, and I don't like being insincere. To romanticize flashes of my experience seems like a cover up for the majority of days which leave me cynical. Timing is seeing me through an encounter, one which I have yet to gain distance and perspective on. So sitting in the thick of it brings me a range of unsorted emotions. I am ready to go, yet I'm not. I will continue to learn, and I am already aware of what I will miss. It's women like her, who's unforgiving persona penetrates the core of me, and overwhelmes me with both clarity and questions. She has strength to overcome things I never will need to, and she articulates without a word. She is a mother, she is profoundly complex, she is Zambia, she is the world.
Notes from a Funeral
Biking for a few kilometers, flat tire, heavy heat, sun
flies everywhere, the body and me in a concrete hut
handshakes around the room, women everywhere
sand, water
a burlap sac, the body on top, banana leaves covering the little boy
vibrant colors, chitengis, and dirty feet, life in the midst of death
mothers and women, friends and family
the men hammering outside, building a coffin out of a broken chair
bring it inside and women leave
wailing, fog horns
no tears, just shouts
she cries out into the horizon, yelling, hands verticle, lungs emptying with each shrill
little boy asks grandma "who lies under there?"
he crosses his dusty legs like an old man, pondering life as the choir sings outside
we sit for 20 minutes, men chase us out. hammering, the body nailed inside
"the prophet" strolls through the crown in a bright red robe
seeking money and a following
we walk, wailing to the burial plot
small hole for a small coffin
2 large sticks across, 2 piles of dirt
song, prayer, preaching
jump into the hole, lower the box down
cover it quickly, shoveling violently
pounding, sticks flailing
mother and father place flowers, turn and leave their son
Ashley called to participate
father speaks, and cries out at the end
Munsaka Cileleko ("Blessing" was his name)
September 16 2005 - May 16 2009
3 1/2 years of life. Death, once again unnecessary.
flies everywhere, the body and me in a concrete hut
handshakes around the room, women everywhere
sand, water
a burlap sac, the body on top, banana leaves covering the little boy
vibrant colors, chitengis, and dirty feet, life in the midst of death
mothers and women, friends and family
the men hammering outside, building a coffin out of a broken chair
bring it inside and women leave
wailing, fog horns
no tears, just shouts
she cries out into the horizon, yelling, hands verticle, lungs emptying with each shrill
little boy asks grandma "who lies under there?"
he crosses his dusty legs like an old man, pondering life as the choir sings outside
we sit for 20 minutes, men chase us out. hammering, the body nailed inside
"the prophet" strolls through the crown in a bright red robe
seeking money and a following
we walk, wailing to the burial plot
small hole for a small coffin
2 large sticks across, 2 piles of dirt
song, prayer, preaching
jump into the hole, lower the box down
cover it quickly, shoveling violently
pounding, sticks flailing
mother and father place flowers, turn and leave their son
Ashley called to participate
father speaks, and cries out at the end
Munsaka Cileleko ("Blessing" was his name)
September 16 2005 - May 16 2009
3 1/2 years of life. Death, once again unnecessary.
An Educational Tour
Chickens and mealie meal, dry beans, cold drinks, cabbage, a suitable semi-reliable transport truck, instructions on behavior, note-taking, packing lists and laundry, crayons, plans.
So many things to keep track of, so many people to put trust in. Fingers crossed. The result unseen, unknown, even still, maybe forever. Educational tours are no small endeavor in this setting. In fact, it's quite possible that it will be the greatest adventure of their lives.
28 students ages 14-21 piled into the blue truck. Limbs which were not squelched by bags or other people, protruding through the ripped canopy. I pulled myself up to scan for my spot only to meet questioning eyes who weren't ready to answer my enquiry. There's always room for one more, except when there's not. My legs went numb, but the blood not spent circulating through my lower extremeties was sure pumping through the questions in my heart and mind. Firstly, will we actually make it across this bridge? And if so, will we make up the time lost on earlier police predicaments and chicken issues? Will the schedule actually go as we had planned, and will we really see the whole hospital, all the school, the research center, and the airstrip? Will they keep their food in at both ends when they find out they're taking flight? Will they understand enough english to be appropriately shocked by what they see and hear, yet not so overwhelmed by the electricity, hot showers, and buzz of hospital activity that they become completley immobilized?
They listened, they learned, they saw, they touched, they questioned, they ate, they slept. They experienced things they never had before. Their own bed and blankets, not a dirt floor shared by other family members. They ate first, priority theirs, not secunded to their elders. They got x rays of their bones. They played on a jungle gym. They took flight. They smiled more than I've ever seen them smile, and they hugged me individually, for once without fear. They now want to become doctors, accountants, nurses, pilots. They want to see more outside of Nakeempa's limits.
