The house across the street from us has a clay water pot out front. It is a common sight in Mali, this clay water pot. They can be found in front of mosques, houses and little boutiques. The pot has a cover and usually sitting on top is a plastic cup or two.
Anyone who needs a drink is welcome to come and help themselves. And people do. Mali is hot. People are thirsty. The clay pot keeps the water clean and cool. It is a typical Malian gesture- this kindness in the most basic and humane way.
Just beside our house, there is a footpath that leads to the main road. On the other side of the footpath is a huge lettuce garden. We get a lot of traffic on the footpath, though I haven't quite figured out where everyone is going. Our neighborhood could be considered new; it's still very much a hybrid of half-built houses, lettuce fields and random occupants like us. While there isn't an obvious destination in sight, maybe some are just coming for the water.
There is often a collection of 'talibe boys' who pass by in the morning and evening hours (a quick google search for talibe boys reveals a wealth of information on aid projects and other social programs aimed at their wellbeing.) I have caught myself being annoyed at their begging by my car, in my driveway. As if begging outside a store is somehow better but- just don't bring it home. Ridiculous really, unless I try to justify it by noting that when I go into a store, I can purchase a little food for them but caught in my driveway I am unprepared. I have nothing to give and not giving makes me feel stingy.
I see them go across to the clay water pot and take turns drinking. I have often wished for such a pot in front of my own house. Something that says, I see you. I am keenly aware that the harshest grievance is not refusing to give, but refusing to see. Its important to be looked at, to be greeted and to feel as if you are part of the world. We don't like to do this because looking and seeing results in a sense of responsibility. It's simply not normal to see a young hungry child on the street and turn your head. But we do it. It's simply not possible to bring them all home and offer a cushy bed, or a seat at the dinner table. Sometimes, I buy bread. Or fruit. Or other snacks that we ourselves are in search of, treats. It's not too much to buy an extra box of something or a dozen rolls to share.
It's even easier to put some water outside your house. To welcome those who pass by, and support them in our journey through humanity.
One evening, I watched a group of the boys scamper up to the house, right up close to the wall. They hung around a bit after they had their drink, fooling around and laughing, being physical in that way that boys do. No one came out and shooed them away. No one gave them deep penetrating stares until they slunk their heads and left. Myself, I enjoyed their laughter and their youth. The energy of living in the moment. It contrasted sharply with an experience we'd had in America and the memory came flooding back to me.
We'd been out walking, my aunt, Mbalia, Nabih and I. It was early evening and we were exploring a small patch of woods behind a school across from my aunt's house. A house where she has lived for over 20 years. The woods were really just a small patch of trees between the schoolyard and a wealthy new subdivision behind it.
My aunt led the way through the cool forest path until we emerged into the open- a field of high grass stretched before us abruptly turning into the manicured back lawn of several mini-mansion houses. I stopped in my tracks. Clearly we were trespassing. I looked to my aunt for guidance and she waved me on. She'd done this before. Nabih had the same reaction emerging from the trees. He stopped short and looked at me, questioning.
Later on when we had The Talk, we discussed this moment. This moment of hesitation and the sensation of something being not quite right. Forever and always, we should listen to that moment. Even if your mom tells you to go on ahead, you should question harder. Go with your gut.
We walked skirting the edge of the lawn, trying to balance on an invisible perimeter line. Anyone in their house looking out would see three strangers walking in their previously private and somewhat secluded back yard. Or they might see a small family out enjoying the evening air. It felt weird, but not more so than being a kid and taking the short cut that ran through the neighbor's yard. Until we got to the driveways. It definitely felt too intimate there.
We were in a place we didn't belong, too close to the wealthy. One of the men had come outside and crossed over to his neighbor's garage. He was watching us and waiting for his neighbor to join him. I said good evening but he looked at me coldly, silently. I walked on a few more steps, making my way to neutral ground on the street and turned around to see how close behind Nabih was.
That's when my heart dropped. I saw with someone else's eyes. A guy with a hoodie on, clouding his face. A big guy. Walking on private property. This is how people get shot, I thought. This is it exactly. How stupid of us to have taken what seemed a harmless short cut. How careless of him to be wearing his hood up.
The guy in the driveway was whispering to his neighbor. They stood close, gesturing, clearly pointing out our path. My heart was pounding. I knew they didn't see a 13 year old child. In their eyes, he wasn't the Nabih I knew. They didn't see him as a shy, young boy with a sweet smile and gentle laugh. They would have never have guessed he still kissed his mom goodbye every morning, even in the hallways of middle school surrounded by his friends. And they likely never even thought that his hood was up because he was cold, we were all cold, not quite used to the northern chill, still missing our warm African air, cozy-ing up in our long sleeves and sweaters and hoods.
