Death of a spider

I've lost another friend this week. She was a distant friend, to be sure. Having made her home in the uppermost corner of my bathroom ceiling, we never came into close contact. I did gaze in her direction several times a day, checking to be sure she was still in presence (and also, I admit, that she wasn't about to fall on me, being right over the doorway as she was.) She did come down once or twice, for food I imagine.On one occasion I had the chance to see her at eye level. She had stopped in the outer edge of the molding, just by the light switch. I thought she was leaving us, but I found her later that evening in her familiar spot.

I am not a great fan of spiders and certainly never had the desire to pet her or touch her. On the contrary, I often imagined the terror and hysteria I would feel if she fell on me. Actually, I did wonder if the fondness I felt for her would alleviate some of that. I think I was trying to make it a true fondness- to cement our relationship.

All the while I was wondering about the meaning of so many spiders in my life. Not just passing through or scurrying along the woodwork but really present. I did not give her a name. (She was not nearly as fascinating as Rock Star, having no web, although I did witness her munching a rather large cancrelat) But I gave a lot of thought to what message I could derive from their presence.

I searched through the symbolism of spiders in myths and lore. Several relevant topics came to light (things always seem relevant when we are looking.) Spiders are often meant to depict creativity and wisdom, as well of course, as trickery and aggression. All of these things have a potential meaning to my life and I could pick any one of them to see a messge in. And for awhile I did enjoy a subtle meaning from each of them.

It was only later, while reading a children's story to the boys, that I found a completely satisfying connection. It came when I wasn't even looking, the way all the best revelations come. We were reading the story of Mohamed and his escape from Mecca. While traveling with Abu Bakr towards Medina, pursued by enemies filled with bloodlust and hate, Mohamed took shelter in a cave. Allah caused a spider's web to cover the entrance to their cave and this natural camouflage (along with a nesting bird in a nearby tree) was enough to convince the warriors that the cave was empty.

Staring at me from the page was a simple spider's web. It all seemed to connect, in one perfect moment. The story, from A is for Allah (by Yusuf Islam,) was contained on a page about the hijrah or the journey from one place to another. In the case of Islam, it was the journey of Mohamed seeking a place to worship Allah freely. It was a journey of sacrifice and new beginnings. For the people of Medina, who not only welcomed Mohamed and his followers, but agreed to give half of their belongings the emigrants who had come with so little, it was a moment of acceptance and transformation.

With this new thought behind my little friend in the ceiling corner, I had a lot to ponder. So I was a bit disappointed to return home yesterday and find her missing. I had expected it would be coming, spiders don't live very long. But I missed her immediately. And then a thought occurred.

I checked with Mama Vero to be sure. "My friend is gone, hey?" I asked. She hesitated. I knew.

"Did you like her?" Mama Vero could never really understand my tolerance of all the spiders around our house. The story slowly came out that it was an untimely death. A killing. A murder. I was truly crushed. Somehow, even ridiculously so, I felt like I had betrayed my spider friend, left her unprotected. Perhaps there is a message in here as well.

Mama Vero laughed at my dismay, but I am left feeling profoundly sad over the death of a spider.

the lion's den

As with all good journeys, there must be a return. As we draw ever closer to our return, I find I am completely unprepared. I have become used to thinking in a myraid of languages and using whichever word pops into mind at the time. I enjoy the peaceful calm that comes from knowing exactly how I do not belong. And I have come to approach every situation with an equal mix of curiosity, understanding and mystery. It suits me.

That is not to say I will not enjoy the physical pleasures of life in the states. Consistent electricity and reliable running water are sure to be comforts. But, in the oddest of ways, I will feel disconnected and out of touch. I will be back to feeling like I cannot do anything there. I cannot do enough (irrationally so, as I realize many people are doing great things there, originating projects that reach across oceans, over mountains and beyond borders...)