They are happy in a way I've never seen before, and this makes me happy. If that's all I accomplish in one year, I'll somehow feel I had purpose. And for those of you who contributed toward this incredible journey, you will soon see the impact you had. Thank you again : )
http://picasaweb.google.com/machaworks/NakempaSchoolFlightsOverMacha#
So many things to keep track of, so many people to put trust in. Fingers crossed. The result unseen, unknown, even still, maybe forever. Educational tours are no small endeavor in this setting. In fact, it's quite possible that it will be the greatest adventure of their lives.
28 students ages 14-21 piled into the blue truck. Limbs which were not squelched by bags or other people, protruding through the ripped canopy. I pulled myself up to scan for my spot only to meet questioning eyes who weren't ready to answer my enquiry. There's always room for one more, except when there's not. My legs went numb, but the blood not spent circulating through my lower extremeties was sure pumping through the questions in my heart and mind. Firstly, will we actually make it across this bridge? And if so, will we make up the time lost on earlier police predicaments and chicken issues? Will the schedule actually go as we had planned, and will we really see the whole hospital, all the school, the research center, and the airstrip? Will they keep their food in at both ends when they find out they're taking flight? Will they understand enough english to be appropriately shocked by what they see and hear, yet not so overwhelmed by the electricity, hot showers, and buzz of hospital activity that they become completley immobilized?
They listened, they learned, they saw, they touched, they questioned, they ate, they slept. They experienced things they never had before. Their own bed and blankets, not a dirt floor shared by other family members. They ate first, priority theirs, not secunded to their elders. They got x rays of their bones. They played on a jungle gym. They took flight. They smiled more than I've ever seen them smile, and they hugged me individually, for once without fear. They now want to become doctors, accountants, nurses, pilots. They want to see more outside of Nakeempa's limits.
They are happy in a way I've never seen before, and this makes me happy. If that's all I accomplish in one year, I'll somehow feel I had purpose. And for those of you who contributed toward this incredible journey, you will soon see the impact you had. Thank you again : )
http://picasaweb.google.com/
Saturday, May 16, 2009
uli kuli?
You may be wondering where I've been.
So have I.
A month of movement to masticate.
I'll spit out the abridged version for myself and others to digest in due time.
For now, the photos can speak the words I'm still trying to retrieve.
Matthew and I can be found here...that is, in South Africa, Lesotho, Botswana, and Zambia...
http://picasaweb.google.com/akraybil/MatthewAndMe02
I'd advocate for this to win as our most ambitous, and most successful trip yet. Epic.
TBC
So have I.
A month of movement to masticate.
I'll spit out the abridged version for myself and others to digest in due time.
For now, the photos can speak the words I'm still trying to retrieve.
Matthew and I can be found here...that is, in South Africa, Lesotho, Botswana, and Zambia...
http://picasaweb.google.com/akraybil/MatthewAndMe02
I'd advocate for this to win as our most ambitous, and most successful trip yet. Epic.
TBC
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
a penny for your thoughts
I don’t actually have a surplus of cash on hand, let alone hundreds of pennies for all of you. Kwacha probably isn’t the currency you’d be hoping for either, but I could use some pro bono advice, or merely your thoughts on the matter (This applies to everyone reading).
My future, that is, and the question at hand is nursing school. I know I still have about 5 months to go, but seeing as how the last half of anything and everything in my life has blown past me like a hurricane, I figured I’d try to be proactive this time. So as an update and a way to provoke your opinions, I wanted to share my current ideas about my future. (I know one of the only trained psychologists reading is my Dad, but work with me). I’ve learned here that planning usually doesn’t result in exact expected results, but I do think it’s important to plan this sort of thing.
So there it is. I’m thinking of starting nursing school upon arrival in Pennsylvania. The reasons are many, but mostly I think I would really enjoy it. It would be a 2 year masters program which may lead me elsewhere, but could lead me back to a complimentary masters of social work post graduation. The latter is what I previously considered, but the GREs are still a future goal and I know that as I come back to the States, I’ll need to involve myself somewhat immediately. It will likely be a tough transition so I think a quick move into a program that seems exciting, fulfilling, and stable could be positive. That said, who knows what will happen. I’m open to suggestions, comments, or questions. Give me any of your thoughts, and if they’re worth it, I may give you something monetary…but probably not :)
My future, that is, and the question at hand is nursing school. I know I still have about 5 months to go, but seeing as how the last half of anything and everything in my life has blown past me like a hurricane, I figured I’d try to be proactive this time. So as an update and a way to provoke your opinions, I wanted to share my current ideas about my future. (I know one of the only trained psychologists reading is my Dad, but work with me). I’ve learned here that planning usually doesn’t result in exact expected results, but I do think it’s important to plan this sort of thing.
