On community

Community, belonging, loss and resilience- Kinshasa- the community I feel most at home in- has all of those things. Living here, I move among different worlds through multiple layers and each one contributes something to my sense of belonging. Sometimes it is a confirmation of who I have become, sometimes it is a confirmation of the parts of me I have left behind, the me I am not. any longer. Most often, it is confirmation of the me I have crafted and nurtured and allowed to bloom. Communities do that- they tell us who we are, who we are not, and who we want to become. They mirror our faults, embrace our flaws and welcome us in as we are. They give us a chance to grow. 

 Kinshasa is a physical place. I know her curves and turns, her backroads and short cuts, her dark narrow paths and her wide -open boulevards. Kinshasa streets are overflowing with movement and people, with vibrant energy that is nearly visible. I sway with the rhythms of mechanical noise: horns- whistles- the rev of engines and the banging on metal rooftops signaling to drivers that the taxi bus has filled up and needs to move out. I am seduced by the sounds of neighborhood destinations sung into the crowds : Victoire, Victoire, Boulevard, GDC-Sola, Sola, Zando. I move my feet to the click clack of the shoe shine boys announcing their presence and the cling clang of scissors on machines as ambulant tailors search for a hem to sew or a rip to repair right there on the spot in a city street where a young man will kneel down and paint my toenails with the care of a mother I never had here in Kinshasa everyone calls me auntie, mama, eeh mama! Kinshasa where everyone is related especially if you have a dollar or a franc to spare, to share, because in this community what’s yours is mine and mine is yours and yet, we’re all connected but somehow,  not.  Because in this city, belonging means being part of the crumpled masses, struggling to survive to stand up to be seen, belonging is tucked in the crevices of loss and grief and frustration. 

In Kinshasa, belonging means sharing but the kind of sharing that moves beyond freely giving and into barely holding on while others take, pulling, pushing, shoving, fighting to have what I have what you need what we both want or don’t want or can’t find but we know it’s here because the masses are closing in on us crushing down to take that small thing we are trying to protect. We’re so distracted by this small thing we forget the big things, the real things, the children in the streets who are watching, repeating, pushing, shoving, defiantly standing in front of cars who have no space to go around because living in the city means one next to one next to one next to one… sharing the spills, the smells, the suffocating embrace of a neighbor whose come to give story to their troubles and offer a piece of the little bit of nothing in their pocket. 

 Kinshasa is lux, extreme VIP, diamonds, gold and minerals shining in the night sky like a star twinkling just out of reach so you grab whatever is close and you wring its neck before it has a chance to turn on you and admit that without that sparkling, shiny bit of bird’s nest treasure you’re really just one of the masses nothing special education on a fancy paper printed out at the cyber café on the corner whose walls are crumbling cement cracks running across the ceiling if you look up there is always someone waiting there to take your place and so you hold on and pay out dollars you don’t really have to dress better and drive faster than the masses you are stealing from.

Kinshasa is self- hate and group love, trying to find pride in a people who are not sure where they’ve come from but have a definite vision of where they want to go. Kinshasa is speaking a language that’s not your own and living another voice inside where you keep it dark and hidden because you don’t want to pass it on to your children but those children in the street are making their own language when they got cast aside and thrown away because the people of God proclaim there is no God but spirits working their evil in the youth and the family is a sacred construct but only if you have a dollar or some francs to share to build their business of preaching the word whose roots lie in the destruction of culture and the erasure of  an  entire  community 

 

    of people whose bond is deeper than language, deeper than the terrain they share, the forests, lakes, the little slice of ocean, it’s a people whose loss and trauma cuts deeper than the wounds of generations upon generations bleeding into the soil that’s been ripped open and gouged out to prop up the kingdoms and institutions of art and culture and knowledge on foreign ground where people lock themselves in offices and houses and separate little fiefdoms, hoarding their material wealth as if it had meaning, looking down on the survivors of those they’ve slaughtered with contempt and disgust in order to mask the responsibility they share for the murder and destruction of the original spirit of community 

Kinshasa is resilience, never willing to give up or let go but showing up every day, women raising their voices, youth who will not accept a future that has no place for them and together they rise above a past that’s born them into poverty, despair and loss turning these struggles into strengths, giving their time, their energy and their voice to call out and re-claim the riches of this land as rightfully their community,

Tilling the ground

I wrote about quarantine long before it was actually a thing. Seems like the whole world is locked inside now, but it's not much of a change for us. Luckily, since we live on campus, our "back-yard" is vast. There is much to be grateful for in that sense.