I realize I have never truly understood this aspect of myself, however. How is it that I am so deeply affected by the woman and her children living outside (for three months!) Why have the young Somali men, boys really, who each lost one hand and one foot, invaded my thoughts nearly every waking moment since reading their story? (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8118306.stm )
I don't understand how these things get inside of me so much that I can feel their fear and hear them calling out. I see them sleeping as I sleep, their lives forever changed.

Yet, even more than the mystery of myself is the mystery of others? Why doesn't everyone lose sleep over these things? What kind of place the world could be if we were all spending our nights tormented by the injustices. But I know how it happens. It happens because it must.

I recognize this as akin to the loss of my children. When it hits me, it is a completely overwhelming and all consuming grief. It is nothing I could sustain however, having long since developed a way to endure, to bury this torment so I might attend to daily tasks of living. But you can never adequately grieve a distance such as this and it is here I remain. It will be a small thing that throws me off, a motion in Mohamed reminiscent of Mason, a slip of my tongue or a flippant email reminding me how trivial my role in their lives is.

We cannot sustain the horrors of this world and continue to build our daily lives, celebrating the personal gains and growth of the ones we love. But every so often, a case will stand out, touch us in a way that is more severe and push us into action. So I am left these days merely questioning myself. What is my own action against the suffering I see? Living here I am constantly on the edge of some overwhelming emotion, being moved to tears, whether they be of beauty, humility or sympathy. A trip back is not going to change this.

And that is not even the real hesitancy behind my return. I know that as much as I've changed and grown, it was all expected and welcome. I've never viewed my journey here as anything other than a homecoming. Africa did not let me down.

This return is more like the obligatory visit to a family that holds you in hostility and contempt. Somehow, the mountains that once comforted me seem foreboding in their ability to judge. I have found a freedom here, a liberation I am not ready to concede.

The way back seems littered with dark, stormy memories. This trip resembles so many other trips back. I do not rush into the welcome arms of a lover, but tread ever cautiously, watching all sides, wary and unprotected. Powerless. Moving into the lion's den.

Commercial district

Ever in search of clean water, I was on my way to buy more PUR packets for distribution to Vero. I thought that, since she has a tap of running water in her yard and I’ve seen some neighbors come to get water as well as the soda and pop she sells, if I could get her hooked on using the packets, it might benefit the whole neighborhood. (I’ve since come down from my lofty cloud but you know, it never hurts to dream.)

Albert has told me to come to the PSI office anytime and pick up a box. This office sits on a relatively nice, paved street. It is wide enough for two lanes of traffic and a row or so of pedestrians to manage without getting in each other’s way. However, those in the office inform me they are out of boxes and send me to the commerce district to ‘any pharmacy’ that will have some.

Rue de commerce is organized that way. All the pharmacies are in one cluster, then the hardware stores, and the fabric shops, etc. Everything grouped together by product. It turns out that none of the pharmacies had whole boxes available either, but what a series of adventures to discover this.

The streets themselves, adventure one. They quickly turned from fairly smooth and paved to swelling mounds of packed earth more reminiscent of a dirt bike race track than a ‘rue de commerce.’ Aside from the frequent ups and downs, there are people and pushcarts to avoid. Many of the carts are loaded with goods higher than my car. Up to four men might be struggling with one in order to get it to navigate the hills and valleys and avoid the outright ditches.

Second adventure- leaving the car. The streets are swarming with people, mostly men, sitting, watching, waiting. They have been eyeing me from a distance and I know they will be ready to pounce as soon as I step out of the car. I really don’t want to go into the ‘pharmacy’ I’ve happened to stop in front of. It is small and dirty and crowded. Outside a line of older men loiter with nothing to do except gaze in my direction. Inside, behind the counter the clerks are wearing face masks. In a corner a woman sits on the floor counting out pills into a small plastic baggie. On her lap is a basket full of unrecognizable remedies. The entire scene makes me feel like fleeing.
As expected, a young someone has attached himself to my elbow, completely intruding on my business. No pharmacy privacy act in effect here, that is for certain. He listens to my request so he will be ready to provide any small amount of assistance which I could easily perform for myself. Such as finding my way across the street to another pharmacy when this one does not have what I want.

