From queens to calamities

One of those moments that works out exactly as planned, though it wasn't even.
We began a focus on leadership today and as a simple exercise, I divided the board in half and labeled one, Qualities and the other, Examples. I handed out red and black markers, asking the students to contribute to each. Of course the examples came easy, filling up quickly with greats like Obama and JFK. Some enthusiastic students nominated their friends as examples of leaders, and others made the connection to a recent social studies unit by contributing the name of a 17th century explorer.

After it was all over, I asked them what was wrong with our list. They tried valiantly to correct it by throwing out great names- Mandela, Gandhi, even Jesus, all the prophets and God made the new, improved list. But I still wasn't happy and they didn't know why.

It was with some foresight that I had planned this unit of study back in December. It seems wherever you go, history looks the same. I finally pointed out that, aside from the two classmates added to the list by their friends, there were no women on our list.

To their credit, they took the bait and came up with some interesting nominations- Mother Theresa, Rosa Parks AND Betsy Ross.

Sometimes, we have too much fun in my class. From somewhere I heard the name Condoleeza Rice and that set off a buzz of puzzlement and giggling. They didn't think it was a real name! Of course I could not let this atrocity continue. I sidled over to the homework board where I wrote, "Who is Condoleeza Rice?" They laughed and groaned at me because they couldn't believe I was serious. How could I be anything but?

I spent most of December and half of January researching African women rulers. It is a fascinating history. These are not women that ruled by their husbands or over their sons, but warrior queens that accomplished things their male counterparts could not. They led battles, resisted colonial rule and enlarged their territories. There were assassinations (Queen Nzinga, most notably, had her son- a potential heir to the throne- killed by her brother. Later, sweet uncle was killed by the queen herself as she tired of his rule and set out to create a dynasty.)

I am delighted that I will be able to intrigue the boys with tales of conquest and strategy. More importantly, I will have the chance to introduce the girls to strong, intelligent women who were brave and courageous leaders.

And while this takes off in one fifth grade classroom in Congo, a contrasting tale makes its debut off-broadway...

from Queen Nzinga, Queen Amina, Yaa Asantewaa......to "ruined" in just a few short centuries

npr story here:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=99725901

Mama Nabih

We’re just walking along when the road suddenly stops. The iron bars crossing the way do little to ease the tension. The sandbags are gray and dirty and small. They seem like a cheap movie prop against the dramatic backdrop of the gorge behind them. Houses appear perched on the very edge, as if a misplaced sofa might throw enough weight in the wrong direction to send the whole structure toppling down the ravine.

The first time we came, one of the houses right on the edge appeared empty. Today a family is clearly living there. Laundry is strung out on lines and young men lounge on furniture in the open living room. (This is the house you can see just to the left in the photo. Yes, its inhabited.)

Mama Vero tells me these houses used to be among the most luxurious, and signs still remain of tiled floors and ornate entranceways. Behind them is a tremendous gorge slowly filling with garbage tossed carelessly over the edge. There is a thin line slung across the ravine and it runs electricity from a house on the other side. It is a surreal situation.
















“On attende.” Everyone is waiting for the erosion to creep up to their plots of land and take their houses in a powerful rush of water and debris. The government has done nothing for those who’ve lost their land and repairs don’t seem to be coming. On the way back, I took a quick shot of some boys playing marbles. Some of them jumped up and started to run away. (There was one who willingly showed off his Bruce Lee moves. I took the obligatory photo.) They engage in conversation as we leave, wondering what I will do with the photos. It would have worked out better for me if I were Chinese, Mama Vero says, because they are waiting for the Chinese to come and fix this problem.

That could be a problem unto itself.

I’ve taken to visiting Mama Vero’s house on the weekends. It is rejuvenating to soak up the energy. The small stone paved streets are filled with people and life and casual conversation. I love the movement and sights and sounds. It feels like Africa in a way that the sterile beauty of campus doesn’t. They have taken to calling me Mama Nabih, I suppose, because nothing else fits exactly.

Vero and I are navigating an odd relationship. We trade gifts of food and trinkets with a ferocity that belies our independent natures. I think we are unsure exactly where the boundaries lie, or if they even exist.

