We have a little less than a week left in Ghana. I am not ready to leave. I even e-mailed the travel agent to see if it would be possible to change my flight. The flights are all full. I do not feel finished at all. I feel like I am getting started. I wonder if Africa can become an addiction. I can’t get enough….
Rob is spending part of this week training people how to build websites. I sat in on the morning session yesterday. I was very proud of my husband! Proud of his patience, his flexibility and his determination to be concretely helpful to these people who are desperately trying to be effective members of the world information community and the international marketplace. To be an African trying to engage the international technology world is to struggle.
I have had a taste of this struggle as I’ve been working on a web-based research project for MMCT. They have broadband internet but it goes down constantly. Other times it is so slow that it takes an hour to send an attachment. Then the mouse breaks. Then the electricity goes out. Then the server is down. Then the program freezes and must be reinstalled. Then an error message about a problem with the hard drive. Try to send things over dial up but the phone service goes out. I have “wasted” countless hours struggling to manage technical problem after technical problem. It has really stretched my frustration tolerance as drastically changed my expectations for what I can feasibly accomplish in a workday.
The “digital divide” is another type of evidence for poverty. Rob and I talk around and around about how technology and the information that technology can provide can be an anti-poverty resource. How is it possible that computers can be a source of incredible sums of money for many people in our country yet virtually worthless to others around the world? It is no surprise that much of Africa has been left out of the technological revolution. Even where there is ingenuity, brilliant business plan, and even investment money to get started - there is simply not enough infrastructure to support e-commerce. I wish I had some brilliant ideas.
The news comes to life when one is away from home. Rob and I have a few days layover in London on the way home. We have been carefully watching the events unfold. Sad. Nervous. We are in the cauldron of international affairs: in the midst of poverty, in the midst of terrorism. I am sure of one thing: terrorism and poverty are related. We, the wealthy of the world (Americans), must begin to take international poverty more seriously if we are serious about ending terrorism. 30,000 children die every day from preventable causes- hunger, unsafe water, etc. Poverty breeds desperation which causes anger which leads to unrest which becomes violence which in its extreme form takes shape as terrorist acts that costs the lives of countless innocents. I am not a political scientist or an expert, but I have spent some time in a few of the world’s most impoverished places and I am convinced that until the world begins to address the drastic inequalities between the two-thirds world and the wealthy industrialized nations, terrorists will have recruiting potential. “There is no security apart from common security… America will never be secure until the injustice and despair that fuel the murderous agendas of terrorists have finally been addressed” (Jim Wallis, God’s Politics, p. 191). My intention is not to make simplistic causational statements between the London bombings and Africa’s poverty. I guess I just want to say that injustice feeds injustice. Fighting one injustice while ignoring another is like picking the leaves off without pulling up the roots.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
words
I called this blog "full of life" because much of what I write about is trying to distinguish the qualitative difference between merely existing and living a life that is intentional, passionate, brave- a life that I would describe as full. I have been reading a book called The Sacred Journey in which another person Fredrick Buechner tells the story of his own quest for a full life (at least that is how I understand the plot). Some of his words have really touched me:
To journey for the sake of saving our own lives is little by little to cease to live in any sense that really matters, even to ourselves, because it is only by journeying for the world's sake-even when the world bores and sickens and scares you half to death-that little by little we start to come alive. -page 107
Listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening.
A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time as mine has also brought me. Think back on this journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give delight and hurt not, and to those too that give no delight and hurt like hell. Be not affeard. The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other-- not a song with words but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is a part
The question is not whether the things that happen to you are chance things or God’s things because, of course, they are both at once. There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak- even the walk from the house to the garage that you have walked ten thousand times before, even the moments when you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere. He speaks, I believe, and the words he speaks are incarnate in the flesh and blood of our selves and of our own footsore and sacred journey. We cannot live our lives constantly looking back, listening back, lest we be turned to pillars of longing and regret, but to live without listening at all is to live deaf to the fullness of the music. Sometimes we avoid listening for fear of what we may hear, sometimes for fear that we may hear nothing at all but the empty rattle of our own feet on the pavement. But, be not affeard. He says he is with us on our journeys. He says he has been with us since each of our journeys began. Listen for him. Listen to the sweet and bitter airs of your present and your past for the sound of him.
- page 77-78
To journey for the sake of saving our own lives is little by little to cease to live in any sense that really matters, even to ourselves, because it is only by journeying for the world's sake-even when the world bores and sickens and scares you half to death-that little by little we start to come alive. -page 107
Listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening.