Nope. They saw a foreigner. A menace. An unknown. Dark and bulky. All their worst imaginings, direct from an American media source nearby being pumped like poisoned well water into their homes night and day, all those easy stereotypes filled their heads. They didn't say hello. No nod. No friendly, 'Where you folks coming from?' Definitely no offer of a glass of water.
It is a stark contrast that America, overflowing with such abundance everyone feels a need to hide in their house and guard their treasures with this Mali, where the little bit of nothing someone has is offered freely with a generous smile. Despite all the 'development,' I'm not convinced Americans are better off. She hasn't sold me on the dream yet.
I had to have a talk with Nabih. I explained the recent history- all the shootings of innocent kids, the bias and racism, the idea that a practical clothing choice could play on the fear of someone else's ignorance. I was a bit surprised at how much he didn't know, and sad I had to introduce him to it. Some of his innocence washed away.
I put my arm around him and enjoyed the feeling of walking down the street with my boy, realizing how it could have all gone wrong in an instant. I had to be much, much more on my toes in America. He could have been hurt- or gone.
Or the guy in the driveway could have said, "You guys get lost? Where y'all coming from?" and we could have laughed and said, "Africa," and he could have said, "Well that's a mighty long way," and then our worlds could have been opened and shared instead of that silent cold stare.
I think about it often when I see groups of kids walking down the streets in Bamako. They have their arms around each other, one leaning on the other or holding hands, journeying together. They surround me at my car, gathering in groups- in masses enough that once or twice I felt a tinge of fear. But my idea of retaliation was to sit them down and lecture them on the behaviors of begging. "If you want to get the most from people," I imagined myself saying,"don't all crowd together at their car. Give people room to breathe and send one or two preferably the youngest....." I cut off my imaginary lecture as I realized how absurd it all sounded. There are no easy answers.
We impose random things to normalize it all. A friend lines them up in order of age and begins by handing cookies to the youngest. I give out my rolls to the girls first, then the youngest boys. When they all grab and no one says thank you, I impose manners on them. As if it is going to change their prospects in life. When I give out oranges, I insist that they share, and then follow them to make sure it happens. Silly things, useless things.
But there is an exchange. No cold stares. No quiet judging of who I think they are or what they're capable of. I know they are children and they are children who are missing a lot of things I believe children should have. I can't fix that. But I can offer a smile, a small treat, an expectation that we treat each other with respect. I can say hello.
Even when they are in my driveway holding their oversized empty cans, staring at me with tired brown eyes, standing too close in their dirty, torn clothes and reaching out with too thin arms - I can still say Bonsoir, ca va? And I can really mean it. How are you, neighbor?
Showing posts with label street kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label street kids. Show all posts
13.9.18
17.11.14
Bonjour and a smile
I'd begun to fear that Kinshasa had left an unexpected mark on my soul. While that may seem a dramatic statement, the fear was real. I have seen some street people here in Abidjan, but in my day to day, not many. The ones I do see remain on the periphery. They barely have time to make it to my window before the taxi is speeding off again. It's become too easy not to register them. To turn away.
Occasionally I've made eye contact with a child or a woman, but the most they get out is a Mama or a Tantine before something stops them, stops us from going further in the exchange. And to be honest, my first thoughts are always a comparison to the kids in Kin. Nothing matches their need and so I have half a thought that those in need here are somehow less in need. In reality, need is need right? Less is less and it's never more or enough.
Part of my denial might be due to the fact that I am feeling less able to give being that we find ourselves in dire straights at least once a month. My own financial situation has never really stopped me before however. No matter how tight it gets, I can always look to the end of the month for a reprieve. Having coins on hand again should make it even easier to find room for charity. But every coin represents a ride in a taxi, shortening a 45 minute walk to a mere 20 or so, a luxurious relief from the blistering sun of midday. In effect, it seems I've found several reasons not to give, the biggest of which is due to an unfair comparison.
I've been contemplating the effects of spending so many years surrounded by the unimaginable. Nothing I have seen here even comes close to the city streets there. And that's not taking into account the situation of the rural population in either country. But it doesn't mean the need here is less important or less devastating to those stuck in the cycle of poverty. I just couldn't get myself to care all that much. Hence, the concern over the fate of my soul.
But there's a boy.....I have been seeing him every morning on my walk down to the carrefour. Sometimes we exchange a glance and I can see words forming on his lips, but neither of us have yet offered as much as a greeting. He wears the same clothes, torn dirty jeans of an undeterminable color and an oversize shirt open at the collar. I checked out his shoes today, something that used to be a deciding factor in who and how much to give. Do they have shoes, i.e. flip flops? Do they match? Barefoot kids got the first priority, mismatched or only 1 shoe next and finally those with covered feet. An arbitrary way to assign need. Surely all of their stomachs were bare.
