Get out of your car and kiss me....and other odd adventures in DRC

“Remember what Bilbo used to say: ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”” — J.R.R. Tolkien

As a child, I followed Bilbo's adventures never knowing that I might be closer to his reality one day than I could ever imagine. Stepping out the door in Congo is always certain to lead to one sort of adventure or another. But, as with any long vacation sequestered here on campus, I tend to get led into a foggy haze and my thinking becomes otherworldly. It was in this dream like, slightly confused state that I set out to the closest store to get a few things. Nothing important, just some small unnecessary items. Completely forgetting there's no such thing as a quick run to the store.

I stopped to get cash at the ATM not far from school. The ATM spits out hundreds like an angry llama. I am always intrigued by the idea that you can spend US dollars on the street in Congo...anything bigger than a $5. No one will even look a single dollar bill. When I've received one as change in a bank or supermarket, even I have shaken my head in disbelief as though it were play money. "Can you give me francs? What am I going to do with that?" I say, knowing there's nowhere to spend a dollar. Its amazing how quickly our paper system becomes devalued. And to think, I used to collect change.

With a crisp brand new one hundred dollar bill, I continued on to the "corner store." Once inside, I picked up a few things totaling slightly less than $5 and was promptly told they would not accept my overzealous payment. I've had problems of this sort before in this store. A slight tear, too many wrinkles. They are very particular about American money. Crisp, clean and wrinkle free. But my hundred was fresh from the machine and so I didn't really see the problem. Too big, I guess. I just shook my head, muttering that only in a country such as Congo would they refuse to accept money. It happens all the time. Refusal to bargain to a fair price, refusal to sell, refusal to accept money for a just exchange. Bizarre. In my fugue state, I went out to the car.

There is a "point of no return" in Kinshasa and for me it lies just after the first round about leading to the boulevard and downtown. Once you drive past that, returning traffic could take hours and its definitely a no man's land out there. At the parking entrance, I looked to my left, saw the endless line of cars and decided to turn back towards Kintambo, the busy market area I had just come through. Traffic is often horrendous through there and the streets crowded with pedestrians and sellers make it something o f an obstacle course. However, I figured I could go to a cozy little store tucked on a side street and pick up some cheese, maybe some onions and get change for my oppressive one hundred dollar bill. It's an interesting store that always has a side of goat hanging to the left of the entrance. I guess they are also a butcher. I usually turn my head when I enter to avoid the graphic image. Once inside, it actually seemed like a good plan until, just as I was about to pay, someone came in and asked me to move my car. I was apparently blocking an exit from the driveway. I moved the car and drove away empty handed, albeit for that crisp, useless American money.

I headed downtown weaving through darting pedestrians, trying to heed traffic cop signals and ignoring the street boys that wanted me to perform crazy maneuvers in order to let the taxi buses through. The holiday season in Kinshasa, as in any big city, impossibly adds to the number of cars and confusion on the road. About halfway down, I came to a stop as directed by the officiating officer. He was motioning for a large truck to make a left hand turn from the oncoming lane. However, the cross lane the truck was turning into was not actually moving. The truck could not make it across the boulevard without completely blocking our way forward. At times like these I think of the simple rules of NYC driving, 'Don't block the box.' It seems obvious.

Predictably, the cars in my lane began shouting, gesturing and honking. What was happening before us simply didn't make sense. Our road was open but we were being made to wait for.....well, it wasn't quite clear. I guess it should also be predictable by now but I was taken a bit by surprise when cars started to go around the huge truck....to my left. Which meant they were now on the wrong side of the road traveling against oncoming traffic. "I am NOT doing that," I thought. But I did. I was swept up in the flow of moving vehicles and soon found myself on the wrong side of the road, immediately aware of two distinct problems. First, obviously, I was on the wrong side of the road. Second, and more importantly, the line behind the truck stretched on for quite a distance. There was no immediate access back to my correct driving lane. With safety (and perhaps a bit of mob mentality) in numbers, we all proceeded to drive defying traffic rules and common sense. Think of a car chase scene in your favorite action adventure film...though somewhat slower and with a bit more control. Just as panic began to set in, I saw an opening that would allow me to cross over into the land of sanity. I veered to my right and was soon merging into the world of correct driving laws.

With all of the traffic surrounding me and now coming in a variety of directions, things were hectic and a bit confusing. I had to come to a sudden halt just before a crosswalk where another traffic cop had given the signal. (There are no 'yellow' hand signals that I am aware of here. It's simply a turn of the body and outstretched arms that let you know if you should stop or go...slowing down is for cowards I guess.) I had passed the 'line' a bit and immediately caught the eye of the policeman. He walked up to the front of my car with large gestures. I made my own gestures in return, apologising and recognizing that I was ill placed. I even reversed a bit into an oncoming truck in an attempt to rectify the oversight. Upon reaching my front grill, he made a somewhat hilarious motion of throwing himself on top of my car as though I had hit him. No, no I shook my head. I wasn't even close to you. There were no pedestrians in sight and I had crossed the line ever so slightly. I realized the radio was on and turned it down so I could hear what he had to say.

He began pointing at me and then pointing next to him. He wanted me to get out of the car. I've never had this request before. Usually they approach the window and ask to see your license. If he moved from the front of my car however, I would be free to drive off. He continued pointing and motioning while I continued shaking my head and apologizing, trying to explain the mass of cars and confusion I had just driven through. He put his hands to his lips, Italian style. It was not the hunger sign but the get out of your car and kiss me sign. Or maybe it was my hazy head and confusion that led me to this translation. I simply didn't know what he was asking for. I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows. Was he serious? Someone on the street shouted at him and he turned. He stepped aside from the car, pointed his finger at me and told me not to drive off even as he watched me slowly pulling away.

I had nearly arrived at my destination and so pulled into the lot and purchased a few items. The downtown area was packed with people and events and general holiday commotion. It's like confetti on the eyes trying to discern if there is a real situation or just  a crowd of people waiting for transport. A bunch of police seemed to be surrounding a pushcart. I couldn't tell if the man emerging from underneath it had been hit or was repairing something. It's always that way with people under vehicles.

My return trip was equally eventful in that children seemed to be dashing from one side of the street to the other in a crazy game of 'red light, green light.' This was no game of course, just the ordinary day to day of trying to get somewhere in Kinshasa on foot. I stopped to let a young street vendor escort two little boys most of the way across the street, happy they'd had some help in their personal adventure. He went two- thirds of the way with them and then gave them a slight push as he threw his hands up in the air. "Off with you," he seemed to be saying, as he returned to his post and his friends by the side of the road. I was almost feeling hopeful.

The thing that really stops my heart is the way the smallest of boys who are selling water run after the large taxi buses and cars. The taxi buses don't slow down for them and in order to make the sale they run along side throwing bags into the windows and hoping to catch the bills tossed back to them. Because the taxis tend to create an ominous third lane down the middle of the road, the boys are often caught between rows of traffic. I drive holding my breath for them with a foot on the brake. I was a bit distracted by the scene as several other street kids came up to my window on the right. 'Tis the season and everyone is looking for some holiday cash. I shook my head at them as I eyed a young girl looking to make a quick dash across the road. Anticipating her run, I slowed down. The boys on my right formed a little posse and one of them even stepped in front of my car, policeman style. Really? Accosted by a band of seven year olds. I steered around him cautiously, in wonder at this new boldness. They banged the back of my car a few times as I made my way past them.

I finally arrived at the house with some bread and cheese in tow, still laughing about kissing the policeman. I just can't get enough of these traffic stories. It's a dangerous business, stepping out of your door.

too much city

I've resisted writing for a number of reasons, though lack of material cannot be counted among them. I've been searching this third year for the Congo that I have thus far only read about, heard about from Congolese abroad or dreamt about as I envision the work others are doing. Sara Rich seems to have found a perfectly beautiful niche working with children in Goma. Long breaks from school remind me that's why I came to Africa. Kambale Musavuli is another activist for Congo that frequently leaves me feeling inspired and always more knowledgeable. But occasionally, I must admit, I am also left searching for this Congo that everyone has so fallen for. Because sometimes, I'm just not feelin' it.

Kinshasa is a tough city. It's like the New York of Africa. If you can make it here.......But lately, I find myself examining what "make it" really means. What qualifies as "making it" in Kinshasa and is that the only level I am really aspiring too? These long days around my house leave me feeling aimless, useless and unfulfilled.