A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time as mine has also brought me. Think back on this journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give delight and hurt not, and to those too that give no delight and hurt like hell. Be not affeard. The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other-- not a song with words but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is a part
The question is not whether the things that happen to you are chance things or God’s things because, of course, they are both at once. There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak- even the walk from the house to the garage that you have walked ten thousand times before, even the moments when you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere. He speaks, I believe, and the words he speaks are incarnate in the flesh and blood of our selves and of our own footsore and sacred journey. We cannot live our lives constantly looking back, listening back, lest we be turned to pillars of longing and regret, but to live without listening at all is to live deaf to the fullness of the music. Sometimes we avoid listening for fear of what we may hear, sometimes for fear that we may hear nothing at all but the empty rattle of our own feet on the pavement. But, be not affeard. He says he is with us on our journeys. He says he has been with us since each of our journeys began. Listen for him. Listen to the sweet and bitter airs of your present and your past for the sound of him.
- page 77-78
A face in the sunrise
It is 6:30 on a Sunday morning. I am sitting ten feet from the foamy surf of the Gulf of Guinea. As I face the waves, the sun is rising gently to my left and giving the water a green, silky glow. I am sitting in soft white sand under a coconut tree. There is no one else here.
I woke up early to sit by the sea. I’ve come for solitude, or rather for communion with one who is sometimes best met in a place like this – a place that is mighty and beautiful.
Many people that I love could sit with me, taking in the green salty sea, and I suppose their hearts would likewise be stirred with awe. Awe for what or whom they may not know. However, I cannot sit here in a place of human paradise without making attribution, without overflowing with gratitude for the author of beauty.
Many people who I love shrug uncomfortably when the word “God” is mentioned. Perhaps it is better to see rather than hear. I wish they could sit here with me. I wish they could bask in awe as they stand small and human before the mighty water. Then perhaps they would be moved by the stirring in the heart that softly whispers - This thing, this moment, this beauty… it is not an accident, it is a carefully selected, carefully orchestrated gift for one who is loved, one who is cherished… for you..
“Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is full of wonders. Above all, never question the truth beyond all understanding and surpassing all other wonders that in the long run nothing, not even the world, nor even our selves, can separate us forever from that last and deepest love that glimmers at dusk like a pearl, life a face.” Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey, page 112
I woke up early to sit by the sea. I’ve come for solitude, or rather for communion with one who is sometimes best met in a place like this – a place that is mighty and beautiful.
Many people that I love could sit with me, taking in the green salty sea, and I suppose their hearts would likewise be stirred with awe. Awe for what or whom they may not know. However, I cannot sit here in a place of human paradise without making attribution, without overflowing with gratitude for the author of beauty.
Many people who I love shrug uncomfortably when the word “God” is mentioned. Perhaps it is better to see rather than hear. I wish they could sit here with me. I wish they could bask in awe as they stand small and human before the mighty water. Then perhaps they would be moved by the stirring in the heart that softly whispers - This thing, this moment, this beauty… it is not an accident, it is a carefully selected, carefully orchestrated gift for one who is loved, one who is cherished… for you..
“Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is full of wonders. Above all, never question the truth beyond all understanding and surpassing all other wonders that in the long run nothing, not even the world, nor even our selves, can separate us forever from that last and deepest love that glimmers at dusk like a pearl, life a face.” Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey, page 112
Reunion
I saw an amazing thing.
Last time I went to the refugee camp, the UNHCR car had an extra errand to do on the way. We picked up a 9-year-old girl from an orphanage. She is not an orphan but had been living in the orphan house for almost six months. This little girl was brutally assaulted by some men living at the camp. She was seriously injured to the extent that after she was released from the hospital, she was too weak to make the hour-long trip between the camp and the medical center. The orphanage is near the hospital so arrangements were made for her to live there until she healed physically. She has been separated from her mom for almost six months. Our job for the day was to take her back to live with her mother. While some of the group managed the paperwork, she wanted to change her dress so she would look special for her mom. She changed it twice.
As we drove out to the camp, she could hardly sit still. She fidgeted excitedly and carefully took in everything around her.
The plan was to meet her mom at a gas station outside the camp. Without phones, we could not call to confirm. Everyone in the truck was very nervous that her mom would not be there for some reason. None of us could bear her to feel any disappointment.
Thankfully, her mom was there. She let out a squeal when we pulled into the parking lot. Before the car could stop, she was scrambling out and was instantly enfolded in her mother’s arms. They twirled around as her mom began to cry.
I was very humbled to bear witness to this moment. It felt like a sacred moment, one in which the deepest longings of two people were met in a reunion. I hope it was a redemptive moment, one that marks a shift from surviving a horror to healing and new life.