The shoes, i.e. flip flops, on this guy matched and seemed to be the brightest thing on his body. It did not erase my urge to ask him if he was hungry or my wish to I send him off to my house with a note for Christine to find him some breakfast. He appears to be about Nabih's size and so I began to entertain the thought of at least giving him a "new" pair of pants.
When I asked Nabih to get some of his clothes that no longer fit, a fairly easy task as Nabih himself is in need of clothing, he happily complied. The boys asked who it was for and I described the child I see each morning who has been wearing the same clothes for weeks. You mean the one by the fruit stand? Mohamed inquired. As I thought about, I realized there were a few children in our neighborhood who seemed to wear the same dirty, oversize clothing every day. No school uniforms for those kids.
In my mind, the boy by the fruit seller is connected to an adult. And I'd always assumed some of the other children I'd seen were wearing those clothes as their "work" clothes, apprenticing at the bicycle repair stand or other equally useful,potentially dirty job. I imagined they saved their "good" clothes for school or church or other outings. I realized not only wouldn't it be so easy to give away a pair of too small sweat pants and a no longer worn shirt (word would surely get around that the white lady was giving out free clothes and my door might never be quiet again,) but I also don't really know anything about this kid. Just because he doesn't seem to be attached to any adults doesn't mean he isn't. He's clearly going somewhere every morning at the same time. Maybe he's off to work, just like me.
I spent the rest of my walk reflecting on this book I'd read a few months ago. Overall it invoked some pretty mixed feelings in me. In the end, I'm not sure if I liked it or would even recommend it, but it did bring up questions. I suppose that makes it worthwhile reading at the least. (Something about the website is a complete turn off for me. Maybe I think giving should be as invisible as the thread. Then again, here I am publishing my own thoughts about the struggle with giving.) The author befriends a boy as their paths cross seemingly randomly. She can't explain the connection any better than I can determine why this child, of the many in my neighborhood, has reached in and spoken to my heart. Over the course of years they eat together, take trips together and she begins to play a greater role in his schooling. She even meets his family to be sure she isn't stepping on any toes when he invites her to meet his teacher at a conference. Somehow she manages to be there for him, respect his family and worry about him without crossing lines. I wondered if I could do that. Doubt crept in. It's only just now that I realize I already have.
I've given out bits of nothing to street kids and then gone home to my house and listened to the rain on the roof, wondering all night if they had somewhere dry to be. There weren't any families to meet or teachers to conference with. Luckily the man in my life has the same soft spot as I and so I haven't been faced with the conflict or sense of choice that she ultimately was.
I do have other challenges though, namely my salary which I can't seem to make stretch to the end of the month no matter how frugal I am. It impedes my ability to be sure I can commit. I've never really managed to quiet the voice of a long ago Kinshasa friend (Yes, but is it sustainable? I hear her asking in her overly indignant, development world voice.) There are rules about giving. The best kind of giving is one that will lead to some permanent change for the receiver, rendering future giving unnecessary. It's hard to achieve that in the life of a child alone, especially when instinct wants to restore childhood rather than supply a fast track to adulthood, even if it means more security in the long run.
I do believe in spontaneous giving and one off giving. Sometimes the most you can do is a one shot affair. And I think that's ok. But if I am going to see this boy everyday and live with him in my neighborhood, than a one shot deal isn't really acceptable. If I make an effort, it has to be a real one. The problem is, I'm not sure how real I can be right now.
Islam has some beautiful teachings about giving. Specifically it suggests giving to those in need, beggars, women and children. It does more than suggest actually. Since we're talking about recognized hadiths (oral teachings of Mohamed) or words from the Quran itself, I guess it is more like a commandment to provide for those less well off than yourself. Being ever merciful however, a series of degrees are outlined to ensure one does not become overtaxed. Give money or items first and if you haven't a material thing to ease someone else's suffering, use your hands to create something which will then lead to being able to give. If neither of those options are available, being kind and even smiling all count as charitable acts.
I remember that one a lot when I am feeling financially restricted. Seeing someone by offering a greeting or smile can be a bright moment in an otherwise dismal day. I've been on the receiving end of that often enough to know it is true. (A search to find some written support for that didn't yield the results I wanted, but I did find this fascinating post.)
I remember spending my Lingala lessons learning to say Where do you sleep? and Where are your parents? and other useless phrases most street kids can't, or won't, answer. The most I've ever gotten is a vague reference to a quartier. Over there...somewhere. Since Abidjan is thoroughly French speaking, I have all the tools I need to start with a cheery Good morning and maybe a Where are you going?