It was only a few days into the break when my son fell and hit his head. I knew immediately he would need a stitch or two but waited a bit before bringing him down to the clinic. I bandaged him up while trying to decide if I was overreacting or not. A few hours later, the bleeding started again and I knew we had to go. It was a calm trip down to the bottom of the hill where a medical clinic awaited us. We didn't wait terribly long, though the slow pace of the everyone had my nerves on edge. I'm glad he wasn't actually gushing blood or in any serious condition. Hospitals in Africa always give me pause. And here, I have yet to encounter the bedside manner that is reassuring to me. I remember the friendly doctor in Conakry who checked out Mohamed when he had a severe case of malaria. He explained things to me, talked to Mohamed and in general made us feel welcome and reassured.

The clinic nurses at Ngaliema, however, went about their job in a silent and relaxed manner. They had very few words and asked only the basic questions. A few times when I wondered exactly what they were doing and why, they responded, but added, "Do you accept?" I'm not sure what this was supposed to convey to me, but somehow felt if I said no they would have stopped. I felt certain I could never really receive an answer about what was necessary or needed. They would do whatever I asked, best interest or not. I am no doctor. 

I spent some time marveling at the surroundings. It really is like being in Babel. Everything is charming until there's an emergency. Medical care is scary. Simple problems suddenly become life threatening. You walk in with a cut and leave with some infection that leads to permanent damage. These were the thoughts going through my mind as I eyed the plastic water bottles strung to the side of the medical cart. They each had a piece of masking tape identifying the contents. One was nearly filled with used needles. I couldn't really tell what function the others served. Plastic gloves were in supply and I carefully watched for signs of sterility and cleanliness, even as I noticed a trail of ants marching along the lower shelf. Sterility and cleanliness can be challenging in the tropics.

In all, Nabih was quite brave and the suturing took only minutes. The doctor made some contact with Nabih, asking him if he could go ahead and give the shot. This time I felt it was more of a putting at ease gesture than one he would really heed had the response been no. I have no idea how well the stitches were put in. There seems to be a rather large bump, but the head is closed, it was cleaned and Nabih appears none worse for the wear. We were told to come back in two days....and every two days after until they are removed.

If the first trip had me wondering, the second trip had me rushing out the door in a panic. I opened the curtain to the examining area and found a man blowing his nose on the floor. He looked at me and promptly stuck his finger in his nose. I ushered Nabih outside and sat on a low wall for some much needed deep breathing. I was angry because I felt tied to this clinic and didn't really see another place offering something more sanitary. I was angry that I was angry. I took many deep breaths before deciding I could return. If the man even moved, I decided I would, in my calmest and most sincere voice, simply ask him to wash his hands first. It was another nurse who came in to change the bandage and do the clean up. The man didn't even look at me. It was not out of embarrassment but simply out of distraction. I have never been able to get used to this habit of public nose picking and cleansing. You can find a young boy selling packets of tissue every three feet, but apparently these are reserved for the mopping of sweat, not nasal hygiene.

Later, more private ranting led to the conclusion that just studying about germs is not enough. If you learn in a dark and dirty classroom, you will not understand the dangers lurking there. I relented slightly,  understanding as well that most university classrooms here have 300-400 students. How much and how well one learns is completely up to them. Diplomas and tests can be easily bargained for.   

But these are not the stories I want to be telling. They are not the stories I want to be living. As the second semester begins, I had planned to have my students begin work on a heroes wall in our cafeteria. I wanted them to paint portraits of some less than well known people who have made a difference in Congo. Floribert Cheyeba , Armand Tungulu and the doctor from Panzi Hospital Dr. Denis Mukwege as well as Drs. Kasereka and Lyn Lusi , founders of HEAL Africa are among some of the potential heroes to be portrayed. The work they have done and are doing is amazing, passionate, necessary and of a kind I just don't run into. And it's becoming a problem for me. I feel like I'm becoming part of the problem.  

I don't really see a clear path ahead of me. I've long held a steady vision of what I want my future to be like. While I can see it clearly, the road there is shrouded in mystery. Time seems so altered here, though truly it is only due to the glasses we wear. I have resisted putting down roots considering this merely a temporary situation. It is this very perspective that colors everything with a rose red haze of waiting. Nothing is too serious (after all, we don't really live here) and nothing is too personal (surely we'll be moving on soon...or they will.) It's a perpetual state of getting-to-know-you. It has the capacity to satisfy at times and drive me to madness at others.

While we spent the first two years in one house, this third year we moved next door. We still live in the same aura, albeit with a bit more privacy and a cool front porch. I have enjoyed living on lower campus far form the complexities and cliques of the upper scene.  I've been given the offer of moving to another house on campus next year. It's larger and more centrally placed, along with an enclosed backyard. I hadn't noticed a need for any of those things (a larger house only means more cleaning to me) but understand domestic geography has a motivation all its own. One night, while sitting on my front step, enclosed by my deliciously overgrown garden, with it's dangling palm tree fronds and wild flowers blooming everywhere, I realized another reason why I didn't want to move. Where I am situated now, close to the wall that surrounds us, the sounds of "neighbors" fill my days and nights. I listen to the children playing. I hear their shouts and cries from child to parent. I've often heard a word that sounds close to "Nabih" and a very English sounding "mom," distortion from the wind perhaps.
  
I hear wild parties, loud music and soccer cheers. I've been woken with the military marching and singing in tune and lulled to sleep by the laughter of men talking and drinking into the night. I delight in sounds I can't decipher, the music of the African tongue. I've occasionally been alarmed by a shrieking child, screaming woman or the ominous repetition of popping firecrackers. But I witness these sounds of life tucked behind the safety and security of my wall. Not at all what I imagined when I moved to Africa.

Security is a must. Though I've long abandoned a quest for material things, the very presence of my whiteness, my foreignness cements the idea that I have more than the average Congolese.
The wall. The gate. The security. One of my main reasons for wanting to get out of this city is in search of a more open Africa. A more integrated presence. Kinshasa is such a multi layered, complex city. It is reminiscent of tales from India, with their caste and social class systems. Everyone belongs to a layer and there is simply no crossing over.
 
I recall with irony the nights I've longed to be in NYC attending an African dance class, absorbed by in the rhythms and energy of Africa. While my feet may rest on African soil, it is far too often my heart is bound and trapped by the prestige of being "safe." Kinshasa is a difficult city with a complicated past. The generations have been saturated with such a contorted view of the world that I am constantly confronted with my alternate selves. I contemplate my potential move to upper campus with its closed -in yard and luxurious space and I see it as a move in-land, though it's probably not any more remote than I am now. But from here, I have a chance to hear the vibrant sounds of life around me, encouraging me to shed the last vestiges of this prison and form connections that will lead to my true house- one that's smaller, with an open yard and filled with children. Out of these walls and beyond this city.

the truth about congo

It's been a long time coming....this particular post. And I'm not quite sure I'll get it right. However, I do think it's time to try and put some words to what I've been grappling with and what anyone who lives here already knows. It's too easy to get caught up in a stream of complaints about living in Kinshasa and doesn't make for interesting reading surely. If the second year was all about indulging in the small comforts I denied myself the first year, the third year is all about facing the harsh realities of fact. Kinshasa is an emotionally draining place to live. I find myself longing at times for the simplicity of the States...and isn't that why I left the US in the first place? To find some kind of simpler life?

I spend a lot more time this third year examing my love hate relationship with Kinshasa--and truthfully, I am not sure how much the "love" part really qualifies for love. What is love anyway? But the hate part....that is a bit easier to define. It starts with minor annoyances....police hassles on your way to the store, street kids pounding on your car because you didn't give them money, the seemingly illogical way many people approach daily tasks of work and life. It moves beyond minor annoyance though and before you know it, you find yourself starting sentences with "they...." and generalizing all people in the ignorant way of bigots and racists. Which is why I am constantly trying to re-evaluate my perspective and my expectations. It's too easy to get caught up in seeing all the wrong and never recognizing the right.

It has everything to do with life in a big city....life in Kinshasa specifically. Crime is everywhere. I see it in the young eyes that peer into my open passenger-side window, scanning the door lock, seat and dashboard for anything that would be quick and easy to grab as he puts his hands to his puckered mouth and implores me to give him something. A universal sign for "hungry." The only hunger I can see is his desire to grab a bag or phone or anything tangible I might have left on the seat. You can't drive like that here in Kinshasa. The car is empty; my bag is down by my feet hidden between the door and the brake pedal.