Last time I went to the refugee camp, the UNHCR car had an extra errand to do on the way. We picked up a 9-year-old girl from an orphanage. She is not an orphan but had been living in the orphan house for almost six months. This little girl was brutally assaulted by some men living at the camp. She was seriously injured to the extent that after she was released from the hospital, she was too weak to make the hour-long trip between the camp and the medical center. The orphanage is near the hospital so arrangements were made for her to live there until she healed physically. She has been separated from her mom for almost six months. Our job for the day was to take her back to live with her mother. While some of the group managed the paperwork, she wanted to change her dress so she would look special for her mom. She changed it twice.
As we drove out to the camp, she could hardly sit still. She fidgeted excitedly and carefully took in everything around her.
The plan was to meet her mom at a gas station outside the camp. Without phones, we could not call to confirm. Everyone in the truck was very nervous that her mom would not be there for some reason. None of us could bear her to feel any disappointment.
Thankfully, her mom was there. She let out a squeal when we pulled into the parking lot. Before the car could stop, she was scrambling out and was instantly enfolded in her mother’s arms. They twirled around as her mom began to cry.
I was very humbled to bear witness to this moment. It felt like a sacred moment, one in which the deepest longings of two people were met in a reunion. I hope it was a redemptive moment, one that marks a shift from surviving a horror to healing and new life.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Giving Psychology Away
I've spent the last week at a workshop to trains missionaries in crisis response. The content ranges from practical skills to reflecting on a personal theology of suffering. It seems like the focused time to think about crisis and the opprotunity to receive training in how to support friends and collegues in the midst of trauma has been absoluetly invaluable to those who are here. These folks are all "well versed" in crisis through personal experiences. This training adds more formal knowledge and the opportunity to practice specific skills. Perhaps most importantly the training forms the basis for a network of peers who can advise and support each other as they are assisting and supporting other people.
The simple fact is that there is much trauma and few professional mental health workers. It is most effective for the few trained workers to use some of their time and energy equipping other people to better fullfill the supportive roles they are already playing. It makes sense to enhance the organic "counseling" and care-taking that is already taking place, rather than attempt to care directly for each person who may need some psychological support.
As an emerging professional it has been neat to see psychology used in such a practical, empowering way. I think there is some tendancy to among professionals to hoard knowledge and training and treat it as if it needs to be restricted for use by a select few. It costs professionals some tokens of authority to reveal their "secret" knowledge and offer it to others. I understand that there is danger in a little bit of knowledge and I am not arguing for the careless distribution of psychological practice and theory, but I do think professionals do a disservice when they underestimate "non-professionals". I really like the word empowerment. Give power to others, don't hold it all to yourself.
The simple fact is that there is much trauma and few professional mental health workers. It is most effective for the few trained workers to use some of their time and energy equipping other people to better fullfill the supportive roles they are already playing. It makes sense to enhance the organic "counseling" and care-taking that is already taking place, rather than attempt to care directly for each person who may need some psychological support.
As an emerging professional it has been neat to see psychology used in such a practical, empowering way. I think there is some tendancy to among professionals to hoard knowledge and training and treat it as if it needs to be restricted for use by a select few. It costs professionals some tokens of authority to reveal their "secret" knowledge and offer it to others. I understand that there is danger in a little bit of knowledge and I am not arguing for the careless distribution of psychological practice and theory, but I do think professionals do a disservice when they underestimate "non-professionals". I really like the word empowerment. Give power to others, don't hold it all to yourself.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Out for a stroll in a village
Last week I spent a day in a village outside of Accra. Village life is very different than city life. It is harder is some ways- daily life is more difficult to manage without an abundance of stores. There is only one place to buy laundry soap. When they run out you have to wait until the next trip to the city. Inconvenient. Yet, it is refreshing in its slowness, and friendliness. People learn to do more with less.
With my hosts, I went for a walk through the village. I wish I had been able to take a picture of the elementary school children leaving school for the afternoon. Each of them was neatly dressed in their brown and orange school uniforms. They walked with arms linked emphatically exchanging stories from the day (both boys and girls link arms or hold hands- there is no cultural prohibition against friendly male affection). Some kicked soccer balls as they walked and others sort of skipped along. A few carried book bags. Most carried a notebook of some kind and a writing utensil. The striking thing is that all carried a small, kid-sized machete.
I have no explanation for why all the school kids were carrying large knives. I do not know if they were learning machete techniques in gym class or if it was bring your machete for show-and-tell day. In Africa, a machete is common as a toothbrush. Here a machete is much more than a weapon; it is an essential multi-purpose tool.
When I lived here, I had my own machete. I don’t remember where it came from, I acquired it somehow. Once you get over the strangeness of identifying yourself as a machete owner, it turns out to be quite useful. Some uses I found for my machete included:
1. Flipping pancakes or frying eggs (like a spatula)
2. Cutting fruit
3. Cutting grass (this is probably the most common use in an urban area and is sure to result in a back ache)
4. Scraping grime off a number of surfaces
5. Clearing brush from the path of a wild fire
6. Chopping down a small tree in order to build a shelter for the night
7. Creating a tasty beverage from a fresh coconut
8. As a can opener
9. As a back scratcher for the mid back or other hard to reach itchy spots
10. As torque to loosen stuck things
Unhappy African Experience #2
I was sick over the weekend. I feel much better now, but I had a few unhappy days. First vomiting, then the other. I was fatigued. I was hot and cold. Feverish.