So there it is. I’m thinking of starting nursing school upon arrival in Pennsylvania. The reasons are many, but mostly I think I would really enjoy it. It would be a 2 year masters program which may lead me elsewhere, but could lead me back to a complimentary masters of social work post graduation. The latter is what I previously considered, but the GREs are still a future goal and I know that as I come back to the States, I’ll need to involve myself somewhat immediately. It will likely be a tough transition so I think a quick move into a program that seems exciting, fulfilling, and stable could be positive. That said, who knows what will happen. I’m open to suggestions, comments, or questions. Give me any of your thoughts, and if they’re worth it, I may give you something monetary…but probably not :)
Morning excitement
Kuli? Where? I guess if you’ve seen the same paths your whole life, you’d notice things like the imprint of an unknown vehicle on the sandy path, or the visible sauntering steps of an animal’s tracks. Of course, I thought that my senses had sharpened to become more attuned to the unknown and unseen, but obviously I’m still decidedly deficient. I’ve met only one elephant since I’ve been in Africa, and I have to say that’s kind of a disappointment. Not that I came here intending to spend my days viewing game, but really, just one?
My Baama was scared. They’re known for trampling people, crops, and vehicles alike. They’re just ridiculously large animals, and their footprints along our road into town were proof of their size. It was the droppings that confirmed the young ones were trotting behind them too. But I guess elephants don’t trot no matter how old they are, they stomp. Thank goodness they didn’t find us though, and we didn’t find them, since mothers are always protective of their young, and likely would have come at us in full force.
I pictured her defensively hurling her monstrosity of a fleshy grey body, horrific groans reaching our ears only seconds before we felt the crunch of our vehicle being crumpled up quickly like a small matchbox car. Reality was less exciting. We didn’t even meet. But at least we were safe from their stomping grounds as we saw their tracks trail off into the bush. Disappointed as I was, I was happy to make it to town to use the internet to write of our exciting adventure!
p.s. a few days after writing this, I was informed the 44 Elephants are wandering through the neighborhood. Exciting, yes, but it does create a variety of problems for the people who’s fields they devour and demolish. Apparently the lack of stability in nearby Zimbabwe has given way to other problems besides useless currency, dictatorship, and no food. It’s not only the people who are fleeing, but the wild animals who have strayed from game parks and travelled north to find a home in Zambia. It can be a dangerous journey for people and animals alike.
My Baama was scared. They’re known for trampling people, crops, and vehicles alike. They’re just ridiculously large animals, and their footprints along our road into town were proof of their size. It was the droppings that confirmed the young ones were trotting behind them too. But I guess elephants don’t trot no matter how old they are, they stomp. Thank goodness they didn’t find us though, and we didn’t find them, since mothers are always protective of their young, and likely would have come at us in full force.
I pictured her defensively hurling her monstrosity of a fleshy grey body, horrific groans reaching our ears only seconds before we felt the crunch of our vehicle being crumpled up quickly like a small matchbox car. Reality was less exciting. We didn’t even meet. But at least we were safe from their stomping grounds as we saw their tracks trail off into the bush. Disappointed as I was, I was happy to make it to town to use the internet to write of our exciting adventure!
p.s. a few days after writing this, I was informed the 44 Elephants are wandering through the neighborhood. Exciting, yes, but it does create a variety of problems for the people who’s fields they devour and demolish. Apparently the lack of stability in nearby Zimbabwe has given way to other problems besides useless currency, dictatorship, and no food. It’s not only the people who are fleeing, but the wild animals who have strayed from game parks and travelled north to find a home in Zambia. It can be a dangerous journey for people and animals alike.
A trip to Macha
It seemed as though we had started out on the wrong foot, or feet. Boots are supposed to keep your toes dry, but obviously I’ll need to purchase some thigh high waders in the near future. The rain was pouring down in buckets, wind whipping right through the very fibers of our clothing. I had to smile at the irony of our umbrella which covered and kept dry approximately one square inch of the top of our heads and not much more. (I find myself noticing and smiling at these sorts of oddities often). We waited in vain for 2 hours, which left plenty of time for wandering thoughts and reflection. My mind regularly dawdles through a series of deliberations which don’t follow any particular order except my nomadic brain firings.
We shared the corner leading to Macha with a pack of goats and their owners. It incited the notion that they could come in handy for milk or meat depending on how long we lingered. Good company, I thought. It’s always a fun sort of escapade to try and hail a willing and empty vehicle for a ride, but our efforts seemed wasted, so eventually we nodded our heads down and saunter back into town. It wasn’t all for lost though We found a bus that would take us almost all the way to our destination. Score.
I was eager to get there. The town of Macha is a place the houses quite a number of amazing institutions and people. The Macha Hospital is internationally known and supported, and more recently, an attached Malaria Research Center has been getting a lot of attention. There are frequent out of country visitors who stay for short stints or for longer terms of service, so compared to many other places in Zambia, it’s a hotbed of activity.