These aren't the stories that leave me with a clear sense of what's gone wrong though. I hear that story later. It's two days after I've lost my temper and yelled at the boy with his darting eyes. (Is he a boy? He wasn't a man, but boy conjures up the wrong image. He was 18 or 19 perhaps, somewhere on the cusp of adulthood.) It's weeks after I heard the story of a friend who, narrowly escaping a car accident, instinctively turned around to help the car that hadn't been so lucky. It was a car that hit someone. The person was lying on the ground and the occupants of the vehicle had gotten out and were standing around. The driver was on his knees, praying in the road. A crowd had gathered and began beating on the window of my friend's car. They wanted her to take the person to the hospital. In Kinshasa, there is no ambulance (though I am often lulled to sleep by the sound of sirens....?? It's an odd juxtaposition.) What to do? I hate even writing these words. It's like the secret of Congo. Sometimes you might do something that seems very inhumane. You can't really show up at a hospital with a dying person in your car....or even an injured person. It's all so complicated and without reason. (Hospital service deserves its very own post, but just know that doctors here don't seem to be obligated to care for the sick or injured. Money always comes first. And truth? I can see how the story would spin out for the good samaritan foreigner who arrives with a fatal patient - family, "witnesses" and police would all be on hand to concoct versions of the accident breaking from reality but potentially leading to benefit--or just plain violence. These are ugly words, I'm aware.) In this case, the crowd grew more peristent and ended up breaking the window. My friend managed to drive away. That's not even the story that pin pointed what's gone wrong. Nor was her story several days later (yes, same unlucky friend) about walking by the river a bit too close to dusk when she ended up paying some military guy 5000FC via friendly suggestion.

I had come home earlier than usual, having missed lunch and in need of some nutrients to help me attack the latest round of student work. The state of my house assaulted me first and because of this distraction, I didn't hear the story until much  later in the night. Kazadi came home from his evening classes in English. He is also attending university during the day and getting ready for exams. He had been out looking for some kind of vest or jacket to wear (another incredible requirement that had me ranting and raving the lunacy of misplaced priorities- more ugly words) when his story begins. He was near the large market but had stepped into a store. An actual boutique, with walls and windows and clothing hanging from metal racks. He took one step inside and was immediately confronted with 5 other Congolese youth. They made some statements about this area belonging to them and began to demand money. They had a hand on his schoolbag and grabbed him by his sweatshirt. Apparently some punches were thrown. Kazadi calculated his situation. His bag was full of books for school, a new shirt he had just bought for the exam, and he had twenty dollars in his pocket. He could lose it all or he could play along. Someone in the store stepped beside him and said,"Just give them 500 franc." Kazadi did have 500 franc cleverly placed in a separate pocket from the $20. He pulled it out to give to them, considering how much more he could be losing (remember conversion rates.....$20 could be considered a months salary to some.) He spent some time trying to talk them down---and asking himself we're all Congolese here right? After the gang left, the rest of the people in the store had words for him, what he should or should not have done. He just shook his head and walked out, continuing his search for the right attire to wear to his exam. I think that is the most disturbing part of the story to me. Not the fact that it happened in the middle of the day or inside a real store, but the fact that  it happened admist a crowd of people, not one of whom did more than just observe. Even the owner of the store was there, a casual witness to another man's crime.

That's the story that's left me with an undeniable sense of what's really gone wrong here. No one stepped up to help. In fact, the only interference was someone suggesting he just pay the money. The truth about Congo is that sometimes is really is like the wild west, a lawless no man's land where everyone is willing to turn a blind eye. It reminds me only of a quote from one of my fifth graders during a recent crusade to join the OutCry for Congo campaign- posters and photos urging Washington to make a policy change. What's the point of being human if you don't help other humans? It seems to be the question that Congo itself has forgotten.     

A thousand sisters....or even just one

It took me awhile to approach this book. It found me in the way that good books often do, sneaking up when I am least aware. I'd heard about A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon often enough, living in Congo and trying to keep up with the current state of affairs. I'd put off reading it for a variety of reason, the first of which, I must admit, was the title.

Sisters....growing up in the fractured family that I did, family has become an issue for me. Women family in particular. It's something I notice always, have quietly observed with fascination and envy. I've felt that lack of a mother presence, a supporting family presence since "the move" - one of those defining moments that separate the cozy childhood memories from the on-my-own indendent memories. Most often, I push it back into some dark corner, solidly hidden away reacting only with annoyance whenever it pops up (am I going to get over my childhood....don't people get over these things...ever?) It could have been the move, or the illness or the divorce, all of those things happened at the same time. But what I know is that after they happened, I found myself without the mother figure and squarely on my own. I was 10. It's time to get over it. But the truth is, I have never really felt embraced by women or part of the "sisterhood" that other women seem to claim so easily as naturally theirs. It's always seemed like more of a crutch, a hurdle to conquer so I can accomplish the things I really want to do.

I spent two years attending an all women's college and that was, for a brief moment, a glimpse into what life could be like seen through the unique perspective of being a woman. I began to feel a bit of pride and joy in my femaleness- but the door was not opened long enough for anything substantial to take root. I was quickly whisked back into roles and images that didn't quite match, all the while trying to understand this woman thing (strong and prideful or weak and frivolous?)  The name of this book seemed to suggest something that just wouldn't be able to speak to me.

I came across it at an informal book swap. I saw it lying there on the table amidst a random display of books, all appearing a bit depressing in their subject matter. Reading in Congo can get like that. The pickings are slim and after 3 years, I've read most of what is on offer from the school libraries and the small community library on campus. I prefer stories about Africa, biographies and true accounts, but they can be draining. African stories require time to process and heal afterwards. I wasn't really sure I had room for another depressing tale of how the world has gone wrong.

"Did you read this? I've heard a lot about this." I was inquiring another book swap attendee browsing the table. It turns out she had brought the book to swap.
"Its ok," she replied, emphasis on the ok, suggesting it wasn't the greatest read. I had just finished Bite of the Mango, a story about a girl from Sierra Leone who had her hands amputated during that country's civil war. The story had been a quick read on the flight back from Nairobi. It had the detached quality that often happens when the main character is not also the author...a quasi-autobiography. The central thoughts, doubts, fears and emotions seemed to be missing. Not that I wasn't affected by the book, but somehow, I was looking for more. The response I received from the fellow book swapper seemed to suggest I might not find it in the thousand sisters either.

I took the book anyway. Choices were limited. The book sat on my table, in a rare waiting-to-read pile. I avoided it for a few more weeks. It turns out the books I had given higher priority -This Child Will Be Great, by Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (the name should have tipped me off but, surprisingly it didn't hit me until half way through the novel, which read much more like a propaganda campaign) and another fictional (I think, it's still not clear to me if this one was supposed to be some kind of memoir) book about a South African aspiring author and poet didn't merit finishing  - a rarity for me-though I read both nearly to the end before giving up in frustration and boredom. It was in this search for something satisfying that I finally picked up A Thousand Sister's, the ok echoing in my mind.

I read it in 2 days. Captivated. I wondered what it was about this recount that didn't speak to its previous owner. Because everything I read sounded just like me. I appreciated Shannon's candid thoughts and reactions. I found her truthfulness to be comforting. She was moved to do something and in the very heart of her actions suffered self doubt and angst about whether any of it was meaningful. I got this exactly.

In the midst of trying to create positive change, there is the nagging question is this really helping? am I really helping? A bit of humility is good for the soul, but it doesn't always provide the inspiration or motivation to continue, especially when your actions don't result in immediate change. It is easy to feel like you are "tossing teaspoons of water on a raging fire." In the face of Africa, it easy to feel that all of your efforts are "silly stunts...paltry presents...ridiculous."  As Lisa Shannon goes on to write, "Who am I against Congo?"  It is easy to become overwhelmed when faced with the enormous suffering and paralyzing depth of poverty that families survive in. I most appreciated the tales when women were motivated and able to make a change for the better. It is something I don't see often enough in the capital. The air is different here.

I also appreciated Shannon's accounts of dealing with the muzungu effect. Here in Kin, we're known as mondele but the effect is all the same. It's the idea of extremes. For some, for many, this means, by white association, you have unlimited funds and can fix any problem. Endless giving. (For others, of course, this means you are the root of all evil and have caused all of mankind's suffering....both of which probably have an equal measure of truth.) It often confuses what could otherwise be a good and simple friendship. It also means a constant fluctuation between wanting to help and just wanting to be (as in, leave me alone, I can't do anymore.) It becomes a constant battle between have I done enough and am I doing anything? I believe that true change can only be brought about by motivation and action. While I am happy to be part of the solution, I clearly recognize that I am not the solution. It must come from the people themselves. Charity does not equal change, though it can lead down a pathway to change. It is ultimately the decisions of the receiver that will determine the final outcome. Lisa does a wonderful job of clarifying some of the ridiculous choices extreme poverty and war create. "Only-in-Congo choices" she coins them. They appear to be hypothetical questions children would tease each other with, the kind you can never answer because both choices are equally grotesque. Would you rather eat a worm or a cockroach? The only answer to that is, No. Except in Congo the questions aren't a child's game and the consequences are much more dire than merely eating bugs. The questions require an answer. Simply refusing to play is not an option.