Actually, although I consider it for a moment, I am happy enough to have him accompany me. I can hear the shouts of ‘Mondele! Mondele!” rise above the general din of the busy streets. It is a cry that always generates an initial, somewhat comical urge to run and hide. Everyone should have to feel this way at least once in their lives. Trapped inside your own skin, wanting to get out.

Someone tries to join us and I am satisfied to already be “taken,” having developed a slight preference for my guide. He leads me into another ‘pharmacy,’ this one more open and bright. I am nearly standing outside as I place my request. I appreciate the openness, having felt completely closed in within the dark, blue painted cement of the previous shop. My guide ‘translates’ my order, though we are all speaking French. I understand it to be part of his job, doing things for me that I can do for myself. I collect my purchase and he walks me back to my car, all the while questioning if I’ve been able to buy the quantity I was looking for and assuring me he would be happy to run off in search of more. No, I thank him and tell him I am finished for this day. I give him the obligatory tip- too much but still just about one dollar- and settle back into the car for adventure number three.

How do I get out of here? The commerce area is a veritable maze of shops and people, push carts and animals. Somewhere in here is the Grande Marche and I know several of the roads will lead to that dead end. A small group of men have begun to bang on the window, demanding money and so I choose to drive straight off rather than execute a timely turn. I always believe the people on the street to be much faster than my car could ever go. It is better to just get out rather than wait for them to gain force in numbers.

My desired path is cut off by a huge lake of water. Another man overtakes the window, jogging along, tapping and talking. I make all decisions by instinct (l’aide de Dieu) and crack the window slightly to hear him. He is friendly, encouraging and helpful. He gets me turned around, provides directions de sortie, and wishes me bon journee, with a fairly beautiful smile.

Socially serving

The minature pink buckets were perfectly designed for holding crayons. I cannot begin to guess what their real purpose might be but it seemed they were designed for us. There was a little black handle which made it convenient for passing (though I noticed today that no one actually did) and the lids made them perfect for travel.

The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.

The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."

One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.

I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.

One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.

Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.

And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.

I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.

The beautiful ugly

A few boys have come out into the street to show off their moves. They are rapping and dancing to music pulsating from behind two steel doors. The doors are painted a deep blue with orange diamonds in the middle. It is a small but busy street. A family has taken up residence in a nearby driveway overgrown with weeds. A fire burns down the road and at the end, across the street, I have a vision of two tents made from tarpulin, one blue the other brown. Various people emerge including two small children who've also come to the road to dance.

We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.

The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.

African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.

I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.

For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.

Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.

There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.

It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.

I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.

It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.

Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.

It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.


It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....

Finis

It is official. I have survived my first year teaching in Congo. I'm sitting in my class now feeling strangely let down. The children have all flown off to their exotic locale or been spirited away by drivers and nannies. It is a different world from the final days of past where the staff gathered to cheer and wave as the buses carted students off to their summer vacations spent in farm fields and dirt bike tracks.

It doesn't help that with the dry season comes gray skies and cool weather. The winter of Kinshasa is a dreary place. Perhaps I would feel differently if I, too, were jetting off to friends and family, but instead I feel somewhat lost and unprepared. The calendar of this international lifestyle rolls along with a force and speed of hurricane winds until slamming to a sudden halt almost unexpectedly. It's jarring.

In many ways, I have already jumped through my summer and am planning for December. I don't like this fast forward façon d'être. I want to slow down and enjoy every moment. It's concentric circles, life in an international school balanced with life in Africa.

Reflection? I have enjoyed this year immensely. I love the potential of the school and I have found that I truly am meant to be teaching. If there was a doubt about whether I was meant for this occupation, it is all cleared away. Professionally, its been an amazing year.

Personally? I am completely missing the vibrancy and rhythms of Afrique l'ouest. It is one of those situations that pulls from each limb, contrasting directions. This story is not over, truly just beginning. Never one to remain idle, I've already begun developing some project ideas to see me through until July. I am not entirely in love with Kinshasa, but for now, we get along.