After visiting I realized it was perfect. The perfect place for my students to explore and use as an inspiration for what they can become. Since I’ve come to Zambia, I have been burdened by the thought that Nakeempa’s children have no models. There are only 1 or 2 people in the area who have completed a grade 12 education (besides the other teachers). And even the chairpersons and headmen have very little education. So who will the students use as their example? Who can they look to as a guide, or as a person they strive to pattern their lives after? Where can they visibly see the yield of their educational investment?
It was after discussions with others that I came up with the idea of a field trip. Planning has now begun, and we’re forming the schedule of an “educational tour” through Macha from April 13-15. 30 students will accompany the 5 other teachers and I to the hospital grounds, the research center, the radio station, and the nearby girls school. Not only that, we hope to give a few lucky kids the opportunity to take flight at the neighboring air strip. The Director’s of each institution in Macha are preparing lessons and activities for the kids, and we’ll try to feed them well for a few days too.
The prices add up quickly when travelling, but thanks to a number of family members who decided to come together during Christmas and donate an unbelievable amount of money, we’ll give these children the chance of a lifetime. (For those of you who gave to my parents, I’ll fill you in with a more personal update very soon. I can’t thank you enough for entrusting to me, and providing for so many families. Your gift is greater than you may know).
Most kids that will go on this trip have never seen anything beyond Nakeempa, and if they have, they’ve only ventured to the nearby town of Choma. Their experiences are so lacking, and their knowledge of their own surroundings is so limited. So as we take to the road, we’ll hopefully impart a sense of curiosity, a vision of what education can do for them, and a hunger to work hard and improve their lives. As the dates come closer I’ll try to inform you about the latest events, so stay tuned to find out more!
We shared the corner leading to Macha with a pack of goats and their owners. It incited the notion that they could come in handy for milk or meat depending on how long we lingered. Good company, I thought. It’s always a fun sort of escapade to try and hail a willing and empty vehicle for a ride, but our efforts seemed wasted, so eventually we nodded our heads down and saunter back into town. It wasn’t all for lost though We found a bus that would take us almost all the way to our destination. Score.
I was eager to get there. The town of Macha is a place the houses quite a number of amazing institutions and people. The Macha Hospital is internationally known and supported, and more recently, an attached Malaria Research Center has been getting a lot of attention. There are frequent out of country visitors who stay for short stints or for longer terms of service, so compared to many other places in Zambia, it’s a hotbed of activity.
After visiting I realized it was perfect. The perfect place for my students to explore and use as an inspiration for what they can become. Since I’ve come to Zambia, I have been burdened by the thought that Nakeempa’s children have no models. There are only 1 or 2 people in the area who have completed a grade 12 education (besides the other teachers). And even the chairpersons and headmen have very little education. So who will the students use as their example? Who can they look to as a guide, or as a person they strive to pattern their lives after? Where can they visibly see the yield of their educational investment?
It was after discussions with others that I came up with the idea of a field trip. Planning has now begun, and we’re forming the schedule of an “educational tour” through Macha from April 13-15. 30 students will accompany the 5 other teachers and I to the hospital grounds, the research center, the radio station, and the nearby girls school. Not only that, we hope to give a few lucky kids the opportunity to take flight at the neighboring air strip. The Director’s of each institution in Macha are preparing lessons and activities for the kids, and we’ll try to feed them well for a few days too.
The prices add up quickly when travelling, but thanks to a number of family members who decided to come together during Christmas and donate an unbelievable amount of money, we’ll give these children the chance of a lifetime. (For those of you who gave to my parents, I’ll fill you in with a more personal update very soon. I can’t thank you enough for entrusting to me, and providing for so many families. Your gift is greater than you may know).
Most kids that will go on this trip have never seen anything beyond Nakeempa, and if they have, they’ve only ventured to the nearby town of Choma. Their experiences are so lacking, and their knowledge of their own surroundings is so limited. So as we take to the road, we’ll hopefully impart a sense of curiosity, a vision of what education can do for them, and a hunger to work hard and improve their lives. As the dates come closer I’ll try to inform you about the latest events, so stay tuned to find out more!
Friday, March 6, 2009
Names
I was asked to type class lists for everyone in the school. It makes sense bearing in mind that I am the only one here who knows how to operate a computer. Plus I’m proud to say that I can type using all 10 fingers. Yup, I can navigate words without pecking only using my pointer finger. Anyhow, I’ve decided I was glad for the opportunity to type out all 800 plus names because I could finally have a complete list of all the ones I’ve heard and said “your name is what?!” So here’s my laundry list of favorites, some sad, some outrageous, some hilarious, and others just outright ridiculous. I find myself asking, what have we as a western culture and English language done to this poor generation of African children?? It’s a Disaster….sorry, I mean it’s Disaster, the little boy…
Disaster
Gravity
Bilgay (?)
