Context Matters

2/17/2011 Being out of context
It has now been six months since we arrived. One of the best
indicators that the "living in rural Africa" novelty has worn off is
when the opposite of what was novel becomes novel. For example:
staying in a hotel and delighting that you don't have to walk 100
meters to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. And, well, the
novelty has worn off. I saw my friend Ken, the Maybe But Probably Not
Murderer yesterday and it barely registered. The constant presence of
lizards, spiders, et al for even the most private acts (like
defeating) is assumed. Even the 105 degree heat doesn't faze me any
more than the average Joe. There are rhythms and patterns of
familiarity that typically govern the day.
My role in the lives of the children is as the provider of things -
school supplies, medicine, food, soap, games, bandages, the occasional
smile/hug/word of encouragement (wouldn't want to be too generous with
those, though). And someone always needs provision, and someone always
has a complaint about what has been provided. And it's exhausting
sometimes, which is why I wasn't particularly excited about the
prospect of taking a group of kids to the market to buy sandals
yesterday.
A brief but relevant digression: I have come to recognize that every
relationship can benefit from a change of context (digressions from my
digression: this may be why romantic relationships need dates. Triple
digression: please, people, don't call it "a date night." It is a
date. You might designate a specific night for a consistent date, and
that might be "date night," but please don't use an article with the
term).
As a teacher, one of the best pieces of advice I ever received was to
go to as many extracurricular events as possible. When I didn't have
to be the warm yet strict, extremely focused taskmaster and could just
be present and enjoy myself and take pride in my students, my role as
an educator was strengthened not undermined, because I wasn't only an
educator, and I wasn't an adversary (which I often was in the
classroom) - I was a supporter with no other agenda.
As the provider of all things, my relationship with the children is
pretty strictly limited to our home. It's about four acres, so it
encompasses a whole host of different interactions, and I tend to
escape from the compound for exactly three reasons: going out of town,
going out on a date with Sarah (to one of three restaurants), or going
out of my mind (this tends to involve a long walk in which I mutter to
myself and try to avoid the various crazy people who have recognized
me as one of their own).
Funny things happen on the way to the market: instead of sixty
children, I find myself with only three, and suddenly we're having a
prolonged conversation (about why I don't cook for Sarah and whether
she will one day beat me because of it. They, of course, would never
want a man to cook for them). There are no chores for me to remind
them to do, and no supplies for them to request of me, so instead we
talk and laugh. It must be appealing, because soon three other
children join us.
In the market, I make the children at first pretend like they don't
know me, so as to avoid paying the white person price for their new
sandals. I pretend to shop for myself while keeping a distance of
about 50 feet from the kids, and when they've found the sandals they
want and settled on a price they come to me for the money. This works
for about 15 minutes, but the market isn't huge and it's hard to
disguise six children coming to the white man to get money from him
and then returning with the balance (which makes me feel a little like
the Artful Dodger).
Girls of a certain age want to see every pair of sandals being sold by
every vendor before they make a decision, so shopping takes a long
time. I am greeted by approximately one thousand people (the novelty
has worn off for me, apparently not for them) while I wait for them to
find just the right pair and haggle it down to just the right price
(they know that if they can stay under the budget I have laid out for
them, I'll let them buy sweets with the balance. This makes them much
more discerning shoppers).
We push ever further back in the market, but by the time we find our
way out all of them have new sandals that they picked out themselves
and - if the smiles on their faces are any indication - that they
love. What they don't have is a remaining balance, but I find myself
feeling unexpectedly generous and unhurried by the slowly setting sun,
so we stop at the various storefronts along the way looking for
something called Super Dip, which the children love and which I
suspect might be one of those Chinese candies laced with cancer that
the FDA forbade in the US. But, again, the children love it, and I'm
feeling particularly indulgent toward the children, so sugary cancer
it is! And again, we find ourselves in a prolonged conversation (this
time about eating pig - which they all claim they have done and
liked...until I say we should buy one and eat it, then their story
quickly changes).
We arrive back at the compound in the twilight of the day, and the
children rush off to show their new sandals to their brothers and
sisters. Twelve-year-old Kasara looks at me and says, "Seth, I also
need sandals." Two others immediately echo her refrain, and a third
complains to me that Sarah told her she couldn't get new sandals yet.
Then she starts crying, and a too brief step out of context comes to
an end.