Whenever anyone gets sick in Africa, you instantly think: MALARIA! Of course, this is a good first consideration given how common it is and how dangerous it can be. However, I am taking malaria prophylaxis and have not had too many mosquito bites so malaria was not likely. Yet, the possibilities keep you up at night.
I can be very neurotic, especially when sleep deprived. I think I inherited a worry trait from my mom, or maybe just an overactive desire to have a contingency plan for a range of possible situations. Over the course of two nights, I lay awake between bathroom trips considering what diseases I could possibly have. Amebas, parasites, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, yellow fever, elephantites, leprosy… they all sound really horrible. Which ones are treatable? Which ones are not? I considered what would happen if I were to become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital for an intravenous drip. I reminded myself to make sure I see the needle being unwrapped before they put it in my arm. I wondered: How sick should I get before going to the hospital? Before deciding to go home? Should I call someone? What should I say? “I have an upset stomach, and I think I might die” sounded too paranoid, even at 3 am.
After consulting with Marion, who is trained as a nurse, I did go to the lab for some tests (just in case). It looks like I will pull through after all and make a full recovery. I felt well enough to have a burger and fries for dinner tonight.
Whenever anyone gets sick in Africa, you instantly think: MALARIA! Of course, this is a good first consideration given how common it is and how dangerous it can be. However, I am taking malaria prophylaxis and have not had too many mosquito bites so malaria was not likely. Yet, the possibilities keep you up at night.
I can be very neurotic, especially when sleep deprived. I think I inherited a worry trait from my mom, or maybe just an overactive desire to have a contingency plan for a range of possible situations. Over the course of two nights, I lay awake between bathroom trips considering what diseases I could possibly have. Amebas, parasites, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, yellow fever, elephantites, leprosy… they all sound really horrible. Which ones are treatable? Which ones are not? I considered what would happen if I were to become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital for an intravenous drip. I reminded myself to make sure I see the needle being unwrapped before they put it in my arm. I wondered: How sick should I get before going to the hospital? Before deciding to go home? Should I call someone? What should I say? “I have an upset stomach, and I think I might die” sounded too paranoid, even at 3 am.
After consulting with Marion, who is trained as a nurse, I did go to the lab for some tests (just in case). It looks like I will pull through after all and make a full recovery. I felt well enough to have a burger and fries for dinner tonight.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
I, Obruni
Obruni is the Twi word for foreign person or white person (they are interchangeable). It has become my name. Every time I step on the street, the word “obruni” bubbles all around me. They are talking about me.
In Africa, my skin is the most important determinate of my identity. I am a caricature, an exaggerated amalgamation.
I would like to say that being, for a moment, a member of the minority gives me some wonderful sympathetic perspective into the experience of minorities in my home country. However, there is an essential difference: everywhere in the world, my skin is the skin of privilege. It is the skin of the colonizers, conquerors and slave traders. It is the skin of those who have won the Darwinian struggle for the earth’s natural and manufactured resources. It is the skin of wealth and power.
I can go into any restaurant, hotel, business, hospital, or government office in this country and be treated a certain way based simply on my skin color. The reality that I am the daughter of an insignificant working class family who survived on top ramen and pretzels in college is inconceivable. In America, I am nobody. In Africa, I am a white person and that means I must be important.
Two other (white) women and I visited a small community church at the invitation of one of the associate pastors. We were seated in front. I don’t mean the first row, I mean the stage.
When I was here as a student, I wanted to do an internship. I took a bus to Ghana’s Department of Social Welfare to look at the bulletin boards. Within minutes, I was sipping tea with the National Director. (Not based on my merit)
This weekend I went to Cape Coast castle. It is a slave “castle.” A point of export for millions of slaves. This history cannot be erased from modern race relations.
Accra’s best neighborhoods are inhabited by obrunis (Europeans, Americans, Lebanese, Koreans). Lovely walled compounds with beautiful bougainvillea and lush grass. Foreigners control many of the major businesses. It is possible to be in Africa and totally surround yourself with other foreigners. There are lovely hotels, restaurants and beachside resorts that are priced exclusively for the foreigner. Eating at a restaurant where lunch is $5 a plate will out-price an average Ghanaian. Eating fufu and stew from a communal bowl sitting on a crate on the side of the road will overwhelm the average obruni. Lunch hour is an hour of apartheid.