Would you rather be raped or watch your children starve? Would you rather be killed or will you kill your neighbor? Will you get this child a doctor while the 7 others may die or let this one go, so the rest can be fed? Do you want us to rape you or marry you?

There is no understanding a world that continues to allow these kinds of questions to dictate the future of any single person's life. There is no understanding the hatred and rage and humiliation that has built enough within someone to inflict this kind of torture on another human being. Causes and contributions can be easily identified, but understanding is a different matter altogether.

And so is witnessing. It's an idea I've been confronted with on a number of occasions in these last 3 years, not all having to do with Congo herself but many reaching out across the borders and oceans into other countries. Witnessing is an act. It's an idea expressed somewhere in the last quarter of the book and one that is helpful to remember. People need to tell their stories. They need to know that others are listening and caring and making a connection. Whether it is Sakineh from Iran or the women from Kaniola, the truth of their lives needs to be heard by others. And that's step one.

The next steps vary, I suppose, somewhere between action and education. I have a mix of ideas that overlap the two worlds. And, M, I'll be sending you my copy of the book. I hope you'll read it and pass it on to someone else to read, who will pass it one to someone else to read.... Maybe some of them will decide to run, or talk or create an entirely new idea. Maybe some of them will choose to simply witness, and I think that's ok too.

Behind these walls

While the general pace of our lives tends to leave us each absorbed in our own microcogisms, lately I see I've spent an unusual amount of time peering out to my world from behind one set of wall or another. It is a world marked by the slow moving pace of security guards blending in with shadows. It's a world filled with sterile beauty and composed with pieces from a not so distant past. I wonder often how it is I've found myself in such unlikely settings that rebel against every belief I've come more strongly to hold. This constant assault upon my senses challenges my silence.



   

 Safari Park Hotel, Cafe Kigwa  - Nairobi, Kenya

 
 I escaped the isolation of our campus life for a surreal turn in this Kenyan hotel. The grounds are unarguably breathtaking- color blooming aside every path, water falling and pooling like landscape paintings and trees lit up from below in striking illuminations that rival the display of the most famous masterpieces. Only the promise of a free meal lured me to the closing gala ball. Teachers from all over Africa had been meeting for days, networking, learning and exchanging ideas (admist the ever present agendas of shopping and safari, I suppose it is fair to add.) The 'ball' is traditionally the culminating event.

Dinner was buffet style- a mixture of dishes bland enough to please everyone sprinkled with the occasional ethnic item. Waiters brandished kabobs of meat that were longer than their arms and forced them to wield the pieces of carcass like daggers. An equally long knife accompanied the costume and they moved swiftly through the crowd disposing dripping pieces of meat onto dinner plates.

Though I could accept this as culturally Kenyan, the choice of music was much more bizarre. As I gazed at the brave and brazen dancers who'd made their way to the stage, I realized I truly was not among like-minded peers. They all seemed to be enjoying things immensely. I wrestled with my disappointment and dashed hopes for an evening of soul catching music. I laughed and chatted with my tablemates as we tried to be generally amused by the foibles occuring before us. We told jokes about the self fulfilling prophecy that white people can't dance and insisted to each other that it didn't have to be so (the proof was clearly not before us, but we rationalized surely it existed somewhere.) 

The most amusing moment came when a voice sounded over the loudspeaker. It was the calm and neutral, though slightly sexy, voice of computer generation. "Ladies and gentleman, the Safari Cats will now begin." It began to repeat itself and we envisioned rogue electronics gone haywire. People eventually cleared the stage and the 'dance show' began. I had caught a glimpse of it in passing the night before and expected to be completely horrified. I had a small glimmer of hope that there was some transformation after the first few minutes. The music that blared from the sound system was reminiscent of a B movie soundtrack, bland and unoriginal. The dancers appeared in degradingly stereotypical costume and moved in a graceful ballet. It was an odd mixture of European colonial vision and theme park surrealsim. I had to leave.



I felt I would be much better placed had I been wearing a Stetson with leather vest and smoking a cigar.  The show seemed catered to the white elderly male who wanted to hold onto images of a long ago past when masters had money and Africans were periphery wall decoration. I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that a show like this still existed and worse, was performed every night. The crowded hollered and clapped and I felt like the only sane person within 50 kilometers. I wondered about the hotel staff and what they truly thought of the act. I pondered the dancers and how they viewed their role as an artist, a performer and a Kenyan.

In truth, I was not alone in my rejection of the atrocity. But escape hardly seemed enough. I continue to question why this opportunity- hosting people from around the globe- isn't put to a more responsible use. Why doesn't the show display the traditional dance and music of Kenya? - the most obvious question and the one I still can't answer. I realize the motivating power of money, of catering to client need and desire- surely a club playing hip hop and dance music would not be well received by the average guest- but there could be some compromise. Some social accountability.



This 'Garden of Eden' is clouded with the smoke of pesticide
 spray for mosquitoes. The gardener wore a mask, though it was
perched atop his head. Those of us dining in the nearby cafe did not
have masks and quickly abandoned our drinks. Paradise at a price.



I can't go on too much because I myself have not found the motivation or inclination to step off the grounds for more than the prearranged excursions to the international school--more teacher training. It is mostly my lack of funds that keeps me bound- ironically- to this oppulance. I'm told a taxi downtown will cost me about 2000 Kenyan shillings ($20.) While I'd love to see some of Nairobi from a different lens, I am remaining content to focus on my job, collect my information and return to my other walls- less culturally enriched and still pocket poor.

All of this returns me, as always, to thoughts of Guinea. I am comforted with images of the boys playing soccer in the red dirt streets and the slats of sunlight streaming into the Maison de Jeunesse where some kids practiced their dance moves to the backdrop of a percussion group rehearsing their rhythms. I have yet to be anywhere that welcomes me home so completely and so openly as the streets of guinee.  This is what it means to miss a country, a homeland. To feel you are growing and changing in a foreign culture as you wait and long for return to the place that you love.

I think also of my Kenyan students and how I will go back to tell them how beautiful their country is. There is much less tension here and I find people to be polite and well spoken. I sense beauty and pride in the air despite acknowledging that the true spirit of the land has eluded me on this trip. It is the Kenyan students that strike me often as the ones who hold the most reverence for their country, the quiet longing that colors everything they write and wear and do. It is the story of the immigrant, the migrant, the reluctant traveler.  It is a feeling that requires a constant influx of patience and reassurance. You must tell yourself, it will not be too late when I return. My country will be waiting to recognize me, to embrace me, to open the walls and welcome me home. Perhaps that's what I've been sent to here to collect- not just tools and strategies to enrich student learning, but empathy as well.

trees at night

because i can't be a tourist

i don't build those memories

that people collect

and store away like photographs

picture perfect snapshots
of moments that never
really
existed

music that plays
to create a false atmosphere
i look behind the curtain

because i can't be tourist
i wander around searching for something
real
seeing only beauty in the blemishes
that mark a daily life

its a photo full of shadows
that illuminates my trip
and makes me miss that spot

just outside a little house in guinea
on a red dirt road
where kids kick up the dust
in a fierce game of football

roadside stalls lit up by candlelight
where the conversation is sweet
and dull

about everything and nothing 

because i can't be a tourist

i argue with myself

about how i'll spend my days

lost in thought

a gypsy missing home

and wondering where i left it

the impossibility of kinshasa

I surprise myself
With the things I've accomplished
by myself

I want to need you
Have my soul
Cry out for you

I want to look out for each other
Satisfy my longing
Reach out to each other

But behind these walls
It is only I
behind these walls

Order of Events- -a car crash in congo

Following a crash in the US, police usually gather and try to determine exactly what happened. They may interview several witnesses, receive a variety of stories and spend some time analyzing tire tracks, paint smudges and other informational clues. In the critical seconds just after an accident, witnesses may turn into heroes or helpers as they dial 911 and provide any assistance they know how. While the police are gathering evidence and redirecting traffic, paramedics are on the scene to evaluate the injured. Firefighters or tow trucks may even arrive to clear the wreckage.