Despite my newly collected pile of cast off clothing, that's probably the best first step. I'll give it a try tomorrow. Bonjour and a smile.
Occasionally I've made eye contact with a child or a woman, but the most they get out is a Mama or a Tantine before something stops them, stops us from going further in the exchange. And to be honest, my first thoughts are always a comparison to the kids in Kin. Nothing matches their need and so I have half a thought that those in need here are somehow less in need. In reality, need is need right? Less is less and it's never more or enough.
Part of my denial might be due to the fact that I am feeling less able to give being that we find ourselves in dire straights at least once a month. My own financial situation has never really stopped me before however. No matter how tight it gets, I can always look to the end of the month for a reprieve. Having coins on hand again should make it even easier to find room for charity. But every coin represents a ride in a taxi, shortening a 45 minute walk to a mere 20 or so, a luxurious relief from the blistering sun of midday. In effect, it seems I've found several reasons not to give, the biggest of which is due to an unfair comparison.
I've been contemplating the effects of spending so many years surrounded by the unimaginable. Nothing I have seen here even comes close to the city streets there. And that's not taking into account the situation of the rural population in either country. But it doesn't mean the need here is less important or less devastating to those stuck in the cycle of poverty. I just couldn't get myself to care all that much. Hence, the concern over the fate of my soul.
But there's a boy.....I have been seeing him every morning on my walk down to the carrefour. Sometimes we exchange a glance and I can see words forming on his lips, but neither of us have yet offered as much as a greeting. He wears the same clothes, torn dirty jeans of an undeterminable color and an oversize shirt open at the collar. I checked out his shoes today, something that used to be a deciding factor in who and how much to give. Do they have shoes, i.e. flip flops? Do they match? Barefoot kids got the first priority, mismatched or only 1 shoe next and finally those with covered feet. An arbitrary way to assign need. Surely all of their stomachs were bare.
The shoes, i.e. flip flops, on this guy matched and seemed to be the brightest thing on his body. It did not erase my urge to ask him if he was hungry or my wish to I send him off to my house with a note for Christine to find him some breakfast. He appears to be about Nabih's size and so I began to entertain the thought of at least giving him a "new" pair of pants.
When I asked Nabih to get some of his clothes that no longer fit, a fairly easy task as Nabih himself is in need of clothing, he happily complied. The boys asked who it was for and I described the child I see each morning who has been wearing the same clothes for weeks. You mean the one by the fruit stand? Mohamed inquired. As I thought about, I realized there were a few children in our neighborhood who seemed to wear the same dirty, oversize clothing every day. No school uniforms for those kids.
In my mind, the boy by the fruit seller is connected to an adult. And I'd always assumed some of the other children I'd seen were wearing those clothes as their "work" clothes, apprenticing at the bicycle repair stand or other equally useful,potentially dirty job. I imagined they saved their "good" clothes for school or church or other outings. I realized not only wouldn't it be so easy to give away a pair of too small sweat pants and a no longer worn shirt (word would surely get around that the white lady was giving out free clothes and my door might never be quiet again,) but I also don't really know anything about this kid. Just because he doesn't seem to be attached to any adults doesn't mean he isn't. He's clearly going somewhere every morning at the same time. Maybe he's off to work, just like me.
I spent the rest of my walk reflecting on this book I'd read a few months ago. Overall it invoked some pretty mixed feelings in me. In the end, I'm not sure if I liked it or would even recommend it, but it did bring up questions. I suppose that makes it worthwhile reading at the least. (Something about the website is a complete turn off for me. Maybe I think giving should be as invisible as the thread. Then again, here I am publishing my own thoughts about the struggle with giving.) The author befriends a boy as their paths cross seemingly randomly. She can't explain the connection any better than I can determine why this child, of the many in my neighborhood, has reached in and spoken to my heart. Over the course of years they eat together, take trips together and she begins to play a greater role in his schooling. She even meets his family to be sure she isn't stepping on any toes when he invites her to meet his teacher at a conference. Somehow she manages to be there for him, respect his family and worry about him without crossing lines. I wondered if I could do that. Doubt crept in. It's only just now that I realize I already have.
I've given out bits of nothing to street kids and then gone home to my house and listened to the rain on the roof, wondering all night if they had somewhere dry to be. There weren't any families to meet or teachers to conference with. Luckily the man in my life has the same soft spot as I and so I haven't been faced with the conflict or sense of choice that she ultimately was.
I do have other challenges though, namely my salary which I can't seem to make stretch to the end of the month no matter how frugal I am. It impedes my ability to be sure I can commit. I've never really managed to quiet the voice of a long ago Kinshasa friend (Yes, but is it sustainable? I hear her asking in her overly indignant, development world voice.) There are rules about giving. The best kind of giving is one that will lead to some permanent change for the receiver, rendering future giving unnecessary. It's hard to achieve that in the life of a child alone, especially when instinct wants to restore childhood rather than supply a fast track to adulthood, even if it means more security in the long run.