Being a white person in Africa is like being at the zoo. Rather, I should say in the zoo. On display. An object of interest. Curious and odd to look at. The skin of privilege is a mobile cage. I cannot roam freely. Wherever I walk, the children call “obruni” to announce my passing and I, once a child on Vandiver Lane, walk the streets as an icon of colonization, slavery, The World Bank, George Bush’s America, and Hollywood.
In Africa, my skin is the most important determinate of my identity. I am a caricature, an exaggerated amalgamation.
I would like to say that being, for a moment, a member of the minority gives me some wonderful sympathetic perspective into the experience of minorities in my home country. However, there is an essential difference: everywhere in the world, my skin is the skin of privilege. It is the skin of the colonizers, conquerors and slave traders. It is the skin of those who have won the Darwinian struggle for the earth’s natural and manufactured resources. It is the skin of wealth and power.
I can go into any restaurant, hotel, business, hospital, or government office in this country and be treated a certain way based simply on my skin color. The reality that I am the daughter of an insignificant working class family who survived on top ramen and pretzels in college is inconceivable. In America, I am nobody. In Africa, I am a white person and that means I must be important.
Two other (white) women and I visited a small community church at the invitation of one of the associate pastors. We were seated in front. I don’t mean the first row, I mean the stage.
When I was here as a student, I wanted to do an internship. I took a bus to Ghana’s Department of Social Welfare to look at the bulletin boards. Within minutes, I was sipping tea with the National Director. (Not based on my merit)
This weekend I went to Cape Coast castle. It is a slave “castle.” A point of export for millions of slaves. This history cannot be erased from modern race relations.
Accra’s best neighborhoods are inhabited by obrunis (Europeans, Americans, Lebanese, Koreans). Lovely walled compounds with beautiful bougainvillea and lush grass. Foreigners control many of the major businesses. It is possible to be in Africa and totally surround yourself with other foreigners. There are lovely hotels, restaurants and beachside resorts that are priced exclusively for the foreigner. Eating at a restaurant where lunch is $5 a plate will out-price an average Ghanaian. Eating fufu and stew from a communal bowl sitting on a crate on the side of the road will overwhelm the average obruni. Lunch hour is an hour of apartheid.
Being a white person in Africa is like being at the zoo. Rather, I should say in the zoo. On display. An object of interest. Curious and odd to look at. The skin of privilege is a mobile cage. I cannot roam freely. Wherever I walk, the children call “obruni” to announce my passing and I, once a child on Vandiver Lane, walk the streets as an icon of colonization, slavery, The World Bank, George Bush’s America, and Hollywood.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Update on the week… and existential questions
I am wrapping up a long week of therapy with a someone caught in the middle of one of West Africa’s many civil wars. I won’t say more about it here, except to add that it has been an invaluable learning experience for me. Because transportation is difficult and expensive, and because Karen is the only psychologist in the region, people can only come for one or two weeks. Rather than the weekly, 50-minute sessions that are common in the States, we meet for 2-3 hours at a time, sometimes two sessions a day. We do a lot of work in a short time period. This seems to work well given the parameters.
I feel like my time here is going very, very fast. I have been here for over three weeks. Laura, the other intern, is leaving at the beginning of next week. Rob will be here in just over a week. I will head home in one month’s time. Time is passing quickly. I wish I could stay an additional month or two (with Rob here of course). I am just beginning to feel that I “get” this population well enough to jump in and be useful. I also want to spend more time at the refugee camp and continue to learn more about mental health work with Africans. So many things! I guess some work will have to wait for another trip.
Being here makes me ponder the well worn question of what I am going to do with my life. It is impossible for me (for most people I think) to be a witness to suffering and need without some kind of thoughts about continued involvement. I don’t think I could have these kind of experiences if I didn’t have the sense that this work is part of the larger picture for my life. I am building on a foundation that has been under construction in me for many years. If only I had a copy of the architect’s plans! I know the foundation is deep but I don’t know if it’s a skyscraper, or a bomb shelter. I keep going on trips, each time with my heart open to some kind of sign, some kind of voice from the heavens that says “THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE THING FOR WHICH YOU WERE CREATED.” I don’t understand why this has not happened (I say this ironically because I don’t think it works this way at all).
Rather than drive myself crazy looking for my life’s call written in neon lights, I am borrowing from the contemplative tradition and simply asking myself: “What did I do today that was life-giving, that I loved? What did I do today that was life-draining, that I did not like?” The answers to these questions have led me (over and over) to return to places like Africa and Central America. There is something in the eyes of Ghanaians, Salvadorans, Guatemalans… something about the dusty streets and colorful fabrics… something about the determination to live peacefully, happily, in strong relationships, in spite of, in the midst of (poverty, injustice, war)… something about this place is life-giving to the very core of me.
