13.3.11
smoldering pockets
As I have been watching world events, countries falling to natural disaster, governments crumbling to human resistance, I admit to having hoped that Congo would be next. It is time for a true change to grab the African continent and sweep her clean and clear of the foul debris polluting her for so long. It is time for a new age, a return to golden splendor and wisdom that once flowed from the lands long before the tortured hands of colonization wreaked havoc and ruin. Congo remains a unique case and hearing the words on the streets, the casual comments uttered in response to Egypt and Libya, Tunisia and Ivory Coast, I am simply not sure that she is ready here. I search for the pride and belief, the fire and passion that is needed to ignite such a drastic change. Here? Within the country? There may be smoldering pockets, but I am not yet convinced it's enough.
lessons from a language
Spies. Intrigue. The decimation of a culture. My first official lesson in Lingala played something like an action adventure movie, without the stunts of course. The spies and intrigue part I am less inclined to write about just yet, still suffering from the uncomfortableness that comes from knowing people may not be who they seem...and intently so. What I have agreed to do is exchange English lessons for Lingala with a group of young university students. It seems like the perfect exchange. They can gain the ability to spread their message about the truths of Congo beyond the borders of French speaking countries and I can learn a bit of the local language in order to converse with shopkeepers or soldiers, whichever I might have need of.
My first lesson seemed to prove the difficulty of learning this language, though I've been told it's actually quite easy and can be learned and spoken well in mere months. I have my doubts. I've heard a lot about Lingala, from it being a military language, brusque and even brutal in it's form, to the fact that it has been just as slaughtered and mangled as the citizens of Congo. Lingala is spoken in the capital, Kinshasa, in a form that is mixed highly with French and has morphed with the youth (slang versions abound.) During my lesson, I had to confront my image of 'Africa,' as Congo is forever forcing me to do.
I came with my knowledge of Soussou, a language spoken in Guinea. I came with my understanding of African patterns in greeting and conversation. I assumed it would carry over. "Isn't it polite to first ask about the family, the work, the people at home before I get down to business?" I ask my teacher. He has begun with greetings and name presentation but I was expecting the ritual call and response that signals a typical exchange. "How are you?"-response-"How is the family?"-response- "How are the affairs in your village/town?-response- AND then I could get around to introducing myself or talking about why it is I came along. Maybe. After I had answered all of those same questions and threw in an emotional, "ehh" or two. And had something to eat.
Not so here in brisk and busy Kin. Here, I am told, they will scorn me for asking all of those "old-fashioned" questions, though of course, it is up to me if I choose to persist. Even the typical Lingala greeting, Mbote, is met with denial. That is the old way. It is harsh and stark to hear my teacher tell me in such a clear voice that people have long carried shame of their culture and are quick and eager to adopt European ways. I know this. I've read this as an effect of the horrors of history but to actually hear it from the mouth of a young, intelligent Congolese is stunning. I feel how it is affecting my language lesson (there are at least 3 ways to say everything depending upon the age and gender of the person I am talking to and that is only here in Kinshasa. If I am to travel to an equatorial region where they speak a more 'pure' form of Lingala, there will be a host of words I simply don't know.) It's daunting as I fight my natural urge to want to learn the original form, though it will do me no good in Kinshasa to have these Lingala words no one really understands. I remember Lubumbashi and Nairobi with the bustling streets and the strong proud, "Jambo" greeting me everywhere. I never hear Mbote except from the mouth of another mondele or a few of the older atelier on campus.