Growing Up

"So, what do you think you might like to do when you grow up?" I ask
the 17-year-old girl sitting across from me. She promptly looks down
and away and says nothing. 30 seconds elapse; still not a word. I
try a different question: "Have you ever thought about what your life
might be like when you leave this home?" She continues looking away
and heaves her shoulders in a sigh. No reply.
This month we are launching a program at Cornerstone Children's Home
to help the children reintegrate into their families and communities
when they reach the age of 18. The program aims to teach them a
vocational skill, learn to create and manage a budget, and find a
place to live. To help them along the way, each child age 16 and over
was assigned a staff mentor to guide them through the process over the
course of one to two years. It is a big step forward for the home,
which up to now has had no exit strategy for the kids – several of
whom are already in their early 20s.
I expected to encounter resistance; the kids are being asked to
shoulder the responsibility for their own futures. They are learning
by doing – learning agriculture by growing food and raising chickens.
They are expected to work 10 hours each week on a project around the
home. This program marks a significant paradigm shift, and this
change – as with all change – feels both difficult and frightening.
As I sit with the girl, however, I realize something I hadn't
expected: she isn't resisting me because she doesn't like the idea of
work, nor because she is afraid of the prospect of change. She isn't
even actively resisting me; she has just never thought about the
future before. This is shocking to my American sensibility, to my
proud cultural heritage in which we start preparing children for
university while in utero. When I ask her what she thinks her life
might be like in five years, she can't answer because she has never
thought that far ahead.
I take a deep breath and begin again: she went to visit her older
sister at Christmastime – what was that like? What did she do while
she was there? Did she like cooking? Really? What can she cook?
What else? What else? Did she cook with her sister? Would she like to
become a tailor like her sister? But what if someone taught her to sew
first? Does her sister's husband have land or are they just renting a
house? Would she like to live there with the sister's family? Was it
fun seeing her sister's children? Would she like to have children of
her own someday? Aaaaand…that's when we were imagining too far into
the future. But on the way there I discovered that this young girl
not only knows how to cook, but she enjoys cooking. She knows how to
embroider and might like to learn to sew. She definitely does not
want to become a nurse. She has tried growing food before but wants
to learn the right way.
All in all, I'd call that a productive first meeting.
Of course, I can't get the other five children with whom I need to
meet to stop running away every time they see me coming.

Longing & Settling In

I’ve always told friends when they move to a new city, “you have to give it 6 months, the first 6 months are always bad.” I found myself having to take my own advice on more occasions than I’d like to admit these past months.

Sure enough six months in I’m happier here than I’ve ever been. I have adjusted (resigned) to the 105° weather and that not much will get done between 1 and 4 in the afternoon. I can juggle several children’s needs without having a complete meltdown – sometimes even with a smile. I am no longer surprised if not yet comfortable with the creatures I may have to remove from my house at any point in the day (here is a short list: bat, monkey, goat, scorpion, rat, spider, one-eyed dog).

I am truly enjoying my days here, my time with the people and even the town in which we live. Let me tell you this is no small miracle. It has taken me all these six months to say “I’m glad we are here, it’s been worth it.” Most days I didn’t feel that way.

Now we are preparing to go home for three weeks. We will be leaving the compound to begin the three day journey back to Denver in exactly 10 days and I cannot wait. I can smell Denver, see the mountains, imagine every street corner and each friend and family member’s laugh and smile. The longing for home is possibly stronger, yet with less grief than ever before.

Then I see our four year old Amana smile and run to me and I can’t stand the idea of leaving for a month. I see our older children working in the gardens and hate that I will miss the first planting. I know life hear will go on just fine without me, Amana will run to the arms of one of the other mother’s we have hired and there are people here who know more about planting than I do, but now this is home and I’m going to miss it.

Malaquan for Me

“ You going to grow in that rocky place?”

That was the most common question I heard when I started purchasing supplies for my small garden.

The children and neighbors laughed at me as I began chipping at the small plot of cleared earth with a pick ax (come on, you would have laughed too). They laughed as I collected dried grass, manure, and kitchen waste from around the compound and piled it near my hopeful square.

But then it started to take form and others joined in. They removed stones bigger than some of our children and made my pile grow taller than me.

Of course, when it was finally time to plant everyone had an opinion of what I should grow. I had imagined it as my garden with all the things I would want to grow and eat. A perfect little kitchen garden. Here was my second lesson in how nothing in Africa is mine (I’m not sure how many dozens of lessons I’ve had since then, but I’m still not getting it). Everything is communal, everyone gets a say, and so it was determined that I would grow okra and malaquan (sour greens) in all four of my small beds.

Water had to be pumped and brought in 20L jerry cans from the well about 150M away. I paid my child laborers with “Cornerstone Shillings” and promises of okra.

We ended up growing enough greens for all the children to eat several times - that is more than enough to feed 70 people once a week for four weeks. I even had two people come by from the community to see if they could buy my malaquan – booya!