Nobody
Obvious (duh)
Sure
Phizzy
Petty
Perfect
Humble
Duumbo (this poor child)
Ichiness (always?)
Needy
Trywell (I hope so)
Sharfly (I don’t even know)
Hide
Catlite (hmm)
Memory
Hisfull
Obby ( I think this was supposed to be Bobby)
Delivery
Vespa (sweet ride)
Royness
Flagless (so un-patriotic)
Far
Soviet (former union)
Loveness
Hidden
Effort
Fear
Minister (his destiny awaits)
Dissolve (did you just hear this word in science class?)
Stranger (not to me)
Disaster
Gravity
Bilgay (?)
Nobody
Obvious (duh)
Sure
Phizzy
Petty
Perfect
Humble
Duumbo (this poor child)
Ichiness (always?)
Needy
Trywell (I hope so)
Sharfly (I don’t even know)
Hide
Catlite (hmm)
Memory
Hisfull
Obby ( I think this was supposed to be Bobby)
Delivery
Vespa (sweet ride)
Royness
Flagless (so un-patriotic)
Far
Soviet (former union)
Loveness
Hidden
Effort
Fear
Minister (his destiny awaits)
Dissolve (did you just hear this word in science class?)
Stranger (not to me)
What If...
“Ba-Ashley” they announce along with Tonga greetings and big crooked smiles. Ba is for respect, and it’s that which leaves me feeling guilty that their names have slipped my mind as mine slides (not so easily) off their tongue. Ashrey is more like it, since “l” and “r” can be interchanged at any time. There just is no r in Tonga, so praying is the same as playing, and “wrong” is heard as “long”…you get the idea. Lucky for me I can call any woman Baama and she’ll take it with the pride and respect deserved of an African mother, or any mother at that.
The swarm of women sit me down on the ground, legs perpendicular to torso, and straight in line to match the tweed mat on which we park. A flurry of scraps surrounds me, brightly colored trash. Shimmering golden plastic wrappers, mirror –like cellophane from biscuits, crinkles of vibrant blues, oranges, greens, yellows. I would have called it unbearably gaudy and distasteful in my former life, but here my views have changed, decorative beauty being the least of these. Laughing and chatting away, they hand over the crooked sewing needle, threaded by a long sinuous scrap of the mealie-meal bag. The accordion folds add life to the litter and as they teach me their art. And soon enough what once was rubbish is a colorful porcupine-like decoration to hang from their humble home. When you have a mud hut in a place like Nakeempa you need to be truly creative in order to spice up your life. Salt in your nshima just doesn’t do it.
They’re surprised that I can sew, and about 1/10 of what they mutter about me I can understand. They slap my knee and finger my light skin as they enjoy my mere presence since communication ceases in due time. Today it’s my worn out brown crocs that bring the most mirth, so I lend them to the seasoned old woman who slowly and gingerly takes them, but swiftly puts them on her own feet. It might be the most entertaining fashion show I’ve seen yet, as they swallow her up to her bony ankles, kind of like the shoe-name crocodile suggests. She scampers about the dusty path in hysterics. The younger girls look up at their grandmother in hilarity and continue “platting” each others hair. They say it’s my turn next week, and I agree with a wince as I see them pulling and tugging at their friends who are bobble-heads awaiting their modish do. The small children seem to enjoy the idea also as they approach me, but run away in a torrent of giggles after making eye contact and sharing a smile. They always come back though, this time because of the lure of my locks. They’re mesmerized by my “long”, “slippery” hair that gravity pulls all the way down my back, rather than their stiff spiky hair that looks surprised as it shoots out in patches, electrocuted.
Emelda’s tresses are finished and she makes her way inside to her crying infant Brighton, who seems to be wanting the attention I was getting, or maybe just her mother’s breast. It’s baby Brighton who I came to see, but only in the extensive wake (an hour or two) of sitting on the ground origami-like and eating boiled guinea fowl eggs can we begin talking about the real reason for the visit. If I were to explain the relationship, including the history of orphan-hood, guardianship, and the slew of unexpected children, it could take all day. Nevertheless, it was important for me to visit Emelda, the mother of a sick child. Here, if you don’t visit the sick you are a heartless fool, or maybe you just don’t understand the culture. I was trying not to be titled the former, and attempting to build on the latter, so I went.
I love visiting homes, being invited in to experience and share in people’s lives. But there is still a challenging distance, a wall that I keep trying to penetrate month after month. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to knock it down. It’s tough without language and it’s frustrating in a traditional society that doesn’t approve of differences, or change. If tribalism is still so rampant, imagine the faux pas of my more distant, more modern ideas infiltrating.