I do believe in spontaneous giving and one off giving. Sometimes the most you can do is a one shot affair. And I think that's ok. But if I am going to see this boy everyday and live with him in my neighborhood, than a one shot deal isn't really acceptable. If I make an effort, it has to be a real one. The problem is, I'm not sure how real I can be right now.
Islam has some beautiful teachings about giving. Specifically it suggests giving to those in need, beggars, women and children. It does more than suggest actually. Since we're talking about recognized hadiths (oral teachings of Mohamed) or words from the Quran itself, I guess it is more like a commandment to provide for those less well off than yourself. Being ever merciful however, a series of degrees are outlined to ensure one does not become overtaxed. Give money or items first and if you haven't a material thing to ease someone else's suffering, use your hands to create something which will then lead to being able to give. If neither of those options are available, being kind and even smiling all count as charitable acts.
I remember that one a lot when I am feeling financially restricted. Seeing someone by offering a greeting or smile can be a bright moment in an otherwise dismal day. I've been on the receiving end of that often enough to know it is true. (A search to find some written support for that didn't yield the results I wanted, but I did find this fascinating post.)
I remember spending my Lingala lessons learning to say Where do you sleep? and Where are your parents? and other useless phrases most street kids can't, or won't, answer. The most I've ever gotten is a vague reference to a quartier. Over there...somewhere. Since Abidjan is thoroughly French speaking, I have all the tools I need to start with a cheery Good morning and maybe a Where are you going?
Despite my newly collected pile of cast off clothing, that's probably the best first step. I'll give it a try tomorrow. Bonjour and a smile.
9.6.14
The boy in the road
By the time I saw him, I guess he was more of a body in the road. It was 5:30 am. Still dark on a Sunday morning. I had just dropped Christian off at the airport. The roads were clear and the ride there had been without incident. Well, except for an odd little skirmish between two drivers. We'd come upon them having a meltdown of some sort. Though there were 4 lanes- 2 in each direction- one of the cars was on the wrong side of the road. The other, a small van, was preventing the car from returning to the correct lane. Every time the car sped up or slowed down, the van followed suit. I kept my distance from the two, uncertain what exactly was transpiring between them and how long it had been going on.
Four a.m. is an odd hour to be out in Kinshasa. While traffic is thin, most of what is out there are people still finishing off their night. It means they are well intoxicated and full of whatever ambiance they've just left behind at the club. We were a considerable distance from the city center however and so I couldn't really tell when or where the dispute had begun. A car crept up behind us and seemed to sense the good reason of our strategy. He also stayed far behind. The two dragsters sped off into the distance.
We came upon them again, pulled over to the side of the road. The car who'd been following us had begun to pass us and then swerved over into the lane of oncoming traffic- empty now. I did the same as we passed the odd couple, figuring it best to take no chances. Leaving the two behind to sort out their differences, we continued on to the airport without further excitement.
Ndjili was quiet and we easily made our way inside to pay the fees and taxes and check the bags. Then it was that time.....the time to enter where only ticketed passengers can go. Christian and I said our goodbyes and I made my way back to the car. Kinshasa already looked different to me without him.
The sun had not yet risen from its slumber as I made my way back to Kintambo. Sunday mornings are a jogging morning and I'd remarked on more than one occasion the number of joggers that gather together for the early morning run. The closer to the airport you get, the more you encounter until it is a steady mass of people, many jogging in the median- a practice I have never quite understood but vaguely sense to be a bit safer than trying to make your way down the nonexistent sidelines.
The joggers run facing traffic and many can also be found wearing karate uniforms, doing the random boxing move and other exercises. I drove through the darkness keeping my eyes alert. At one point, as I crossed a small bridge, the number of people crowded on each side of the road left only a narrow passageway for the cars and taxi buses to pass through. Here the people had assembled to perform a variety of exercises including a jumping twist turn and squat thrusts and whatever else you might imagine training athletes doing. They were a mixed group of people, young and old, boys, men, and women. All getting their early morning work out in.
I'd just passed the bridge and the throngs of people when I saw him. The exercisers were beginning to thin out, being replaced now by the vendors and those on their way to church. The road opened up but the sides were still filled with people. Some random groups of joggers ran down the middle of the road next to the cement divider. And there he lay in the middle of the 8 lane highway. A young boy.