Okra it turns out will produce, produce, produce. Even after we stopped watering and were letting the pods dry to collect the next seed, small determined blossoms would arrive on the stalks, letting our young girls cook and enjoy the small pods all through the dry season.

The first garden has been dug up and we are preparing to plant again as the rains come this month. I now have teams of kids 16 and older starting their own gardens, all part of our new “self-sufficiency” program for young adults at the home and no one has said to me “we can’t grow here.”

Recipe for Malaquan (I’ve never actually made it, just eaten it):

Oil

Malquan – Sour leafy green grown by the Acholi tribe in East Africa (substitute: any leafy weed, add lemon)

Sweet Potatoes

Groundnut and/or roasted sesame

Salt

Over an open fire roast sesame and/or groundnuts in oil. Remove from heat and grind nuts into a fine butter with a stone. Sauté Malaquan with oil, add nut butter. Serve over boiled sweet potatoes

.

The Death of Johnny Cash

What do you say about a monkey who died? On February 22, we found one
of our monkeys, Johnny Cash, dead in his cage and the other monkey,
June Cash, standing by the corpse in a bewildered state.
I liked Johnny, but I wouldn't say we had a close personal
relationship. Instead, I'll leave it to others to share about Johnny.
The following was said by the mourners gathered around the funeral
pyre (because we had to burn the body, because it would have been
super gross to bury it. And yes, someone did sing 'Ring of Fire' at
Johnny Cash's funeral pyre. And yes, it was me):
"Why Johnny Cash? Why not Simba [our dog]? Simba deserves to die." -
Lawa Joyce, our head cook
"Johnny Cash bit children and scared them. Johnny Cash bit me and
scared me." - Dorothy Mandera, 7-years-old
"I am not sad that Johnny Cash died." - Kasara Lamwaka, 12-years old
(who, nonetheless teared up a little bit)
And then there was 13-year-old Amacha Emmanuel, the happiest and most
resilient child at Cornerstone. In my 6 months here I have seen Amacha
deviate from happiness one time (when he got angry and bit another
boy). Other than that, he has an ever-present smile and cheery
disposition. Perhaps it was because of his unflappability (read, the
fact that he never screamed and ran away when a monkey came near him)
that he and Johnny Cash had developed a special bond. Johnny climbed
all over Amacha, and Amacha just laughed.
As the fire was burning down, I realized I hadn't seen Amacha and went
to see if he was alright. I found him in his bedroom, lying on his bed
and drawing a picture. He seemed a little quiet but otherwise fine, so
I asked him if he had heard the news. He looked at me, nodded, and
broke into his trademark grin, and I realized: no, he hasn't.
I told him, and his face was crossed with a look of pain and shock.
The knowledge settled over him, and he began to sob. His body shook,
he wiped tears away again and again first with his hands then with his
t-shirt, and he kept trying to make himself stop and failing. Before I
knew it, I was crying with him.
And I asked myself why, because I thought Johnny Cash was alright, but
I had no special affection for him. And I realized: Johnny was
Amacha's friend, and more than that Johnny gave Amacha the opportunity
to feel like he was good at something special - when every other child
fled, Amacha stayed; when Johnny was acting like a crazy monkey,
Amacha could calm him down. Johnny made Amacha's life more full, and
Amacha did the same for Johnny. Amacha has other talents and
abilities, other ways that he feels special now - but it's distinctly
possible that being the monkey tamer was the first time he was able to
feel that, and now it's gone. Amacha will move on, but that's
something to grieve.

The Worst English Lesson Ever

Warning: this post contains a censored expletive (repeated several times) and should probably be rated PG-13.  You’ll even know which word I’m censoring. So maybe I should just leave it in, but I won’t.

Come back in time with me to about one month ago.  The scene: a warm Nimule night, just after darkness has fallen.  There’s still a little juice in our solar batteries, so some lights are on, and the children are enjoying running around and playing in the dark.  I’ve just finished eating and am standing awkwardly outside, just kind of standing there. 

*Enter Kasara, the boldest and most generally awesome 12-year-old on the face of the planet, along with the 6 or 7 other kids who follow Kasara everywhere she goes.*

*Kasara and her coterie play kind of unenthusiastically for about 2 minutes, and then…*

Kasara: Se-eth?

Me: Yes, Kasara.

Kasara: What is the meaning of @#%^ing?

Me: (unsure if I’ve heard correctly) Wait, what?

*The children in the background have been listening nonchalantly, for they too want to be enriched with this knowledge of the great English language.  They now join in with Kasara.*

Child 1/Joyce: @#%^ing. What is @#%^ing?

Child 2/Jaclyn: Yes, what is the meaning of @#%^ing?