And the tears come.
What does it mean that I am moved? In this moment I am moved, but what does it mean for the next moment and tomorrow and next year and ten years from now. These are the questions I try not to ask. I just exhale and rest in the fact that this moment, right now, this press of the keyboard means something and that is enough.
I feel like my time here is going very, very fast. I have been here for over three weeks. Laura, the other intern, is leaving at the beginning of next week. Rob will be here in just over a week. I will head home in one month’s time. Time is passing quickly. I wish I could stay an additional month or two (with Rob here of course). I am just beginning to feel that I “get” this population well enough to jump in and be useful. I also want to spend more time at the refugee camp and continue to learn more about mental health work with Africans. So many things! I guess some work will have to wait for another trip.
Being here makes me ponder the well worn question of what I am going to do with my life. It is impossible for me (for most people I think) to be a witness to suffering and need without some kind of thoughts about continued involvement. I don’t think I could have these kind of experiences if I didn’t have the sense that this work is part of the larger picture for my life. I am building on a foundation that has been under construction in me for many years. If only I had a copy of the architect’s plans! I know the foundation is deep but I don’t know if it’s a skyscraper, or a bomb shelter. I keep going on trips, each time with my heart open to some kind of sign, some kind of voice from the heavens that says “THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE THING FOR WHICH YOU WERE CREATED.” I don’t understand why this has not happened (I say this ironically because I don’t think it works this way at all).
Rather than drive myself crazy looking for my life’s call written in neon lights, I am borrowing from the contemplative tradition and simply asking myself: “What did I do today that was life-giving, that I loved? What did I do today that was life-draining, that I did not like?” The answers to these questions have led me (over and over) to return to places like Africa and Central America. There is something in the eyes of Ghanaians, Salvadorans, Guatemalans… something about the dusty streets and colorful fabrics… something about the determination to live peacefully, happily, in strong relationships, in spite of, in the midst of (poverty, injustice, war)… something about this place is life-giving to the very core of me.
And the tears come.
What does it mean that I am moved? In this moment I am moved, but what does it mean for the next moment and tomorrow and next year and ten years from now. These are the questions I try not to ask. I just exhale and rest in the fact that this moment, right now, this press of the keyboard means something and that is enough.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
People without country
I spent the morning at a refugee camp built to provide short-term refuge for 5000 Liberians. Fifteen years after opening, it is now a teeming city with at least 45,000 exiled residents.
Liberia entered civil war in 1989 when Charles Taylor led a coup d'état. However, in the midst of the offensive, his supporters fractioned and began to fight against each other. The fighting escalated and has resulted in an exceedingly complex series of alliances, and attempted takeovers. A number of separate tribes/people groups have cycled through shifting loyalties and been on different sides of the conflict at different times. It has been a heinous war marked by torture, rape, child soldiers, and ethnic cleansing. Thousands and thousands of people have been forced to flee for their lives. Several peace accords have been signed, then broken. Refugees have fled and returned several times. The country remains in a state of chaos and destruction, with all hope focused on an election that will take place in October. There are more than 50 presidential candidates which in my opinion is not a promising sign. The odds that one of the 49 losers will be disgruntled enough to take up arms are and try to force his way to power seem high.
The living conditions at the camp are abysmal. No one expected it to last this long or grow this big. Only recently have parts of the camp been equipped with electricity (most areas do not yet have power). There is no running water, there are not enough toilets. A wooded area of the camp has become the public toilet, however it has also become a cauldron of criminal activity and is known as a place where people are raped or robbed.
These people are without country. The country they remember has been destroyed. Their families have been separated, social networks broken down, their cultural practices distorted and marred by warmongers. They are in a foreign nation with a different culture, a different language. They have enduring loss, horror and tragedy beyond imagination. The future remains precarious and uncertain…
I spent the morning with a group of teen-age mothers. We met in a counseling room without electricity meaning no fans or lights. We had to close the windows to keep our conversations private, yet the class did not keep out the sound of a blaring radio or a long line of people waiting to fill out forms for an office next door. The young women are all without family in the camp. A few of them “live” or at least sleep on the porch of an office building. Although they are at least fourteen and their bodies are physically able to bear children, malnutrition and the strain of war and refugee life has stunted their development such that several of them looked only 9 or 10. It was very strange to see them holding and nursing their own children.
All of these girls became pregnant after being raped. They have survived one of the most traumatic experiences a human being can go through and now they must struggle to keep themselves and their children alive. They are the most overlooked kind of war casualty. They have not been wounded in battle, but they are victims of a society that has broken down to the point of total depravity. Young women bear the brokenness of men who have been so destroyed by war and violence that in one girl’s words, “they cannot tell the difference between a human and an animal.”