I can't remember if I swerved to avoid him or if I was already in the lane just able to pass him. My mind first tried to understand what it was in the middle of the road and then to make sense of it. An impossibility. It's a person. A boy. Sleeping. Not in the middle of this kind of road. This huge highway of road that is filled with taxi buses and cars racing through it. Not this road that would, in an hour or so I knew, be completely overflowing with traffic and pedestrians and vendors and police.
But still, sleeping seemed to be the best my mind could do at the moment. Because life was going on all around us. Women were carrying bowls of bread to be sold, people waited for taxis- a big crowd of people was waiting for taxis to my right and to my left, just on the other side of the cement median, guys were jogging by. Heck, someone was crossing the road on foot. Surely they all saw him there. He must have been hit- except there were no crowds of angry, yelling people, as accidents normally draw. There was no car stopped anywhere in sight. Just the morning darkness and this boy in the road.
And me driving by, leaving him behind as everyone else had done. I thought about what I could do, what I should do. I couldn't really come up with anything. There is no 911. There's no police or ambulance to call. By stopping, I would immediately implicate myself in the accident and become a source of blame requiring some monetary intervention. What I wish I'd done was stop at the crowd and inquire. Ask someone- do you see that boy? what is happening? Because even now, I can't stop seeing him and wondering.
At that moment, Christian happened to call. I might have been able to continue driving in my stupefied state if he hadn't called just then. As it was, I burst into tears. He became immediately alarmed and had to call me back two more times to make sure it wasn't I who had hit someone. By then, I'd pulled off the road, the confusion swirling through my mind to such a degree I could no longer talk and drive. I'd already missed my turn.
"A small boy," I told him, "just there in the middle of the road. And no one was doing anything about it." Even me, I added to myself tempted to go back. To be sure I saw what I thought. To try and make something happen. Christian offered solace but told me to go home. Keep driving, just go home. The only sensible advice in a country like this- where the best intentions always lead down the path of the worst consequences.
The sun was beginning to rise and I continued on my way, thankful that the daylight meant no one would accidentally run over his body in the cover of darkness. The light would compel the passersby and the police to take some action. Too late, surely, but action nonetheless.
And me? What of my action? My responsibility? I took it all as another sign that it is time to get out of this country. Before I really begin to detest the person I am becoming. Upon arriving home I did the only thing I can think to do. Packed up all our old shoes and the boys old clothes and set off to find my groups of street kids. Because it could have been any one of them out there, in the middle of the road with no one to care and no one to stop. Its a useless action. It doesn't do anything to make me feel better about what I saw or how I responded. I'm haunted by the boy in the road.
Four a.m. is an odd hour to be out in Kinshasa. While traffic is thin, most of what is out there are people still finishing off their night. It means they are well intoxicated and full of whatever ambiance they've just left behind at the club. We were a considerable distance from the city center however and so I couldn't really tell when or where the dispute had begun. A car crept up behind us and seemed to sense the good reason of our strategy. He also stayed far behind. The two dragsters sped off into the distance.
We came upon them again, pulled over to the side of the road. The car who'd been following us had begun to pass us and then swerved over into the lane of oncoming traffic- empty now. I did the same as we passed the odd couple, figuring it best to take no chances. Leaving the two behind to sort out their differences, we continued on to the airport without further excitement.
Ndjili was quiet and we easily made our way inside to pay the fees and taxes and check the bags. Then it was that time.....the time to enter where only ticketed passengers can go. Christian and I said our goodbyes and I made my way back to the car. Kinshasa already looked different to me without him.
The sun had not yet risen from its slumber as I made my way back to Kintambo. Sunday mornings are a jogging morning and I'd remarked on more than one occasion the number of joggers that gather together for the early morning run. The closer to the airport you get, the more you encounter until it is a steady mass of people, many jogging in the median- a practice I have never quite understood but vaguely sense to be a bit safer than trying to make your way down the nonexistent sidelines.
The joggers run facing traffic and many can also be found wearing karate uniforms, doing the random boxing move and other exercises. I drove through the darkness keeping my eyes alert. At one point, as I crossed a small bridge, the number of people crowded on each side of the road left only a narrow passageway for the cars and taxi buses to pass through. Here the people had assembled to perform a variety of exercises including a jumping twist turn and squat thrusts and whatever else you might imagine training athletes doing. They were a mixed group of people, young and old, boys, men, and women. All getting their early morning work out in.
I'd just passed the bridge and the throngs of people when I saw him. The exercisers were beginning to thin out, being replaced now by the vendors and those on their way to church. The road opened up but the sides were still filled with people. Some random groups of joggers ran down the middle of the road next to the cement divider. And there he lay in the middle of the 8 lane highway. A young boy.
