My blog posts are piling up, though it won't be the first time I have presented things out of order- or left big gaping holes altogether in the order of events (yes, I know what things are missing. Maybe it will make the book. We call it the black hole- events that rank off the emotional chart and therefore just get dumped into the universe's ' not to be discussed' chasm.)
Most recent and most pressing------ elections. Kinshasa is facing her own election woes as Kabila fights to retain his coveted position. His attempt to change the constitution was an early veto by international and internal parties. He then proceeded to find a loophole in requiring a census before elections, which could take from 3-4 years, thereby extending his rule. Congolese took to the streets to express their opinion of this, losing life but remaining strong. Reaction from the government included firing live bullets on unarmed crowds, shutting down internet and SMS messaging and their other usual bullying tactics. With elections scheduled for 2016, it seems the turmoil is just beginning.
Ivory Coast is going through her own elections woes. Though candidacy seems on the down low for now, apparently prospective presidents have their eyes on a different method of securing the desired post. The boys have been terrified at school by talk of kidnappings. Notices have come home informing parents of changes in protocol and emphasizing the need for "the card." Abidjan has a thorough system of requiring adults who are authorized to pick up students to have a laminated card complete with photos of the adult and the child. Students can no longer leave campus grounds during recreation to buy snacks or lunch and even the mid day "car" <bus> has been suspended. Buy your lunch at school, bring one from home or go hungry.
While presidential candidates may not yet announce their hopeful bid, it seems many have placed their faith in human sacrifice to ensure a win. The news reports 20 children kidnapped and sacrificed but word on the street places the number at more than 26. Including a recent nounou (nanny) and her 2 charges. In broad daylight. It's led to strong responses by citizens, albeit not always the best response. Mohamed's teachers have recounted tales of helping children cross the street or accompanying their own children by bicycle only to be threatened by crowds of accusing on lookers. Proceed with caution is the word all around. Elections are scheduled for October.
Nothing is certain, as some suggest Ouattara will simply cancel elections. African presidents are gifted at finding just the right reason for delaying, changing or evading the elections process and it wouldn't be at all surprising if 'something came up' to get in the way of this year's vote. What remains ever uncertain is the people's response.
And me? Keeping mes tres cheres tres proches.
31.1.15
23.1.15
Footprints on the moon
Here is all that's left of the wall drawing experiment I fretted over. In the end, I did take my class out to create some blocks of squares and circles to go with our schoolwide art show theme. We've had one or two downpours since then, but mostly it is a dry season now. The colors have faded in the sun and there is nothing to wash the dust away.The ugly remnants remain unmoveable, like footprints on the moon.
20.1.15
News in the Night
Just when I think I am escaping the long arm of Kinshasa, she reaches across borders and steals into my life. The news comes at midnight. A baby has died.
Funerals in Kin are all too common. They are just as likely to make Saturday evening plans as going out to dinner, more likely in fact. But this funeral...This baby was the little girl of a friend. One whose birth we anticipated with eagerness and celebrated with joy. A roly poly fat baby girl I had held on my lap and made googly eyes at, quickly forming that connection that can only be made between infants and their adorers. She was, at that time, about the same age Mbalia is now. Yet she's become a statistic, one of those many African children who don't make their 5th birthday. Or even their 1st.
I can't sleep because of it. Mohamed has been sick for days with malaria and bronchitis and so naturally my fears are heightend. What separates us from the statistics? Mbalia remains a source of pure joy. Imagining her gone is the stuff of nightmares. My heart aches for the mom who has lost her precious and calls up other parents I kow who have faced this grief. I am forever reminded of one of my undergrad professors who pointed out that we lack a name for a parent who has lost a child. Without a label, without a word to easily explain this new state transition is made all the more difficult. A child who has lost a parent, however, can spend time with their orphan status, turning the word over and over in their mind, connecting with other orphans, seeking refuge in houses built for orphans. A parent who has lost a child, however, must relieve the details each time an innocent question comes up-do you have children? how many children do you have? Never again to be answered without qualification.
It's not a matter of how they will go on- life offers little choice in the matter, bringing forth a new day with each rsing of the sun. They will go on. The question really lies in how they will be changed by their loss. What kind of scar will this wound leave on their soul? And will they be able to manage the healing together? (Even looking for a link to put in here is telling. A search for couples who have lost a child turns up much about grieving together, the challenges of staying together and the need for communnication and healing but these are geared at Americans. Try to add Africa or African couples into the search term and the results change radically. There is nothing about grieving, healing or finding support. No, it will not be easy for her.)