It is hard to articulate what it felt like to be there. There are tears in my eyes while I write this. I feel sadness, but even more I feel moved with respect. Deep respect. In the face of such suffering, these young women still know how to laugh.
As a whole, the camp was full of life. Frustration and depression hung in the air, but it was combated by a sense of determination and gratitude for another day of existence. While I was there, I was in awe of the human ability to survive the unsurvivable, and create life out of ruins. In these moments, psychological theory fails me and I can only understand it as God’s tangible grace. Even in the wake of the ugliest human perpetrated atrocities, God is not absent, but intimately present in the reconstruction of human hearts and lives.
It was hard, very hard to enter such a desperate place, but it was not hopeless.
Liberia entered civil war in 1989 when Charles Taylor led a coup d'état. However, in the midst of the offensive, his supporters fractioned and began to fight against each other. The fighting escalated and has resulted in an exceedingly complex series of alliances, and attempted takeovers. A number of separate tribes/people groups have cycled through shifting loyalties and been on different sides of the conflict at different times. It has been a heinous war marked by torture, rape, child soldiers, and ethnic cleansing. Thousands and thousands of people have been forced to flee for their lives. Several peace accords have been signed, then broken. Refugees have fled and returned several times. The country remains in a state of chaos and destruction, with all hope focused on an election that will take place in October. There are more than 50 presidential candidates which in my opinion is not a promising sign. The odds that one of the 49 losers will be disgruntled enough to take up arms are and try to force his way to power seem high.
The living conditions at the camp are abysmal. No one expected it to last this long or grow this big. Only recently have parts of the camp been equipped with electricity (most areas do not yet have power). There is no running water, there are not enough toilets. A wooded area of the camp has become the public toilet, however it has also become a cauldron of criminal activity and is known as a place where people are raped or robbed.
These people are without country. The country they remember has been destroyed. Their families have been separated, social networks broken down, their cultural practices distorted and marred by warmongers. They are in a foreign nation with a different culture, a different language. They have enduring loss, horror and tragedy beyond imagination. The future remains precarious and uncertain…
I spent the morning with a group of teen-age mothers. We met in a counseling room without electricity meaning no fans or lights. We had to close the windows to keep our conversations private, yet the class did not keep out the sound of a blaring radio or a long line of people waiting to fill out forms for an office next door. The young women are all without family in the camp. A few of them “live” or at least sleep on the porch of an office building. Although they are at least fourteen and their bodies are physically able to bear children, malnutrition and the strain of war and refugee life has stunted their development such that several of them looked only 9 or 10. It was very strange to see them holding and nursing their own children.
All of these girls became pregnant after being raped. They have survived one of the most traumatic experiences a human being can go through and now they must struggle to keep themselves and their children alive. They are the most overlooked kind of war casualty. They have not been wounded in battle, but they are victims of a society that has broken down to the point of total depravity. Young women bear the brokenness of men who have been so destroyed by war and violence that in one girl’s words, “they cannot tell the difference between a human and an animal.”
It is hard to articulate what it felt like to be there. There are tears in my eyes while I write this. I feel sadness, but even more I feel moved with respect. Deep respect. In the face of such suffering, these young women still know how to laugh.
As a whole, the camp was full of life. Frustration and depression hung in the air, but it was combated by a sense of determination and gratitude for another day of existence. While I was there, I was in awe of the human ability to survive the unsurvivable, and create life out of ruins. In these moments, psychological theory fails me and I can only understand it as God’s tangible grace. Even in the wake of the ugliest human perpetrated atrocities, God is not absent, but intimately present in the reconstruction of human hearts and lives.
It was hard, very hard to enter such a desperate place, but it was not hopeless.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Sense of time
Came across some wonderful descriptions of Ghana in the book In the Shadow of the Sun by a Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski.
The European (and North American) and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: “Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equably and without relation to anything external.” The American feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat - time annihilates him.
Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and most importantly, one dependent on man.
In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking, “when will the meeting take place?” makes no sense. You know the answer: “It will take place when people come”.
The European (and North American) and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: “Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equably and without relation to anything external.” The American feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat - time annihilates him.
Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and most importantly, one dependent on man.
In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking, “when will the meeting take place?” makes no sense. You know the answer: “It will take place when people come”.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Ghanaian Food
Fufu- This is the proud traditional food of the Ashanti tribe. It is part of many traditional legends and sayings. People here love it. One must have at least one fufu experience when visiting Ghana. Fufu is a soft doughy ball. It is made from yam, cassava and plantain. These starches are pounded together by a woman beating a stick into a hard ceramic bowl. The process is long and labor intensive. As she pounds, she adds water until the contents become moist and gooey. The fufu is then rolled into fist-sized balls and served alongside a stew. You use your hands to tear off a piece and dip it in a stew. Wha-la you are eating fufu! Unfortunately, I strongly dislike fufu. My rejection is based entirely on texture. It is too soft and slimy to chew and too thick to swallow. The first time I ate it, I was unprepared for the truly unique texture. I took a bite that was too big to swallow whole. As I tried to chew, I found that the slimy mess would not break apart or thin, it seemed to grow in my mouth like a sea monkey. To my utter embarrassment, I gagged to the point that I had to spit my bite discreetly into my hand and drop it at my feet for a stray dog (one advantage of outdoor dining). I have been fufu shy ever since. I just cannot figure out how to get it down.