I can't remember if I swerved to avoid him or if I was already in the lane just able to pass him. My mind first tried to understand what it was in the middle of the road and then to make sense of it. An impossibility. It's a person. A boy. Sleeping. Not in the middle of this kind of road. This huge highway of road that is filled with taxi buses and cars racing through it. Not this road that would, in an hour or so I knew, be completely overflowing with traffic and pedestrians and vendors and police.
But still, sleeping seemed to be the best my mind could do at the moment. Because life was going on all around us. Women were carrying bowls of bread to be sold, people waited for taxis- a big crowd of people was waiting for taxis to my right and to my left, just on the other side of the cement median, guys were jogging by. Heck, someone was crossing the road on foot. Surely they all saw him there. He must have been hit- except there were no crowds of angry, yelling people, as accidents normally draw. There was no car stopped anywhere in sight. Just the morning darkness and this boy in the road.
And me driving by, leaving him behind as everyone else had done. I thought about what I could do, what I should do. I couldn't really come up with anything. There is no 911. There's no police or ambulance to call. By stopping, I would immediately implicate myself in the accident and become a source of blame requiring some monetary intervention. What I wish I'd done was stop at the crowd and inquire. Ask someone- do you see that boy? what is happening? Because even now, I can't stop seeing him and wondering.
At that moment, Christian happened to call. I might have been able to continue driving in my stupefied state if he hadn't called just then. As it was, I burst into tears. He became immediately alarmed and had to call me back two more times to make sure it wasn't I who had hit someone. By then, I'd pulled off the road, the confusion swirling through my mind to such a degree I could no longer talk and drive. I'd already missed my turn.
"A small boy," I told him, "just there in the middle of the road. And no one was doing anything about it." Even me, I added to myself tempted to go back. To be sure I saw what I thought. To try and make something happen. Christian offered solace but told me to go home. Keep driving, just go home. The only sensible advice in a country like this- where the best intentions always lead down the path of the worst consequences.
The sun was beginning to rise and I continued on my way, thankful that the daylight meant no one would accidentally run over his body in the cover of darkness. The light would compel the passersby and the police to take some action. Too late, surely, but action nonetheless.
And me? What of my action? My responsibility? I took it all as another sign that it is time to get out of this country. Before I really begin to detest the person I am becoming. Upon arriving home I did the only thing I can think to do. Packed up all our old shoes and the boys old clothes and set off to find my groups of street kids. Because it could have been any one of them out there, in the middle of the road with no one to care and no one to stop. Its a useless action. It doesn't do anything to make me feel better about what I saw or how I responded. I'm haunted by the boy in the road.
23.5.14
A ride to remember
Lost in the end of year report card muddle as I am means I am drowning in data. I am analyzing data, comparing data, searching for norms and presenting findings as close to truth as I can arrive at. Little snapshots of where students are functioning today based on where they were yesterday and on what seems normal compared to hundreds of other students who may have a little or a lot in common with whichever student I happen to be reducing to a series of skills and character traits relevant to this time only. The world of report cards.
But also the world of Kinshasa. And in Kinshasa, determining normal can take some effort. Finding the middle ground is never very easy as one is exposed to a series of extremes that eventually make every adventure seem normal and the mundane seem downright exotic. It is a land where all stories take on mythic proportions and hover in the realm of legends as no truth can ever be denied or validated. Stories become a jumble of real life experience woven together with bits of imagination based on cultural or linguistic misunderstandings. So much color and vitality gets added with translation- from Lingala to French and French to English; from Congolese to European and European to American (and really, Europe is not a country and so comes complete with a million nuances in how a tale might be interpreted yet again...) Each transformation adds another layer and with each layer the absolute truth gets buried deeper revealing only a more basic, universal truth about human nature.
One of my favorite stories is about a former student, though the details were shared with me by his personal tutor. His previous job was unclear though he had initially been hired by a US Embassy employee as a chauffeur. It turns out he wasn't quite competent at that position but was well liked and so the woman created some other job to keep him around. And it was in this role that he found himself accompanying her along a ride down the streets of Kinshasa. The details get fuzzy here, but supposedly she stopped a gang of street kids (or more likely, they stopped her) and somehow an offer of dinner was presented. Only one agreed- one was brave enough to hop in the car, head off to an unknown destination and eat food from a stranger (the plethora of rules and suspicions surrounding food from strangers and neighbors alike could be the subject of an entire blog itself.)
This chance encounter led the woman to finding out more about his family (apparently he had uncles in other parts of the country which she was eventually able to contact) and arranging, with their permission, to adopt him. This teenage boy. Who now lives with her in the US. A life changing, fairy tale-ish, mythical sounding, legend-like story no matter how you approach it. I mean, who does that? Invite street kids home for dinner? Who gets in cars with strangers offering only the promise of a hot meal? And who adopts a 12 year old kid they happened to run into on the streets of Kinshasa? Both their lives were changed. Remarkably. Forever.