This is not news for the night. Christian should have known better than to tell me of this in the darkness. My fears grow large and it takes all my will power not to turn on the lights and watch my treasures sleep. The sorrow stays with me for days. There is nothing I can do to help the mom from here, or even from there, honestly. But thoughts of her trouble me, creeping in to color the sunshine with a haze stronger than the harmattan which has settled in around us. I whisper a thousand prayers of thanks and gratefulness each time I make eyes with Mbalia or hear her sweet baby sounds. My heart splits in two; melting in adoration even as it swells with desolation.
“for there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.”
― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Funerals in Kin are all too common. They are just as likely to make Saturday evening plans as going out to dinner, more likely in fact. But this funeral...This baby was the little girl of a friend. One whose birth we anticipated with eagerness and celebrated with joy. A roly poly fat baby girl I had held on my lap and made googly eyes at, quickly forming that connection that can only be made between infants and their adorers. She was, at that time, about the same age Mbalia is now. Yet she's become a statistic, one of those many African children who don't make their 5th birthday. Or even their 1st.
I can't sleep because of it. Mohamed has been sick for days with malaria and bronchitis and so naturally my fears are heightend. What separates us from the statistics? Mbalia remains a source of pure joy. Imagining her gone is the stuff of nightmares. My heart aches for the mom who has lost her precious and calls up other parents I kow who have faced this grief. I am forever reminded of one of my undergrad professors who pointed out that we lack a name for a parent who has lost a child. Without a label, without a word to easily explain this new state transition is made all the more difficult. A child who has lost a parent, however, can spend time with their orphan status, turning the word over and over in their mind, connecting with other orphans, seeking refuge in houses built for orphans. A parent who has lost a child, however, must relieve the details each time an innocent question comes up-do you have children? how many children do you have? Never again to be answered without qualification.
It's not a matter of how they will go on- life offers little choice in the matter, bringing forth a new day with each rsing of the sun. They will go on. The question really lies in how they will be changed by their loss. What kind of scar will this wound leave on their soul? And will they be able to manage the healing together? (Even looking for a link to put in here is telling. A search for couples who have lost a child turns up much about grieving together, the challenges of staying together and the need for communnication and healing but these are geared at Americans. Try to add Africa or African couples into the search term and the results change radically. There is nothing about grieving, healing or finding support. No, it will not be easy for her.)
This is not news for the night. Christian should have known better than to tell me of this in the darkness. My fears grow large and it takes all my will power not to turn on the lights and watch my treasures sleep. The sorrow stays with me for days. There is nothing I can do to help the mom from here, or even from there, honestly. But thoughts of her trouble me, creeping in to color the sunshine with a haze stronger than the harmattan which has settled in around us. I whisper a thousand prayers of thanks and gratefulness each time I make eyes with Mbalia or hear her sweet baby sounds. My heart splits in two; melting in adoration even as it swells with desolation.
“for there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.”
― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
19.1.15
In the morning I am purple
In the morning I am purple
The early sun
glints off my beaded bracelet
of orange and blue
Giving my white skin an unholy hue
In the morning I am purple
Walking along the dusty dirt roads
Down to the yellow taxi stand
Beautiful shades of smooth
Brown skin
Pass me on my way
And I can only imagine
the horror of my
purple skin
And wonder at how
anyone can find it
beautiful
The early sun
glints off my beaded bracelet
of orange and blue
Giving my white skin an unholy hue
In the morning I am purple
Walking along the dusty dirt roads
Down to the yellow taxi stand
Beautiful shades of smooth
Brown skin
Pass me on my way
And I can only imagine
the horror of my
purple skin
And wonder at how
anyone can find it
beautiful
16.1.15
the classics
The new year has not started off on the greatest of feet for me. Computer problems continue to plague me in one form or another. Everytime I feel a surge of creative energy and vow to make regular blog posts, something happens- like a glass of water gets spilled on my computer and creates a small hiccup in my resolve.
The boys and I have been keeping up on our "grateful book" however (our version of the Happiness Jar) and so I continue to try and view things in a positive light. We started sometime in December and Nabih has finally stopped prefacing every grateful item with "well, it would have been good" or " I almost enjoyed..." He has succeed in actually saying positive things without finding a way to detract from their goodness. And I can be grateful for that.
Rather than create New Year's Resolutions, we have added a section to our grateful book for monthly goals. Happy to report Nabih is also the one of us making the most progress towards his goals for the month. I am struggling with myself over my goals and Mohamed....well, he is in full blown middle schooler mode and we are all struggling with that.