It was the evening of the Eid and we were waiting with Ousmane for the bus to the airport. 10:30 on a Friday night. Traffic was light and in Kinshasa this usually means fast. With no apparent speed limits and no way to enforce them, drivers take to driving as fast as the open roads allow- on a clear, late night such as this one, that could easily mean speeds into the 70’s or 80’s. We were standing outside the Air Maroc agency when the scraping of metal and squealing of tires caught our attention. I looked over and saw a large white SUV that appeared to be speeding away. A small red taxi spun across the road and a larger blue taxi van skidded into a turn and appeared to dump half of its occupants out the open sliding door. If the police had interviewed me then, I would have said the white SUV had something to do with the crash. Later, I wasn’t so sure. Nothing really seemed too clear. The red taxi was in a very odd position and between the three of us, we couldn’t agree on which direction it had originally been traveling.

There is nothing quite like the deep and solid thud of an impact to make your heart rise up and your pulse take notice. My stomach immediately began to churn when wailing followed. Clearly there were some injuries. Several large and angry crowds assembled, one around the people on the ground where the blue van had hit and the other around the driver of the red taxi. Police arrived on the scene, by foot, within five or so minutes. All I could think about was how out of order everything seemed to be. I knew an ambulance was not on its way. The police made their own crowd around the driver and there was a lot of hustling, bustling, and jerking going on. The driver was grabbed by his two elbows and pulled back and forth. He was dragged off in the direction of the police station a few blocks away, the red car left at an angle blocking the road.

While this was going on, an onlooker- or perhaps fellow passenger- escorted a woman across the street. She appeared to have blood on her shirt. She barely made it to the curb before collapsing to the ground. A crowd formed around her as well. While I felt a sickening resignation about the futility of the Congolese emergency system, Ousmane was busy telling us that in Guinea he could dial 777 and receive an emergency response or 1212 for an ambulance. I kept wondering how the scene would play out---do the injured ever get help? What would they do with the body of someone who died?

Back across the street, the police had assembled again, this time around a few guys by the blue van. One was clearly a kid who put up an excellent fight, received a slap in the face and remained undeterred. He was dragged down the street by three or four policeman—a completely different direction than the police station and previous driver. I could see his silhouette kicking up dirt and bouncing around as he fought the whole way. It was still not clear to me if there were more injured, if people had gotten hit by or thrown from the van or how the accident had occurred exactly. A large battalion tanker passed us armed with flashing lights and men with guns. These large trucks remind me of the boxy type of fire trucks but they are much larger, more square and drove right by the accident without the slightest concern. The injured woman continue to lie on the roadside unaided.

I felt dizzy with my helplessness and an eerie sense of distance. I watched horrifying scenes continue to play out on the now partially blocked boulevard. Taxis stopped and stalled in the middle of the road, passengers got in and out and ran across the street as SUV’s whizzed by. Life as usual, I suppose, but the dangerous stupidity of it all was so much more illuminated.

Finally, the woman was carried into a taxi with cries of “Hospital, hospital.” No one got in with her, though Kazadi had run over to the crowd twice, trying to entice action. There was no siren, no EMT team working to stop the bleeding and check her vitals, just one lone woman in a taxi that turned back across the devilish boulevard and down a dusty dirt road.

By this time, the police were now dealing with the inconvenient placement of the taxi. They had begun pushing it over to the side of the road and even lifted it together in order to straighten it out a bit. The front fender was completely smashed in and partly impeding the tire movement.

Ousmane’s bus began loading baggage and soon after he showed his documents and boarded. We waved goodbye, got in our car and began the short drive home. Mohamed was especially talkative, he gets that way when he’s trying to think something through. He was clearly as disturbed as I, though neither of us actually saw anything. It was what we didn’t see that was so troubling. Even as I write this, I feel a useless pressure just below the surface. The order of events couldn’t have been more OUT of order.

Shopping and Prayer

I have discovered a favorite new fabric store. Well, perhaps favorite is a strong word, but it is definitely a useful new fabric store. I have two now and I always visit them together. Lambada is what I consider a conservative store. It is the tried and true, steadfast friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need something and be certain to be helped. This store has many styles of fabric in a variety of patterns. It is orderly and neat with samples piled up in folded squares layed out across table after table. Prices for 2, 4, or 6 yards are clearly marked on small chalkboard signs. They have one of my favorite sections where the cloth is bundled in pairs. Deux temps. There you can find a bright and vibrant pattern paired with a solid color or you may find the same pattern but with the colors reversed. When checking out, you will first give your cloth (ironically- or perhaps arabically) to the man at the table sitting closest to the exit. From there you will work your way (backwards) to the lady on his right. She will issue you three copies of each receipt for each piece of fabric you have selected. You move on to the cashiers who are (first) next in the row. They will cheerfully take your money, provide change and stamp all three copies of your receipts, keeping one. Finally you  move back to the (end) beginning and show your receipts in order to collect your fabric, which is bagged and handed off. Music plays, providing a pleasant atmosphere and there is rarely a (long) wait.

Bizou Bizou, however, is your wild cousin from out of state who shows up and whisks you off on a spontaneous beachside vacation. I met Bizou Bizou by way of an older but fabulously dressed woman in one of the food stores. I had been noticing a particular style of fabric on many Congolese that I had previously only associated with West Africa. I had not seen this type of waxed and dyed fabric anywhere. She was standing in the checkout line just ahead of me looking beautifully regal in that Guinean way. I surprised her a bit trying to get her attention but when I began the subject of the fabric, she smiled and introduced me to Bizou Bizou.

The shop is actually several storefronts long, with large doorways open to each section. There is a curtain fabric area where you can also find soft cottons with exquistie 'African motif' patterns ( cozy blankets is how I envision these fabrics being used. When I recently bought only 1 meter for a baby blanket, I was met with an odd stare. Only 1 meter? As if...) They are dreamy and beautiful and soooo expensive.

The second entrance to the store is the equivalent of a late night dance club. The music is booming from two enormous speakers posted at the entrance. Just inside, there is a pile of fabric on the floor slightly resembling those late Ocotber NY leaf piles we used to jump into as children. Women are everywhere grabbing and pawing through the cloth. (Apparently, this is the "sale rack.") A 'DJ' stands perched on a box draped in long, flowing samples and holding a microphone. Somehow, he manages to be louder than the music. His partner stands just by the entrance, decked out in an equally comedic fashion, fabric pieces hanging toga  style. To complete the scene, scraps of fabric are being cut and tossed through the air overhead. Its electric.

It is the second 'DJ' (I can't help but to think of them this way...they dance and sing and call out price reductions with talent and energy) who is the one that will bag your purchases upon exit. He has an abrupt style, grabbing  the fabric from your hands and placing it roughly in a bag along with the customary tearing of the receipt.  Although I know this is coming, it always seems to affect me in the jolting way of a carnival ride with its jerky starts and stops.

Browsing Bizou Bizou, one can find a larger variety of fabric styles, sequins, sparkles, waxed, batik, saris, and silks. Prices are not always marked and bargaining is possible. You must first locate someone to measure and cut your fabric (sold by the meter.) Once cut, the fabric may be tossed and held by the guy at the door or  brought up to the counter. The cutter will call out the number of yards and the price per yard. Somehow, it gets written on a scrap of paper.

This day, I was shopping with Ousmane in preparation for his return to Guinea and also celebration of the Eid. In addition, a new baby had entered the world, and I was hoping to find some fabric that would enfold her with African spirit. Bizou Bizou, always packed, was especially busy today. I noticed 5 or 6 women also clearly shopping for the Eid. I found it difficult to choose items for the Soumah women and wanted to rely on Ousmane for that. It became quickly clear that that was probably a mistake. He could not recall what color they liked or generally wore. I tried to remember the few days we had spent together and also photos I'd seen. I was drawn to some deep reds with shimmering flowers. As I contemplated my purchase, Ousmane noticed someone out the back door using a plastic tea kettel filled with water to wash his hands, head and feet in the manner of Muslims before prayer. "You can wait for me? I am going out to pray." I nodded as I watched him join the man outside. While my cloth was being measaured and cut, I continued to watch Ousmane move through the ablution. He washed his hands, his head and balanced precariously on one foot while trying to rinse and wash the other. I saw a hand move in and take the small plastic tea kettle from him and rinse his feet.

This is the image I carried with me up to the overcrowed and highly confusing checkout. No three receipts here. One line, one hope of maintaining your place in  line (it doesn't exactly move in the linear fashion, its more of a squiggly line in which you hope to be pulled to the cashier by sheer momentum) and finally payment to a cashier who has magically managed to receive all of your fabric and slips of paper outlining the price. I noticed very little of this as I was spiritually still back with Ousmane, just outside the door of a fabric shop, in a foreign country while a stranger washed his feet.