Last time I visited, she had taken me to see the erosion, and I was so stunned I needed to go back for photos. This time we found a guide who led us through a maze of rubble to a picturesque spot overlooking the new valley, where many families have settled. Some guys were chipping away at the remains of a cement column to reveal the basic building blocks, which they will then sell. Long, slow work. But nothing is condemned. Work, search, live at your own risk.



















Vero lives in her aunt’s house on a parcel of land that is sweetly laid out. They have some nice gardens and several papaya trees. Vero’s aunt has a variety of enterprises going on, raising rabbits, birds and a variety of vegetables. They sell soft drinks and beer from their ‘kitchen’ room and I think they have an arrangement about water as well. She is a great storyteller and on my first visit enchanted me with tales about being a girl scout. (The very absurdity of this conversation is one of the reason I love visiting here.) Yes, they do have scouts in Congo and it sounds like they do much the same thing that scouts in the U.S. do- camping, learning to cook, singing songs, earning badges.

Today, she reminisced about the days when Congo was a land of opportunity and chance. I guess they had a better plot of land at one time, with a larger house and more room for growing vegetables. She laments the difficulty of times now, but they are not doing so badly. They have a section of the house they rent, and Vero has a decent job. They have beans and mpondu to go with their rice and every so often they eat beef or chicken or fish. Many families don’t get that kind of relief.

Lest I have painted too rosy a picture, perhaps I should return to the details. There is an outside bath without running water. The water tap is located in the front yard. There is no oven inside, although they do have electricity (and cable TV.) The floors are cement and the ceiling is tin. Life is organized with buckets, the plastic buckets of Africa that enable dishwashing, hand washing, clothes washing and ‘showers.’

But their plot is green and lush. They have soft furniture inside. The grown sons have done well for themselves with jobs in engineering and computers. The blue plastic lawn chairs are imprinted with Grace a Dieu.


full spectrum of photos on facebook, including the young Bruce Lee......

Playground Philosophy

"Is there a bad God?" Mohamed tilts his head as he asks me this over dinner.
"No." I think about it only for a minute, trying to figure out what he's heard lately, wondering if he is referring to a devil.
"Kagiso doesn't believe with Adam." I am patient as he talks about his classmates. I know eventually the story will come together, revealed in bits and pieces with clarity only at the end.
"Kagiso said God needs sleep and Adam said He didn't. Then Adam went away from Kagiso. They used to be best friends, but now they're not."

World politics reduced to its basic level. I love this moment, discussing the philosophies of the playground with my son as he grapples with the issues. I savour being able to steer him to the right path, knowing even as I do that it won't always be this simple. He won't always take my word as the deciding factor. Things are bound to get more complicated. But for now, we can revel in the innocence.

One Month Shy

Lately, I've been feeling my age. I haven't been feeling it actually, I've been obsessing over it. It's the kind of thing that just pops into my mind every so often, the number, just to remind me that while I've been busy hesitating, regretting and otherwise bumbling through life, time is passing. Logically, I understand this year's number is not especially grand nor a milestone of any kind, but still, it is cause for anxiety.

I've created a mental list of all the things I've accomplished, things I've set out to do and actually completed. It's a fine list. But when I glance at my hands, long and slender and unadorned, I see the cause for what it is, and so find it easier to revert to something mundane and trite- a number.

With all new years, with all great change, reflection is unavoidable. I have been caught deep and strong in its grasp. It has been a vivid and visual review not unlike what I imagine death will be- a painful scrutiny of decisions cast and the repercussions that followed.

This journey, however, takes place under the hot and healing sun of Africa. Here, I do have strength to see it all with unclouded vision. I am no longer bent with my burdens but able to stand and bear their weight.

Every day I praise Allah for the sunshine, it is an easy thing to do. It happens almost without conscious thought. Even after these six months, it is nearly every minute that I am thinking,
'Masha'allah, God has given us another beautiful day.'

Because it is truly a blessing that it doesn't snow in Africa. I cannot imagine the horrors. But as Russia and Ukraine make the news yet again in a conflict over gas supplies, I do imagine. I remember when I first began to write here, one month shy of a year ago. I remember a story I heard on npr. I clearly recall walking into the teacher's room at school, running into a colleague and being compelled to ask, "It's not ending is it? The world, it's not ending, right?"
(feb 13, 08 post)

Though she assured me it wasn't, I felt only marginally convinced. It was the story of a woman who had put her baby to sleep and found her dead, frozen to death, by morning. It was more than that story, but it was that one that left my head spinning and my feet moving only along predetermined pathways of desire.