Since I have been in Abidjan my coping method has been to read, and read, and read some more. I can actually only access free books from Amazon on my kindle so the reading quality has varied greatly. I am a mystery lover and have recently been lost in the world of English detective novels. I've been picking up some fantastic slang - capital! being among my favorite- and marvelling at the formality of life back then. The Moonstone was a delightful read and I was a bit surprised at The Mystery of the Hidden Room despite the comment that "the eventual culprit isn't a huge surprise if you've been paying attention" (perhaps I just wasn't paying enough attention.)
I may have been distracted by the medical rememdies running rampant throughout these books. Opium and wine seem capable of curing most ailments and I absolutely love that suffering from "brain fever" is completely acceptable after making a hugely irresponsible mistake on the job (Percy Phelps, as mentioned in this defintion). Despite being somewhat humorous to me, I can see the intrinsic value of recognizing the effects of stress as having physical effects on the body. It seems reasonable and I wonder why we stopped accepting brain fever as a viable call-in sick excuse.
I haven't just been stuck in the 19th century however. I've been keeping up on the modern day mystery as well. In these novels, there tends to be a lot of eating at diners and drinking coffee which has awakened some small yearnings for the little pleasures of America. Since I have recently discovered I may well become an unintended life long inhabitant of Ivory Coast, the little yearnings have taken on an even more significant meaning for me. I am once again missing those white porcelain monkey dishes filled with 1/2 and 1/2 creamers and the endless cup of coffee.
I have realized that since I am escaping more and more into the world of reading, I might want to feed my brain something more nutritional than potato chip books. Classics are easily available and so I spent an afternoon choosing among the titles and filling my e-reader with the most interesting sounding novels from the past.
Most recently I read Vonnegut's 2BR02B, a surprisingly short, amazingly profound story with a perfectly morbid ending, my favorite kind. Though I can't stay hidden in the books forever, I am trying to read as a writer with the thought that, should I ever get a working computer in my hands again, I will be well suited to put it to use expressing something profound....or cheaply thrilling in any case.
The boys and I have been keeping up on our "grateful book" however (our version of the Happiness Jar) and so I continue to try and view things in a positive light. We started sometime in December and Nabih has finally stopped prefacing every grateful item with "well, it would have been good" or " I almost enjoyed..." He has succeed in actually saying positive things without finding a way to detract from their goodness. And I can be grateful for that.
Rather than create New Year's Resolutions, we have added a section to our grateful book for monthly goals. Happy to report Nabih is also the one of us making the most progress towards his goals for the month. I am struggling with myself over my goals and Mohamed....well, he is in full blown middle schooler mode and we are all struggling with that.
Since I have been in Abidjan my coping method has been to read, and read, and read some more. I can actually only access free books from Amazon on my kindle so the reading quality has varied greatly. I am a mystery lover and have recently been lost in the world of English detective novels. I've been picking up some fantastic slang - capital! being among my favorite- and marvelling at the formality of life back then. The Moonstone was a delightful read and I was a bit surprised at The Mystery of the Hidden Room despite the comment that "the eventual culprit isn't a huge surprise if you've been paying attention" (perhaps I just wasn't paying enough attention.)
I may have been distracted by the medical rememdies running rampant throughout these books. Opium and wine seem capable of curing most ailments and I absolutely love that suffering from "brain fever" is completely acceptable after making a hugely irresponsible mistake on the job (Percy Phelps, as mentioned in this defintion). Despite being somewhat humorous to me, I can see the intrinsic value of recognizing the effects of stress as having physical effects on the body. It seems reasonable and I wonder why we stopped accepting brain fever as a viable call-in sick excuse.
I haven't just been stuck in the 19th century however. I've been keeping up on the modern day mystery as well. In these novels, there tends to be a lot of eating at diners and drinking coffee which has awakened some small yearnings for the little pleasures of America. Since I have recently discovered I may well become an unintended life long inhabitant of Ivory Coast, the little yearnings have taken on an even more significant meaning for me. I am once again missing those white porcelain monkey dishes filled with 1/2 and 1/2 creamers and the endless cup of coffee.
I have realized that since I am escaping more and more into the world of reading, I might want to feed my brain something more nutritional than potato chip books. Classics are easily available and so I spent an afternoon choosing among the titles and filling my e-reader with the most interesting sounding novels from the past.
Most recently I read Vonnegut's 2BR02B, a surprisingly short, amazingly profound story with a perfectly morbid ending, my favorite kind. Though I can't stay hidden in the books forever, I am trying to read as a writer with the thought that, should I ever get a working computer in my hands again, I will be well suited to put it to use expressing something profound....or cheaply thrilling in any case.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)