Worldwide Caution

I've received my latest update from the United States Department of State Bureau of Consular Affairs. It is a lengthy caution about the risks of traveling as an American citizen. Apparently, many peoples of the world would like to do me in based upon my nationality. I receive many of these emails and texts messages from the American embassy here in Congo as well. They generally restate the fact that travel in and around Congo is dangerous. Some detail particular areas of heavy police presence or recent increase in robberies or other crimes against Westerners in a particular area. I find them akin to the evening news - only relating the very worst parts of life and rarely referring to the many positive aspects that occur more frequently.

For example, police in Kinshasa are the punch line to many a joke (shame-facedly I admit to laughing myself into tears during a recent teacher orientation exercise in which groups role-played traffic in Kin:  police bribes, the infamous "third lane" complete with sirened, presidential motorcade and a dead pedestrian lying admist traffic that barely drove around him were all spotlights of the skits,) but one rarely hears about the danger they put themselves in every day trying to direct the horrendous, complex, fast, disrespectful-of-police-presence traffic. No one commends the excellent job they do diverting 6 lanes of traffic into 1 at the notorious crossroads of the Boulevard and Justice. And I am not sure how often anyone (besides me, who has become quite conscious of fashionware in Kin---always on the look out for sappeaurs and other fancy dressers) notices the incredibly HOT uniforms they wear (LONG sleeved dark blue shirts, long pants, combat type BOOTS...oh! and if they happen to be wearing their 'riot gear' that day---add in knee pads, elbow pads, helmet......) I have gotten good directions from the police in Kinshasa, exchanged friendly banter that had me smiling as I drove away, received assistance to enter into traffic and cross an otherwise impenetrable road....It's not all bad.

But the cautions from the Department of State serve a purpose. One is to cover themselves. I believe they are willing to rescue me from minor dangers and to help evacuate my person, should I need evacuating. And if they can't fulfill these duties (in the event of death or capture) at least they can say I was properly warned. Secondly, these message serve as a reminder to be aware of personal safety at all times.

Personal safety has been on my mind a lot. Just before leaving Kin on my visit to the US I had been feeling especially vulnerable and aware of how trips out didn't seem so spontaneous and free but calculated and worrisome. More specifically, trips in the car....I have generally felt safe on foot.

I've since determined I am in the middle.  People often ask about the safety features when they hear I am living in Congo...or for those wishing to visit or new recruits to school. They wonder---Can you tavel about freely? How far out of the city can you go? What are the security risks?

It is difficult to answer questions like these because safety is a very personal issue. Everyone has a varying degree of risk that they feel comfortable with. It seems fair to say this risk is in constant fluxuation in countries like Congo depending upon recent events, personal experience and access or exposure to the various levels of rumor and gossip around town.

I've assigned myself to the risk group "middle" based on a global evaluation of basic human safety. We're all living with some kind of risk. Crime and hateful humans abound in every pocket of the world. Rural communities will always be "shocked at the heinous crime rocking this town" but they shouldn't be. They've just been living under a veil of complacency and delusion.

In the US, I gave virtually no thought to my personal safety. Some cats banging on the door in the night were the closest I came to feeling threatened. In Congo, I am aware of safety. It is something I consider nearly daily.  The actual feeling of being threatened or in danger has really only occurred once or twice and the danger level was minimal....discomfort at most. Recent stories about Sanam Gul (also Bibi Sanam) a 47 year old widow who was accused of adultery (becoming pregnant) and then shot http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/asiapcf/08/09/afghanistan.woman.killed/index.html?hpt=T2#fbid=XddCd_mtOSq&wom=false
or the woman from Guerekindo, in Central African Republic, who watched her husband and five children get tied up and taken away http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2010/08/11/cardr-congo-lra-conducts-massive-abduction-campaign have made me realize in many parts of the world, people are living in incomprehensible  states of fear and danger. My small apprehensions seem like grains of sand shaken from a toddler's shoes after a day at the playground. Annoying, bothersome but no great trouble to sweep up. Certainly not life changing.

Of course, the trickiest part of all of this is that shattering moments sneak up on us when we are least expecting them. They remind us that we can be powerless in the hands of others and ultimately in the hands of fate (or destiny, kharma, God's plan, whichever frame we are using to view the our world events.) So many stories from former child soldiers begin with idealic tales of life in the African countryside. They were walking home from school on a normal quiet day or playing with friends at the river when the unthinkable happened. The millions of women raped in the Congo begin their tale with ordinary days working in the garden, boiling water for meal preparation or washing clothes by the stream.

Occasionally, people know they are living in terror. Jonathan Kozol's book Savage Inequalities http://faculty.fordham.edu/kpking/classes/uege5102-pres-and-newmedia/Jonathan-Kozol-Savage-Inequalities-by-D-Beauford.pdf  and others targeting inner city life in the US include stories about children diving onto their living room floors (which are cleared out because all of the furniture has been moved in front of the windows) to avoid stray bullets. Sometimes, this is not enough. Their bodies are found slumped beneath beds or fallen on basketball courts, victims of misplaced hate and violence. These same children live in apartments with unchecked plumbing and unpredicatble electricity or heat. Pockets of disturbing distress exist in all countries, in villages and cities, in homes, on street corners and in temporary (refugee) camps around the world. 

These are the palces I am thinking of as I tell my boys, yes, it's ok to go out and ride your bike around campus. Even as we hail a taxi into town or walk down the hill to the vegetable market, I am aware, I am cautious and I am outraged. Worldwide caution perhaps, but living conditions for many remains unacceptable and inhuman. Where are my messages from the Department of State calling for worldwide action?

the tragedy of imagination

The euphoria from my most recent teacher training is beginning to wear off.....but there is an image that has stayed with me. It sneaks up in unexpected places---drives in the car, over the stove while I am cooking dinner, or flickering across the screen as I browse late night TV. It seems to occupy a place in the very back of my thoughts churning and tumbling in an effort to take form.

A sign of any good training is that participants are asked to create something tangible, work together to discuss ideas and use MARKERS! All of these were present at the IB training I attended in NJ. I was able to further establish my educational philosophies and develop techniques that will allow me to acheive a classroom that is consistent with what I believe education should be. And, of course, there is the invaluable experience of meeting with a variety of teachers and trading stories, methods, secrets and other fun stuff.

It was in this context that I found myself on a carpeted floor, marker in hand, writing down what I believed to be most important in developing "international mindedness" in students. Most of us came up with 3 or 4 phrases that involved similar ideas. It always seems to come down to a matter of semantics in these exercises. When I looked up to see what others had written, I saw part of a song lyric that stopped me cold. Actually stunned me into silence for a moment.

The words came from a John Lennon song...Imagine. The participant had chosen the phrase "imagine there's no religion....." I think there was probably more but I couldn't get past the last two words. No religion? Keeping in mind, I am moderate, at best, in my religious practices, I could only  think, if this small phrase had the power to block me so utterly and completely, imagine what it could do to someone more devout. Close the doors of communication with a final and resounding bang!

I understand the sentiment behind it all and certainly, clashes in religion have caused more wars and deaths than any other 'reason,' but sitting there, in the cool comfort of an air conditioned conference room, it seemed the wrong direction to be wishing in. International mindedness did not strike me as a concpet that should include erasing lines of distinction, or even worse, wishing we were all the same. I believe there was a simpler intention behind the sentiment (Can't we all just get along? type of thing) but we are so far beyond this kind of niavete---or we should be.

There is a line in the Qu'ran that points out how we were made and separated into nations. We weren't all lumped together with one language, one color, one solution to living a meaningful life. It seems unlikely that the solution to our problems, as a world, as a human kind, lies in trying to merge our varied beliefs and cultures into one or pretending them out of existence. We've had more than enough proof that fighting over these differences does not lead to stable lives, stable solutions or successful problem-solving. And so it seems all the more relevant that the IB mission includes one important statement--an acceptance that others, with their differences, might be right.

It's a powerful statement. One that, according to the presenters, is occasionally a turnoff to prospective schools who might otherwise be interested in the curriculum and methodology. It was the ultimate selling point to me. Yes, I want my children learning that there are many solutions to the same problem. I want them learning that multiple perspectives can lead to enlightment not just arguement. Yes, I want them to be interested, curious and able to understand and accept the beliefs of others without feeling a need to 'fix' or change them. I want them living in a world where there is peace not because we've erased boundaries but because we are no longer afraid to cross them.

So much of what we attempt to do in this world is motivated by an internal sense that there is one right and one wrong. It is a sense that two opposing sides cannot live peaceably or simultaneously. It is this last and most complicated sentiment that I have grappled with most, here in my latest sojourn to the US. I have felt it. Two opposing states of being existing within me at the very same moment. Learning to accept their existence, without question, dissection, or disolution has been one of the more challenging aspects of this emotion. But I've seen it can be done---and probably should be done a lot more often.