I enquire about the illness, trying not to be too direct. But like always, questions are answered in the most round about of ways as if I were chasing my tail to get real, unambiguous information. “Sick” can mean an infinite number of things, and here, there is always a chance that it could somehow imply the influence of witchcraft or something else beyond my realm of understanding. But if there are more details swirling around, it’s still unlikely that they’ll gather them up to share with me. So I stop at that, wondering if it’s worth asking more questions.
It’s true what they say about possessiveness. That Africans are overly generous with material things, lending out anything and everything they have (often times to a fault). But it’s their information that they guard with an army of indirect words and a dead bolt lock on their quiet lips as they curl into a “knowing but not telling” smile. We (North Americans) will share our hearts with the lady at the check-out counter, and our frustrations can be word processed for the world to see on blogs such as this. But it’s our things, our precious relics, important and unimportant treasures, and all the other junk (not always) which gets hoarded. Far be it for someone to displace or even handle our stuff with the idea of prodding through with sticky fingers.
My evidence is a case study on myself. Why is it so deeply engrained into me that the lotion sitting on my desk is “mine!” Of course I don’t actually yell that except inside my own head, after finding the bottle half empty upon return to “my room” where “my things” are on “my desk”. Really, it’s not a big deal, but how selfish am I to even care when they share copious amounts of food, and their entire homes with me.
It’s the information which they take to the grave though. And ultimately, I think (in my humble opinion) that this can cause a lot of problems. For example if I knew the reasons for this particular “sickness” or a more complete medical history of the family, maybe I could do more to help. Granted I’m not a nurse (though being here makes me want to become one). However, I can’t help but ask the perpetual “what if” questions. Yet again, I have to remember to push down my pride, my hunger to do and act, and I try desperately to just be. Sit, eat, listen, sleep, repeat. I know I can’t change such deep cultural traits and beliefs. But I still get angry and depressed at the thought of my presence being so frustratingly futile. In the classroom, in the home, seemingly everywhere.
I now know a lot of things which have uncovered both the complexity and reality of life in Nakeempa. I know that the children I teach have no foundation, and therefore, whatever I can impart is still not enough for them to pass. I know that when I leave they’ll still have to kneel down to their elders and submit to beatings. I know that many girls will still get pregnant, and/or married off. I know that I won’t be able to learn enough Tonga to gain many true friends here. I know that many relationships will remain superficial and my true opinions and ideas won’t be realized. I know now that I can’t fix a whole lot of anything, like I had thought when I originally came. I know that my time here will pass and I’ll be forgotten just as so many others who come and go. And mostly I know that I really don’t know a whole lot.
What I know is only more confused every day, and I have to remind myself that giving up isn’t helpful either. Frenetically I try to wave away pessimistic thoughts, to drive away the feelings of hopelessness, and the desire to think futuristically about returning home. But I’ll admit it takes a lot of effort. It’s tempting to do as the days tick by. And honestly it’s sometimes necessary to give in, so that I get through the lowest of lows. But I guess it’s the important lessons in life that require us to exhaust ourselves. That require us to just sit and sew. There are many moments where I feel encouraged and many more where I feel exhausted. So now I’ll have to learn more about the paradox of effortful letting go. Success, happiness, and fulfillment are not to be pursued like the pot of gold at the end of the non-existent rainbow. It’s the rainbow itself that is the treasure which brightens the sky. And only after a murky, heavy rainstorm can each colorful band be illuminated. So my search for the light continues. I chase my tail, but I’m discovering how to appreciate the exercise :).
The swarm of women sit me down on the ground, legs perpendicular to torso, and straight in line to match the tweed mat on which we park. A flurry of scraps surrounds me, brightly colored trash. Shimmering golden plastic wrappers, mirror –like cellophane from biscuits, crinkles of vibrant blues, oranges, greens, yellows. I would have called it unbearably gaudy and distasteful in my former life, but here my views have changed, decorative beauty being the least of these. Laughing and chatting away, they hand over the crooked sewing needle, threaded by a long sinuous scrap of the mealie-meal bag. The accordion folds add life to the litter and as they teach me their art. And soon enough what once was rubbish is a colorful porcupine-like decoration to hang from their humble home. When you have a mud hut in a place like Nakeempa you need to be truly creative in order to spice up your life. Salt in your nshima just doesn’t do it.