Banku- The brother of fufu, however this dish is more operator friendly. It is made of corn and cassava which are pounded, mixed with water, formed into a ball and then fermented somehow. I’m not clear on this last step. It is also eaten with the hands and dipped into a stew. The wonderful thing about banku is that it can be chewed and properly swallowed. There is not the feeling of a slug crawling down your throat.
RedRed- this is by far my favorite dish! Red beans and meat cooked in palm oil with a side of fried ripe plantains. This dish is aptly named since almost all the ingredients are red. Palm oil is thick and bright red. It has a unique taste which this dish hard to reproduce without it. I have not really seen it in the States. My guess is that it is not at all good for you, but it tastes wonderful. Often it is served with a fish head on top.
Kelewele- small pieces of ripe plantain fried with ginger and chili powder. It is a tasty snack often eaten for dessert, but it can be very spicy. Extra points for a cool name.
Talapia- A small fish about the size of an adult hand. It is fried or grilled whole (eyeballs and everything). It is disconcerting when first served but a veteran knows that the meat is rich and tasty. Often combined used in the stew eaten with fufu and banku.
Apateshi- This is home-brew liquor- perhaps most similar to gin. It is bad, bad, bad. It is very strong, tastes horrible and can be dangerous. This week 30-40 Kenyans died of poisoning after drinking the Kenyan version of apateshi which was made with methanol alcohol (?). Check the BBC. The tricky thing about this drink is that it is served when one visits a chief. As a stranger in a small village, it is traditional and socially important to greet the chief if you plan to spend any time in his village. When one greets the chief one will inevitably be invited to sit under a tree to tell him your reason for being there and to learn about his village at length. You will be served a glass of apateshi (a tumbler, not a shot glass). This stuff is strong. The nose runs, the eyes water, the lungs gasp for better air. It is like drinking gasoline. One trick to getting around having to drink too much is that it is customary to pour some on the ground as a libation or tribute to the village ancestors. I like to make a very generous tribute, sometimes more than one. You can also make a tribute to the chief, to his family members, to his livestock etc. It is like toasting. The more toasts, the better for me.
Banku- The brother of fufu, however this dish is more operator friendly. It is made of corn and cassava which are pounded, mixed with water, formed into a ball and then fermented somehow. I’m not clear on this last step. It is also eaten with the hands and dipped into a stew. The wonderful thing about banku is that it can be chewed and properly swallowed. There is not the feeling of a slug crawling down your throat.
RedRed- this is by far my favorite dish! Red beans and meat cooked in palm oil with a side of fried ripe plantains. This dish is aptly named since almost all the ingredients are red. Palm oil is thick and bright red. It has a unique taste which this dish hard to reproduce without it. I have not really seen it in the States. My guess is that it is not at all good for you, but it tastes wonderful. Often it is served with a fish head on top.
Kelewele- small pieces of ripe plantain fried with ginger and chili powder. It is a tasty snack often eaten for dessert, but it can be very spicy. Extra points for a cool name.
Talapia- A small fish about the size of an adult hand. It is fried or grilled whole (eyeballs and everything). It is disconcerting when first served but a veteran knows that the meat is rich and tasty. Often combined used in the stew eaten with fufu and banku.
Apateshi- This is home-brew liquor- perhaps most similar to gin. It is bad, bad, bad. It is very strong, tastes horrible and can be dangerous. This week 30-40 Kenyans died of poisoning after drinking the Kenyan version of apateshi which was made with methanol alcohol (?). Check the BBC. The tricky thing about this drink is that it is served when one visits a chief. As a stranger in a small village, it is traditional and socially important to greet the chief if you plan to spend any time in his village. When one greets the chief one will inevitably be invited to sit under a tree to tell him your reason for being there and to learn about his village at length. You will be served a glass of apateshi (a tumbler, not a shot glass). This stuff is strong. The nose runs, the eyes water, the lungs gasp for better air. It is like drinking gasoline. One trick to getting around having to drink too much is that it is customary to pour some on the ground as a libation or tribute to the village ancestors. I like to make a very generous tribute, sometimes more than one. You can also make a tribute to the chief, to his family members, to his livestock etc. It is like toasting. The more toasts, the better for me.
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