I did not take the time to engage in a conversation about the alarming message written on one corner of our group paper. From my perspective, we tread lightly around it. We had not developed the safety or group cohesion needed to engage at that level. It didn't make our final definition. But I worry about the path that educator will take---the students who will be affected by him. I have some confidence that with experience will come revision. A year in another country, another world, facing cultural surprises at every turn is certain to force a re-evaluation of the most well intentioned beliefs. Or so I really hope.Whenever I see that message, those 4 words scrawled so quickly and innocently in blue marker, I feel the same chill, the catch of my breath and the incredulous shake of my head. A world with no religion? Who would want to imagine the tragedy of such a thing?

Victim of environment

I've come to recognize these trips to the US as one long assault on my emotional memory. I spend the time in a series of adjustments. First I am reacquainting myself with the life I lived here, the material comforts and ease of navigating about the daily business of life. I remember how to make consumer choices in stores and ignore the extraneous fluff- something my children are not as good at -becoming quickly and easily overwhelmed. I marvel at the ease of crossing streets as a pedestrian (I actually have the right of way- no need to dive into the roadside brush to escape an oncoming taxi!!) I note the developments for the disabled and elderly (buses that lower a ramp to accommodate motor driven wheelchairs and passengers that stand to make room so they can be locked safely into place) and long for that level of dignity to be brought to the African men, women and children that make their way down crowded city streets on their hands or rolling across dirt pathways because they are turned down by overflowing public transportation--no room for their clunky wheelchairs cobbed together from various bike and automobile parts.


I try to fit the pieces of my American self together as I watch commercials urging me to buy, upgrade, furnish, and acquire goods I no longer need or want. I remember wanting these things for my house, my family, myself, but I notice these parts have been shed, replaced slowly by a desire to have things for humans.

As the days turn into weeks, I begin to wonder if I can manage the two parts of myself...the two lives I am living. Naturally, the reflection moves from global to personal. Memories from my life confront me at every crossroad, tugging at emotions I'd thought had long been dealt with. I start to wonder which life is 'real,' akin to Jake embracing his Avatar self as more genuine than the body he left behind. What began as a journey of delight and wonder turns quickly into self-questioning and reminiscence as I greet old friends and reconnect with family.

But the roller coaster is far from finished. The weeks turn into a month and I begin to long for my own space, my familiar pace of life. I must prepare for the journey back and yet another metamorphosis. I must become a bit practical and think of the items we will need to make it through another year in Congo cut off from the quality supplies we can find so easily and cheaply here. It becomes more difficult to remember the things I "need" surrounded as I am by such bounty.

I begin to fear I am nothing more than a victim of my environment. Each space welcomes me with its unique version of who I am and who I could be. Each place seduces me with dreams of an existence that could satisfy my every need---needs that change and morph depending upon the exterior, needs that are defined by the environment surrounding me, needs that melt away as the scenery changes. Adaptation: a human condition that leads to as much confusion as potential solutions.  

Immigrant eyes

Doritos. Almond Hershey Bars. Cookie Dough Ice Cream. These are the things I think I miss when I am cruising down the small, tightly packed but choice limited grocery aisles in Kinshasa. I fantasize about going back to the US and buying a whole entire bag of chips to eat by myself, in one sitting. It gets me through the craving.

Upon arrival however, I find the last thing I want is junk food. I wander the supermarkets in search of whole grains and plump vegetables. It might be the heat here in Miami, but the last thing I want is to eat. I feel in need of health and cleansing. Carrot sticks and sunflower seeds. These things are just as hard to find in Kinshasa as cookie dough ice cream.

As I make my way to the grocery store, I am blinded by the sun glaring off the concrete. Miami is hot, sunny and full of beautiful people. South Florida is a place that has always struck me as being well thought out. It is so managed in its beauty. It is a place meant to cater to humans seeking comfort. There seems an abundance of art and cultural activities, a myriad of ways to become involved with the local community, and manicured lawns, roadways and store fronts facing you from every direction.

The streets are filled with new looking cars, shiny and glossy, dripping with color. The grass remains the only give away. South Florida grass is sharp and unyeilding. It does not invite one to run barefoot or tumble down a (nonexistent) hill. But the image remains of a place full of potential, possibility and future acheivement. It is an image of America that seems taken straight from an immigrant's dream.

I am well acquainted with the images and dreams of the newly arrived or of those aspiring to come to America. I am well acquainted with the slightly skewed physcology that seems to insist America  is truly a place of freedom--and more importantly, capitalism, where all can acheive. I've held strong opinions about the potential of America for new immigrants. I've begun many conversations with the purpose of shining true light on the real situation in the U.S. Not too long ago, I would have been among those saying that life is not easy in America- there are hungry and homeless there too. Yes, I've frequently tried to persuade others that one cannot simply show up on the shores of the United States and be guaranteed a cushy life style complete with apartment, job and three meals a day. I've fought frustration as I tried to counter balance unrealistic ideas with the fast, harsh pace of American life. We don't take time to eat sitting down or to finish a cup of tea before heading out the door. We don't have time for conversations with our family members who are scattered across the country and we tend to do a lot of things alone. We don't have time for mistakes. We don't have patience. We expect buses to be on time and sales people to cater to our every whine. We want smiles....but not too many questions. We want friendliness but respect for our privacy. It always seemed a trade off to me, coming to America. Gain material comforts but lose all of the family ties and emotional support of home.

This visit back to the US has opened my eyes to what must have been a subtle shifting of my perspective. It's like I am viewing America with immigrant eyes. All I can see is color and abundance everywhere. Even the waitress who showed up at the diner next door to our hotel arrived in a sleek new vehicle, shining in the Flroida sun. She was small, dark-haired, older and of foreign decent. Immediately I felt if she could do it, why not I? And I've been overwhelmed with these new eyes ever since.

I see the cramped, soiled walkway running bewteen houses in Guinee where we visited the boys' uncle and grandmother. I see the children bathing outside, grinning and joyous. I see how the joy changes to restelssness in their 16 year old cousin....hoping for a chance at life, a future. And I finally see how nothing I could ever say would convince him that suffering America's hardships, difficulties and lonliness could ever be worse than waiting around Africa, waiting for change. I can't even convince myself.

As I walk down the street to the store, I notice, really notice, the sign for the upcoming boulveard. Sans Souci---without worry. That is the biggest image of America....a place without worry.  Children won't die from malnutrion or malaria here. Mothers won't die in childbirth. Doctors are obligated to treat the sick. Little boys don't go home with broken bones unmended. I see how it appears the government really will take care of you. I see handicapped people riding buses and naviagting the streets, not on their hands, but in automatic wheelchairs.  And even if I know it isn't all as glamourous as it appears or as simple and without problems, these immigrant eyes don't register any of that. All they can see is a place, inviting, welcoming, full of possibilty-sans souci.

Proof Positive

I tend to be a bit behind the times. It’s a purposeful lateness that I can’t quite explain. I just know that I am immediately skeptical about all things on the bestseller list or that receive major media attention. Usually, I let the furor die down before I cautiously approach to see what all the hype was about. And so it was no surprise that I came to be seated in the TASOK Cultural Arts Center (CAC) watching Avatar late one evening in March long after most of my friends in the US had already seen it. The movie was being shown as a fundraiser for the boys soccer team (entrance to the movie was free of course; they sold popcorn to raise the actual money.)


As with most viewers, I was taken in immediately by the special effects. The blues were richer and the greens were deeper than anything I had seen recently. The movie had really only just begun when I began to wonder why no one had told me it was about the Congo. It seemed so clear to me I actually looked around to see if there was anyone close by who could confer. It began to feel more and more eerie. I was living in the Congo after all; why hadn’t anyone mentioned to me that this movie receiving all the hype was about the very country I had come to call home for the past two years?

I was accompanied by my boys, who really haven’t reached the intellectual maturity I was looking for to confirm my ideas. In fact, by the time Jake was being chased by the creatures Mohamed had decided maybe he wasn’t old enough for the movie after all and we should go home. We stuck it out a bit longer, but I did miss the ending. And I missed the ending for another few months before I finally had the chance to see the movie in its entirety. I asked around…. “How did it end?” And I got the same reply, “It was ok.” This from the same people who never told me the movie was practically a living replica of the present day DRC. I should have known “ok” meant something else completely.

There were so many moments of ‘coincidence’ that I actually took notes while Mohamed watched a second time (I guess he grew up a bit in those few months.)