They’re surprised that I can sew, and about 1/10 of what they mutter about me I can understand. They slap my knee and finger my light skin as they enjoy my mere presence since communication ceases in due time. Today it’s my worn out brown crocs that bring the most mirth, so I lend them to the seasoned old woman who slowly and gingerly takes them, but swiftly puts them on her own feet. It might be the most entertaining fashion show I’ve seen yet, as they swallow her up to her bony ankles, kind of like the shoe-name crocodile suggests. She scampers about the dusty path in hysterics. The younger girls look up at their grandmother in hilarity and continue “platting” each others hair. They say it’s my turn next week, and I agree with a wince as I see them pulling and tugging at their friends who are bobble-heads awaiting their modish do. The small children seem to enjoy the idea also as they approach me, but run away in a torrent of giggles after making eye contact and sharing a smile. They always come back though, this time because of the lure of my locks. They’re mesmerized by my “long”, “slippery” hair that gravity pulls all the way down my back, rather than their stiff spiky hair that looks surprised as it shoots out in patches, electrocuted.
Emelda’s tresses are finished and she makes her way inside to her crying infant Brighton, who seems to be wanting the attention I was getting, or maybe just her mother’s breast. It’s baby Brighton who I came to see, but only in the extensive wake (an hour or two) of sitting on the ground origami-like and eating boiled guinea fowl eggs can we begin talking about the real reason for the visit. If I were to explain the relationship, including the history of orphan-hood, guardianship, and the slew of unexpected children, it could take all day. Nevertheless, it was important for me to visit Emelda, the mother of a sick child. Here, if you don’t visit the sick you are a heartless fool, or maybe you just don’t understand the culture. I was trying not to be titled the former, and attempting to build on the latter, so I went.
I love visiting homes, being invited in to experience and share in people’s lives. But there is still a challenging distance, a wall that I keep trying to penetrate month after month. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to knock it down. It’s tough without language and it’s frustrating in a traditional society that doesn’t approve of differences, or change. If tribalism is still so rampant, imagine the faux pas of my more distant, more modern ideas infiltrating.
I enquire about the illness, trying not to be too direct. But like always, questions are answered in the most round about of ways as if I were chasing my tail to get real, unambiguous information. “Sick” can mean an infinite number of things, and here, there is always a chance that it could somehow imply the influence of witchcraft or something else beyond my realm of understanding. But if there are more details swirling around, it’s still unlikely that they’ll gather them up to share with me. So I stop at that, wondering if it’s worth asking more questions.
It’s true what they say about possessiveness. That Africans are overly generous with material things, lending out anything and everything they have (often times to a fault). But it’s their information that they guard with an army of indirect words and a dead bolt lock on their quiet lips as they curl into a “knowing but not telling” smile. We (North Americans) will share our hearts with the lady at the check-out counter, and our frustrations can be word processed for the world to see on blogs such as this. But it’s our things, our precious relics, important and unimportant treasures, and all the other junk (not always) which gets hoarded. Far be it for someone to displace or even handle our stuff with the idea of prodding through with sticky fingers.
My evidence is a case study on myself. Why is it so deeply engrained into me that the lotion sitting on my desk is “mine!” Of course I don’t actually yell that except inside my own head, after finding the bottle half empty upon return to “my room” where “my things” are on “my desk”. Really, it’s not a big deal, but how selfish am I to even care when they share copious amounts of food, and their entire homes with me.
It’s the information which they take to the grave though. And ultimately, I think (in my humble opinion) that this can cause a lot of problems. For example if I knew the reasons for this particular “sickness” or a more complete medical history of the family, maybe I could do more to help. Granted I’m not a nurse (though being here makes me want to become one). However, I can’t help but ask the perpetual “what if” questions. Yet again, I have to remember to push down my pride, my hunger to do and act, and I try desperately to just be. Sit, eat, listen, sleep, repeat. I know I can’t change such deep cultural traits and beliefs. But I still get angry and depressed at the thought of my presence being so frustratingly futile. In the classroom, in the home, seemingly everywhere.
I now know a lot of things which have uncovered both the complexity and reality of life in Nakeempa. I know that the children I teach have no foundation, and therefore, whatever I can impart is still not enough for them to pass. I know that when I leave they’ll still have to kneel down to their elders and submit to beatings. I know that many girls will still get pregnant, and/or married off. I know that I won’t be able to learn enough Tonga to gain many true friends here. I know that many relationships will remain superficial and my true opinions and ideas won’t be realized. I know now that I can’t fix a whole lot of anything, like I had thought when I originally came. I know that my time here will pass and I’ll be forgotten just as so many others who come and go. And mostly I know that I really don’t know a whole lot.