I have been thinking back to other lock downs and pending evacuations. The first time it happened in Congo I was torn between having the school potentially require me to leave and feeling that there was no better place to be than exactly where I was.

In the face of these new uncertain times, no such dilemma ensued. In fact, our school borderline required us to stay. Not in so many words, of course, but there was definitely, initially, a lot of pressure. This didn't really influence my decision, as the only other place I'd rather be wasn't really available at the moment. I do think most people with families should have been encouraged to join them as soon as possible. As a result, there are quite a few families and singles waiting on evacuation flights. I've heard these last minute flights have gone off without too much of a hitch in some other West African nations. Not here, naturally.

While no one is exactly sure why, the emergency flights set up for this week were postponed and rescheduled every day, until finally being cancelled 'until further notice.' It seems to have something to do with negotiations around allowing the pilots into the airport. Clearly not successful. It might be too late.

We are in the awkward position of watching our family and friends around the globe battle this illness as it makes it way to Africa. I have been hoping against hope that somehow Africa will be spared the worst of it. She has suffered so often and bears so much of the pain of life, I would be grateful to see her sit this one out. It's time, I think. She has certainly paid her dues.

I have no doubt we all be touched this. The virus travels in humans, and witnessing the spread from country to country and across continents proves how interconnected we all are. Our family recently received that middle of the night call that everyone dreads. Except it came in the afternoon. Having the sun shining while hearing of death doesn't make the knees stronger. It doesn't stop the heart from dropping or the tears from flowing. And now we are filled up with sadness. Our personal sadness, the sadness of thousands of families losing the ones they love, and sadness at the injustice of it all. Beneath the tragedies, lies a basic foundation of injustice and we can only hope that somehow, in the rebuilding of new systems, the ground will be dug up, turned over and a truly fresh start ensues.

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.

witness

It is difficult to write tonight. All day I'd had ideas about writing some teacher talk things. Sometimes I wonder what the purpose of this blog is, and I think, it was to write about teaching here. But of course its about living here too. And, because I can't do anything simply, its about the complexities of one life in Africa.

Then I went to Jacques' show. I am reminded that there is no such thing as one life. All lives are connected, through intention or not. I was prepared for the show,as much as one can be: la violence fait a la femme. The dance was definately in the same style as the previous. I kept thinking of painting and how there would be an artist's signature through figure and form. It was there in style and music, in the way modern and traditional dance fused and interchanged. The dance was just as powerful, sometimes uncomfortable, overtly sexual. At times the dance was satirical but I wondered how the audience could laugh when I had tears in my eyes. The techno-pop background music varied between traditional Congolese drumming and a beautiful African song evoking freedom and hope. That is the melody that brought me to tears. It transported me back to another Africa, my first Africa. And I realize that I miss that time immensely. I was a different person then and I can feel the age in me now.

As America rejoices a new president, I seem to be caught up in a cycle of loss. In one small moment, I heard Barack refer to those in the forgotten corners of the world, and I felt seen. But I awoke to find Rock Star missing the next day. "It's kind of sad," Mohamed repeated all through breakfast. "Baby junior must be sad, too." It is strange how much I miss walking out onto the back porch to catch a quick glimpse of his (or her) activities.

It is lonely here and after the dance I felt the energy of people all around me. I felt the person that I used to be and remembered how she would have stayed and soaked it in, savoring the richness of the art. There is something unexplainable about watching social commentary expressed this way, hearing the audience reaction as they recognize mockery and anguish. There is something profound about watching it with the Congolese, the artists. They are not the Africans of CNN.

There the tragedy is sterile, dramatized and impersonal. Another African mishap. Here, it becomes so much more. A people awakening to their future and claiming their past.

The show took place in a small outdoor courtyard, cement stage covered with a tin roof. The audience sat in plastic chairs under a slight drizzle. There was electric and amplification. There was even some attempt at stage lighting. In this world, its quite a success. I am struck by the image of someone just beginning, working on a dream. Doing something.

It brings me back to why I am here, what am I doing? And how I so wish to be doing.
It is difficult to have patience, an essential component to life in Africa. I am pushed to paint, through my limited resources and large silent house.

Maybe tomorrow I can write of teacher things. Tonight, I can see only the dance. I can feel how it touched my soul, and try to face the piece of myself that knows what really happened on stage. The rest, for now I can only witness.