Here is the proof positive that Pandora is easily an equal to modern day Congo:

There is, of course, the jungle vast in its mysteries and stunning in its beauty. It is the home to many animals and referred to as the source of life. I found it especially poignant when Grace was trying to explain the ‘global network’ that the trees represented to a disbelieving Parker. This is exactly what is happening to our rainforest areas today. Their role in replenishing our atmosphere with oxygen and cleaning the carbon dioxide pollutants is completely undervalued. As humans, we seem to completely be ignoring our need and dependence on the rainforest in sustaining the balance of our environment as we know it and currently survive in. We seem to be like Parker, who is in a state of refusal that the trees could hold any biologic value worth more than the precious rock he is seeking to convert into dollars.

Parker is willing to destroy an entire race of people and possibly alter the ecological balance of the planet in search of this rock. There is a clear correlation here to the current marauding of Congo. The rock in the movie seems to stand for every resource that has ever been plundered from Congolese soil- rubber, tin, diamonds, and coltan. With every Western invention that makes life quicker, smoother and richer, Congo is the source of the material. From automobiles to airplanes, from computers to cell phones and from our throw away lifestyles (think aluminum soda cans) to pure entertainment (video games, race cars, cameras) the materials needed to create these pleasures comes from the earth of Congo. Life for most Congolese does not include owning a computer, flying across the country, investing in gold or receiving top quality medical care. These things Westerners take for granted as part of normal life come at the cost of Congolese lives. The majority of people don’t even know it. Men, women and children are dying- have been dying and are continuing to be killed-in order to ensure that the supply of resources continues.

In turn, this is similar to when Neytiri tells Jake he is like a child. Western society desires to have its demands for easy lives, instant pleasure and constant entertainment met, regardless of cost or effect. Jake, at least, is open to learning and wants to be taught how to see. “You can’t be taught to see,” comes the response. It is a moment to wonder if some societies will ever grow up, wake up, accept responsibility for the consequences of their lives and take action to make a real and solid change.

I’m still hoping for more than a Hollywood ending as the movie continues to shock me with message after message. Trying to incite war into the hearts and minds of his compatriots, the Colonel says “We’ll blast a crater so deep in their racial memory they won’t come within 1,000 meters of this place ever again.” I am stunned. Because ‘blasting a crater in their racial memories’ is a perfect metaphor to describe the era of King Leopold in Congo. After becoming somewhat educated about this particularly brutal period in history, I can see a similarity in the idea of crushing a people so completely they live in a fear so intense that future generations for decades suffer a development of culture, confidence and ego at the most basic level. It gave me chills to hear that line spoken with such voice and emotional hatred. Not just a movie, but a representation of the revulsion and disregard one people has held for another in our not so distant past.

There are many other, smaller references that continued to shout out “Africa” and more specifically, “Congo” to me as I viewed the film. The constant references to the ancestors and the power, magic and guidance that can be found there is clearly an African belief (if only we could all accept looking to our past to find wisdom for our future.) The idea of referring to the natives as ‘hostiles’ when the violent acts were initiated (and in some cases choreographed right down to training and placement of weapons) by the foreigners seems to mirror exactly Western notions of ‘tribal wars’ and ‘angry Africans fighting amongst themselves.’

I found a few things personally relevant and haunting such as Jake’s video blog when he states that ‘everything seems backwards now….like in here is the true world and out there is the dream.’ After living in Africa for 2 years, I can say I feel the same way. This is the true reality- where there are problems to be solved, people to feed and wars to be stopped- as opposed the harsh bright lights of America that will have you believe there are things to be bought, entertainment to be pursued, and people and problems to be ignored.

Finally, I found the idea of the Avatar itself to be pretty convincing. It can be exhausting being white in Africa and I often find myself wishing for an Avatar to disguise me. Most often I forget to notice what color I am----I spend so much time staring out from behind my eyes at deep browns, smooth chocolates and rich tans that I forget my white skin stands out, marking me as different. But on those moments when it is brought to my attention (usually in the face of some injustice) I am outraged, exasperated and wishing to blend in—hide behind the eyes of an Avatar, imagine something different in the way Jake was able to experience a different perspective. The ultimate in walking a mile in someone else’s shoes. But that was not entirely the intention. The Avatar was meant to provide inside information that could be used to destroy the people of Pandora. Similarly, many African leaders today are living breathing shells filled with ideaology, greed, and military training of the West. These leaders are then returned to their countries, posing as people who stand for and support independence and justice, when in truth, behind their facade is an American business, government or family pulling strings and reaping millions in rewards while the civilians continue to be, not just cast aside, but trampled upon and torn apart, crushed and incinerated like long forgotten refuge.

While the Avatar solution may have provided a creative way for some earthlings to experience life on Pandora, the ending to this movie seemed to employ no creativity at all. “It’s ok.” That’s what people told me. It ends with a war. That's what they didn't say. Typical. Historical. Disappointing. There are no winners with war, only destruction and devastation. It's not "o.k." at all. If we can’t imagine an alternate ending in art, how will we ever arrive at one in real life? It’s time we begin to imagine a new solution, rehearse it in our movies and stories, suggest it in our paintings and photographs. Use art not just to mirror reality, but to change it.

State of the Union

The nights have become cool and crisp, blowing gentle breezes that make me reach for a sweater or some kind of light wrap. I could never really understand how Africa could be cold, though I'd heard many people suggest it. I guess you must live here to experience it. Of course, it is not the bone chilling, raw winter wind whipping across your cheeks kind of cold, but it is shiver inducing nonetheless.

As we came to the campus street, we paused to let a pizza delivery motorcycle go by. I thought for a minute how the world needs to know that you can get a pizza delivered in Congo. It is not the first image to come to mind when picturing DRC. We were on our way to pick up  a school car, which we can use for a nominal fee. Generally, I have nowhere to go with my Kinshasa nights, but every Wednesday I do head up the road for a dance class. Its a short drive and causes me no concern. I have been known to walk occasionally, if I am sure I will have someone to walk back with.

It is travel out into the other areas of Kin that sometimes gives me pause. The city is gearing up for its Independence Day celebration on the 30th of June. I suppose the word independence could be debated in this case, as in many developing countries. There is talk of demonstrations to protest the perceived lack of independence and control and to express general displeasure of those in charge. The normal frustrations of traffic congestion will only be compounded by the expected disruption of a major celebration. I could say I am happy not to be in attendance, but the reality is I would probably spend the day locked behind the walls of TASOK, nothing ventured, nothing lost, nothing experienced.

It is something I miss a bit here- not taking part in local happenings that are a point of pride in other countries.  My inbox is flooded with cautionary reminders about what to do if approached by armed robbers, areas of heavy police presence to avoid and other advice about how to navigate daily life. It reads like the evening news and must be considered a s such, I truly believe. It could be too easy to fall into a tainted view of things and begin believing that life here really is all and only bad and everyone is out to get you. Stay out of local taxis. I haven't yet had a bad experience in a taxi....though I suppose I have as much chance of that here as I do in NYC. But I am cautious about large gatherings, have promised not to go into an African stadium and think twice when approaching intersections laden with police.  Since the boot, I have only once been summoned to the side of the road....an order which I pretended to heed before quickly driving off.

I hate the fear- however fleeting- I feel and the caution with which I consider every outing. No action is taken quickly or without care. If I want to go somewhere, I inevitably spend a moment considering the possibilities. While I understand every day holds the potential for an innumerable amount of things to become life changing (in a positive or negative way) it was never something I thought consciously about before. This naturally leads me to thoughts of women in the villages who went out only to find food or gather firewood or work in their gardens. These women who ended up losing houses, husbands and sons. These women who, one bright sunny day, were whistling or singing even, thinking of the evening meal they would prepare when suddenly their lives are ripped out from them as they are raped or beaten for an unknown cause. I think about these women almost daily because they are living their lives right here, where I am living my life, under the same sun and stars. The breeze that cools me has blown across their backs as well. I feel at once both so far and helpless and too close and connected.

It is thoughts like these that occupy my mind as I drive about Kinshasa. And upon my return to school, there comes a fork in the road. I prefer to take the right- it leads to a less congested, more scenic route. The isolation, darkness and tranquility have all been given to me as reasons to avoid this road- anything could easily happen here with little help available. What's the state of the country today? I've been known to ask my passengers, or even myself if travelling alone. It's become a daily question as I approach this fork- one now presented with a bit of humor, but perhaps with more seriousness as MONUC turns into MONUSCO and Congo approaches her own elections next year. Happily, I can say I frequently take the right road....the state of the union is holding her own right now..kind of a Congolese status quo.