What I know is only more confused every day, and I have to remind myself that giving up isn’t helpful either. Frenetically I try to wave away pessimistic thoughts, to drive away the feelings of hopelessness, and the desire to think futuristically about returning home. But I’ll admit it takes a lot of effort. It’s tempting to do as the days tick by. And honestly it’s sometimes necessary to give in, so that I get through the lowest of lows. But I guess it’s the important lessons in life that require us to exhaust ourselves. That require us to just sit and sew. There are many moments where I feel encouraged and many more where I feel exhausted. So now I’ll have to learn more about the paradox of effortful letting go. Success, happiness, and fulfillment are not to be pursued like the pot of gold at the end of the non-existent rainbow. It’s the rainbow itself that is the treasure which brightens the sky. And only after a murky, heavy rainstorm can each colorful band be illuminated. So my search for the light continues. I chase my tail, but I’m discovering how to appreciate the exercise :).
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Deuteronomy
22:5 The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.
...and now there's proof from my Zambian friends and Moses. I should never wear trousers again. (pants mean underware)
:)
...and now there's proof from my Zambian friends and Moses. I should never wear trousers again. (pants mean underware)
:)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
a retreat
The MCC retreat was held in Sinazongwe on Lake Kariba...a beautiful place to rest, relax, and rejuvinate
Volleyball
and many hidden treasures
Our guest speaker and his family were wonderful to have along
and we spent a lot of time sitting, and a lot of time eating :)
we also explored and found zebra grazing
and children romping around :)
but the most exciting part was the croc farm, where thousands of crocodiles were watching us pass through, teeth bared. one tried to knaw on the tire of our vehicle, but alas he couldn't bring us down.
we cruised around on a boat safari to see other animals on the water
like the territorial hippos
and I even tried my hand at fishing, but unfortunately, just when I thought I'd caught something big, I realized I was stuck on a rock...Zambians are good people, and this man willingly jumped in to help me.
but we also had inside adventures to celebrate the coming of the new year...a fashion show, african style.It was a fun week, and a great group of MCCrs to be with. And no doubt a retreat to be remembered.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A much anticipated visit
When my parents came to see Zambia, to see me, they tasted the many flavors of life in Zambia, "abnormal" as they saw many of them to be :)
First we vacationed. A safari in Botswana, which gave us glimpses of the natural beauty of southern Africa.
The impala scampered around everywhere
But so many other animals roamed the vast lands of Chobe game park.
But soon enough, we were on our way out of the leisurly tour, with a need for nourishing mauwi fruit to sustain us into the village.
It's a rough road into Nakeempa, but Dad's driving skills improved quickly as he plunged into lakes, and hobbled through the ruts.
Everyone was eagerly anticipating their arrival
And my host Dad had a plethora of stories to tell and things to show.
They encountered life out of the big city
and were given a proper welcome as the chicken was slaughtered just for them.
The church was buzzing at the news of 2 more mukuwas (white people)
and they were fed incessantly
but don't be fooled by the pace of it all...there's always time to sit (women on the ground of course)
We made a special time to visit baby Ashley though. And her "grandparents" as they were called, were delighted to see my name-sake.
but maybe she isn't so thrilled about her name, or me....look closely.
At least her young sister wanted us there.
There were many new experiences they had in the 2 day trip to Nakeempa, and after we left the bush, the experience of Christmas in Zambia felt different as well. Jocelyn and I tried to force it, but somehow it's not quite the same.
We kept trying to get into the spirit, but as they left the day after Christmas, it was still a sad goodbye. No doubt though, it was a Christmas and a visit to be remembered, one which has allowed me to continue on.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
visitors from far places
A backwards photo journal:
(being away from technology has created more functional and neurological challenges than I thought :) uploading is now a difficult task for me. so bear with my random assortment of pictures in no particular order... you'll get the idea.)
Giraffes graze just meters away, and stare down as they chomp the sky high roughage... this African safari made me feel like a visitor to a place I thought I was getting to know.
Renalda (my friend who visited from her home in Latvia) and I toured the hot spots of Zambia, and saw the falls for the last time before they began to gush with amazing force.
many adventures were to be had, but we didn't expect to see an elephant moseying along the side of the road.
and excitement couldn't be topped after a cold ice cream, since refrigeration isn't common in Nakeempa
staring over the kariba dam made our small village dam look like a puddle.
that's right...Renalda and I walked right into Zimbabwe, and we survived
a sunset boat ride on the lake...cholera and bilharzia should have deterred me from swimming, but it didn't
it was just too beautiful
we had our share of break downs though, but Mweemba was a life-saver
frustrations were heightened though because of malaria...
Kathy (my country rep) was a big hit in the village, a city woman from Lusaka, and a mukuwa. my host mom couldn't stop feeding her.
I needed a vacation, and I got it...beautiful Siavonga
Jocelyn and I made our own fun while waiting by the roadside (this is just before selling bananas)
Staying with friends and exploring Zambia was a much needed break from the bush. but I think I'm ready to go back. It was a month of travel and fun. But now it's back to work...the school year begins, and term one will surely bring new challenges and new opportunities. Everyday is a new day in 2009!
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