But mostly I am struggling to accept the words I hear from my instructor. 'We've lost our culture, our identity and many people reject what is left in favor of European ideals." It's one thing to read about the deaths of over 10 million people and to comprehend the brutalities suffered at the hands of colonial masters. But to have a vibrant, beautiful, young Congolese man sit before me some 50 years later and utter his regret at having no identity to cling to and being rebuffed by his fellow brothers as he strives to ignite the flame of pride in nationality is more than astonishing. It's decimating. I don't even know how to respond. There are no words strong enough to express my sorrow and sympathy. I am reminded of an article I read by a BBC journalist who made his home in Ivory Coast. With a marriage, recent citizenship and new house just behind him, he is facing the troubles there from the perspetive of one watching his home crumble before him. John James writes that the anguish he feels cannot be summed up in English and so he reaches for a word in Baoulé... Yako.....meaning deep sorrow and regret. But it's only my first official Lingala lesson. I haven't had the time to acquire this kind of linguistic compassion. The chasm of my horror slowly opening, I just nod and stare. I understand, is all I can manage to utter. An understatement to say the least. I have no concept to help me understand this rejection of self; unexpected lessons from a language.
My first lesson seemed to prove the difficulty of learning this language, though I've been told it's actually quite easy and can be learned and spoken well in mere months. I have my doubts. I've heard a lot about Lingala, from it being a military language, brusque and even brutal in it's form, to the fact that it has been just as slaughtered and mangled as the citizens of Congo. Lingala is spoken in the capital, Kinshasa, in a form that is mixed highly with French and has morphed with the youth (slang versions abound.) During my lesson, I had to confront my image of 'Africa,' as Congo is forever forcing me to do.
I came with my knowledge of Soussou, a language spoken in Guinea. I came with my understanding of African patterns in greeting and conversation. I assumed it would carry over. "Isn't it polite to first ask about the family, the work, the people at home before I get down to business?" I ask my teacher. He has begun with greetings and name presentation but I was expecting the ritual call and response that signals a typical exchange. "How are you?"-response-
Not so here in brisk and busy Kin. Here, I am told, they will scorn me for asking all of those "old-fashioned" questions, though of course, it is up to me if I choose to persist. Even the typical Lingala greeting, Mbote, is met with denial. That is the old way. It is harsh and stark to hear my teacher tell me in such a clear voice that people have long carried shame of their culture and are quick and eager to adopt European ways. I know this. I've read this as an effect of the horrors of history but to actually hear it from the mouth of a young, intelligent Congolese is stunning. I feel how it is affecting my language lesson (there are at least 3 ways to say everything depending upon the age and gender of the person I am talking to and that is only here in Kinshasa. If I am to travel to an equatorial region where they speak a more 'pure' form of Lingala, there will be a host of words I simply don't know.) It's daunting as I fight my natural urge to want to learn the original form, though it will do me no good in Kinshasa to have these Lingala words no one really understands. I remember Lubumbashi and Nairobi with the bustling streets and the strong proud, "Jambo" greeting me everywhere. I never hear Mbote except from the mouth of another mondele or a few of the older atelier on campus.
But mostly I am struggling to accept the words I hear from my instructor. 'We've lost our culture, our identity and many people reject what is left in favor of European ideals." It's one thing to read about the deaths of over 10 million people and to comprehend the brutalities suffered at the hands of colonial masters. But to have a vibrant, beautiful, young Congolese man sit before me some 50 years later and utter his regret at having no identity to cling to and being rebuffed by his fellow brothers as he strives to ignite the flame of pride in nationality is more than astonishing. It's decimating. I don't even know how to respond. There are no words strong enough to express my sorrow and sympathy. I am reminded of an article I read by a BBC journalist who made his home in Ivory Coast. With a marriage, recent citizenship and new house just behind him, he is facing the troubles there from the perspetive of one watching his home crumble before him. John James writes that the anguish he feels cannot be summed up in English and so he reaches for a word in Baoulé... Yako.....meaning deep sorrow and regret. But it's only my first official Lingala lesson. I haven't had the time to acquire this kind of linguistic compassion. The chasm of my horror slowly opening, I just nod and stare. I understand, is all I can manage to utter. An understatement to say the least. I have no concept to help me understand this rejection of self; unexpected lessons from a language.
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