The story is here: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=18784716
It had such an effect on me, I am able to find it a year later. Because as I was absorbing the crisis in Congo, I was also absorbing the fact that Congo is not alone. "Headlines from DRC" could easily be "Headlines from Tajikistan." How can I get someone to care about congo when there is such a long list of countries that require no capital? It is too easy to invite apathy when the list is never ending, when it is self-repeating, when it seems without solutions. It is too easy to be indifferent when the story is about no one you know and everyone you don't.

Back at school

The students return in dribs and trickles, jet-lagged and over-tired. On Monday, the energy level was sooooo low. By Tuesday I had them doing morning exercises. Three weeks is an immense amount of time.

I look at the process I go through as a teacher and understand it must be doubly hard on the students. It is too easy to forget how much I love teaching. Now that we are almost back to a full class, I am bursting with all of the things I want to accomplish. Our class is a busy, buzzy hive of energy and ideas.

Of course, it will take them some time to catch up with me. They are tired from vacations in France and India, South Africa and Belgium. We worked on a short introduction of our class for one of the projects and it turns out, between my 25 fifth graders, we speak 11 different languages and have been to more than 18 different countries (and no it doesn't count if you just stopped at the airport.)

I guess, at times, school can seem dull by comparison. But I am happy to be occupied once again by the questions of growing minds which can do so much to quiet mine.

Works from Congo

For 2009, I've decided to stop apologizing for being me. In the spirit of this, some works from Congo. Nabih has knocked out the camera so, awaiting a better photo:

Headlines from DRC
upper text: Afghanistan Iraq Israel Ukraine Pakistan Zimbabwe Sudan Rwanda India Myanmar Jordan Guinea Ethipoia Liberia Sierra Leone Chad Nigeria Somalia Armenia Nepal Cuba Ecuador Korea Haiti Iran Columbia Tibet China Mexico Sri Lanka Turkey Eritrea Yemen Samoa Bangladesh Angola Benin Ivory Coast Democratic Republic of Congo Cambodia Azerbaijan Zambia Central African Republic Lesotho Tajikistan Palestine Senegal Guinea-Bissau Uganda Republic of Congo Peru Philippines Ghana Gambia Vietnam Bhutan Kiribati Vanuatu Malawi Cape Verde Burundi Mali Maldive Laos Comoros Tuvalu Togo East Timor



lower text:

One of the poorest most chaotic nations on the planet Insecurity fear confusion slaughter Home to innumerable resources Home to innumerable crimes against humanity humans Diamonds Poverty Copper Gender-based violence Iron Preventable disease Coal Ebola Cobalt Civil War Coltan Malnutrition Lead Sexual Exploitation Uranium Rape Petroleum Cholera Zinc Malaria Hydropower Culture of Corruption Gold Child Soldiers Silver Child Miners Magnesium Child Deaths Tin 5,400,000 deaths 4,000,000 orphans 40,000 rapes 10,000 child soldiers 45,000 die each month every month 17,000 MONUC do not prevent 16 villages attacked 500 killed for Christmas and Happy New Year don't talk chop off your lips chop off your hands dead hands living hands 2 1/2 year old child raped 1 in 5 die before 5 30% of children quit school to dig in mines 1,000,000 people displaced homeless hungry running from violence fear insecurity slaughter chaos poverty sexual violence carnage savagery crimes against humanity humans

La violence faites a la femmeJacques' disturbing and hauntingly relevant ballet.

Guinee on my mind

Like a long lost lover, memories of guinee come back, gently caressing me awake from my 8 year slumber.

It could be trying to learn lingala and thinking only of sousou
it could be every time I turn on the radio, I hear the rhythms of west africa
it could be dance awakening my soul
it could be torturous regret, cutting deep and turning savagely
it could be news from home, shutting down all connections
it could be the dream of freedom, riding on the back of the coup d'etat

But I remember
sucking water from a bag
hot colors and cool nights
full round moons
and dying brothers

I remember guinee, and as everyone else returns, I start to dream of leaving. I hope the daily routines that are sure to begin will put my head back on.