Me: Well, it kind of depends on the context…

*No, I didn’t actually say that – but it was the first thing I thought.  What really happened was…*

Me: Um, well…in English that’s a really bad thing to say.  You really shouldn’t say it, like ever.

*All the children lower their heads in shame.*

Kasara: Oh. Sorry.

Me: No, you’re not in trouble – you didn’t know what it means and were just asking a question.  But it’s a really bad word.

Child 3/Kamau: What is, @#%^ing?

Me: Yes. Yes, that. Now that you know it’s a bad word, you shouldn’t say it anymore.  If I hear you say it again then you will be in trouble. By the way, where did you hear…that word?

*What I’m really getting at here is, “you didn’t hear me say it, right?” but I can’t be that direct.*

Kasara: *mumbles something about hearing someone say it somewhere in the market*

Me: OK. (sigh of relief) Well, just don’t say it anymore.

If you enjoyed this story, you might also like the one about one child “injecting the anus” of another.  Unfortunately, because it requires an explanatory hand gesture, it has to be told in person.

One Perspective on the Referendum

For weeks now, months really, most people have wanted to know about one thing: the referendum. January 9. The day South Sudan would vote on whether to remain united with the north or to secede and become a sovereign nation (with most indications that they would opt overwhelmingly for the latter). The day that would never come to pass, many feared.

January 9 has represented so many things, so many disparate things: on the one hand, every southerner has looked to it as a future hope and an historic day; on the other hand, they've recognized it as a potential marker of catastrophe and terror.

January 9 has now come and gone - of course the referendum period is actually a week long, so the voting won't officially close until later this week - and one thing I was struck by was a peculiar feature of democracy: at its most basic, it is the repeated act of individuals standing in a line then marking some boxes on a piece of paper. It's a mundane thing really, but the power it contains is staggering.

In America & Western Europe, I think this truth is sometimes lost in the regularity & orderliness of our voting, but in much of the world the powers that be so deeply fear the will of the people that they'll go to remarkable lengths to subvert it. Here in Sudan, there has been justified fear that this vote could lead to a return to civil war. So far that hasn't been the case - though the potential still remains. It is unbelievably difficult to reconcile the image of a snaking line of eager voters with the consequence of widespread destruction.

I imagine someday, Sarah and I will tell some younger generation about being present at the creation of this new nation, and these are the moments I will relay:

·         The elected member of the referendum commission in our state came to Nimule and gave a rousing speech in which be reminded his fellow South Sudanese that, yes, this was a vote about freedom, and yes, he was going to vote for separation, but as a nation they would never find true freedom until they forgave their brothers in the north for the wrongs the south had suffered.

·         The buses that arrived in our town (and probably dozens of others throughout the south) each morning of the week leading up to the referendum and departed each evening. On the buses, optimistic volunteers from the southern capital Juba were coming to circulate throughout the town and mobilize people to vote.

·         A visit from two of those volunteers, who came to our compound to instruct people on "how to vote." Not which way to vote, mind you, but instructions on the actual process of voting. "For 50 years we haven't voted," one of the volunteers pointed out to me. "So the people need to know what to do."

·         The trucks with giant speakers in their beds that circulated through our town from 8am-11pm every day blaring music and reminding people that, really, they should vote for separation.

·         The women running across an open field early on the morning of the 9th, racing to be the first person in line to vote.

·         The hundreds of people standing in a line that wound through that same field as they waited in line for the poll to open, and the line growing longer and longer and longer.

·         The open-palmed hand (like a traffic cop would use to tell you to stop) that represented separation. In a country where so many of the voters are illiterate, the choices have to have a visual representation. Thus, two bands gripping each other in a handshake equaled unity, and the single open palm equaled separation.

·         On the 9th, people greeted each other not by shaking hands - as they normally would - but by slapping high 5's with their open palms.

·         That evening, in the midst of a country likely coming apart, our friend and colleague Akera and his fiancée Mary were united in marriage. It was a strategic decision on their parts - with a bride price still commonly practiced and often exploited to milk the groom out of everything possible, Mary's family hadn't agreed to the union. But there's another way to get married: the woman simply sneaks away, and shortly thereafter the family receives a letter from the man informing them of her whereabouts, explaining that she won't be returning. He puts some money in the envelope too, and it's understood that they're married. Akera & Mary figured that in the excitement of the referendum, it might take a while for her family to notice her absence. They won't have an official wedding until later, but we gathered together to bless them and hear their commitment to each other (and to drink soda - always to drink soda).

There's still a long way to go in this process - votes to be cast and counted, lots of details to work out, founding documents that will likely need to be completed. There's still a lot that could go horribly wrong. But - increasingly - there's a lot of reason to hope.