So, if your comparing my story to that story, it's hardly so breathtaking. It's hardly remarkable. But I still found myself feeling in awe, counting the ways I love someone, recognizing with gratitude that I am lucky to have certain people in my life. People who think like me. Our story is not that story, not that remarkable one but just this ordinary one. On a quiet May day. May 17th, in fact, a holiday in Kinshasa.
Nothing clears out the capital like a jours fériés, a public holiday when all businesses and most stores are closed. The boulevard is empty and even the street corners are devoid of the masses that can normally be seen waiting for transportation throughout the day. Its hard to imagine where 9 million people can disappear to, but public holidays inspire a certain kind of magic.
This May 17th also happened to be a Saturday and so my boys were flooded with social engagements that required a bit of chauffeuring around town, which is how I came to witness the eerie calm for myself. I'd been watching a student dance rehearsal at a local school when I realized it was time to pick up Nabih. Happily this coincided with the end of rehearsals and so Christian offered to help me locate the exact spot of the birthday party- somewhere just off the end of the boulevard.
It was about 4 o'clock and the streets were beginning to show small signs of life, people emerging to celebrate the holiday with a beer at their favorite night spot (or early evening spot, as the case may be.) Traffic was mostly non existent and we were able to make our way downtown undeterred. Well, to a certain point. A few street kids appeared at one stop light- they really know us both by now and whether we are in a school car or Christian's car it's no use- they see us a mile away, stop to say hello, to ask for money, or to offer insults or compliments depending upon the mood of the day. Christian told them we were on our way to the Gare Central and maybe on the way back, if we found something, we'd pass it along. I looked at him incredulously.
I know by now this is the only way to refuse. Simply saying no only invites more insistent pleas for something- money, water, a piece of candy- anything to acknowledge they are there, you see them and they exist. But really, we'd jumped in the car kind of impulsively and I hadn't brought my bag along. We had no phones, no francs and no little treats. Nothing. And we weren't going to find anything at the end of the boulevard either. We would be driving back as empty handed as we were now.
Sure enough on the way back, as we stopped at a light, the gang of kids came swooping upon us. While we chatted, they multiplied. There must have been a good fifteen or twenty of them, all ages from 15 to 6, hanging on the metal divider between the road with nothing to look forward to on this jours fériés with it's empty streets and naked sidewalks. I capture enough of the conversation to hear Christian promising them $5 as long as they share it altogether. And someone had to come with us. Because, of course, we were still empty handed and lint pocketed.
I shake my head at his feeble nature. He finds it so hard to say no. The sheer numbers of those kids would have conjured resolute denial for me. There is no way I could have handed out enough francs to satisfy everyone and maintain calm and order. Sometimes handing out francs seems like exactly the wrong thing to do. It feels frustrating and useless. It feels condescending and power trippy- feeding into images of the foreign savior when really it's more like tossing pennies into a wishing fountain and expecting miracles. What I really want is a way to end the dilemma. I want everything to become a simple problem with an easy to identify solution and see it fixed. Right now. Sometimes driving down a Kinshasa street can be so emotionally exhausting.
But Christian never lets these things overwhelm him. He doesn't get bogged down with long term solutions or wage useless inner battles with himself over ultimate right and wrongs. He simply does what he can. In the moment. And right then, he could offer to take a kid for a short ride and give him $5 to share with his friends and maybe buy a few moments of happiness, or relief, or at least enough baguettes to go around. He used the time in the car to offer his version of ministering the good word- not necessarily religious conversion but moral and ethical decision making. Christian's take on how to be a better person and get along with those around you- look out for the little kids, essentially. I'm loving everything about his gentle spirit as we continue down the boulevard.
And then we stop at another light. I consider this "my" spot since I tend to see these kids more often. The first group we encountered was much further downtown and so they aren't as familiar to me. Christian "knows" them better than I do, if our brief encounters can really be considered knowing someone. But it is a lot harder to refuse the more familiar faces. As this group begins to crowd around the car, I notice our friend in the back hitting the button to slowly roll up the window. He slouches a bit in the seat and makes sure the door is locked. Turns out, it's a rival gang. Apparently one of the boys in this group assaulted our passenger sometime the week before.
As I track the conversation, again in Lingala, my understanding comes and goes. I begin to shake my head. Seriously? We're taking another one with us? I imagine a fight breaking out in the back seat. Taking one kid back to the school for a bit of cash is a good deed....but taking two? Is there a limit? Had he crossed the threshold from funny little story to legend in the making? Not quite. I guess.
But who does that? Who feels so touched by the helpless situation of these boys on the street that they invite them into the car for a ride down the road because they left home without their wallet? I guess the better question is who doesn't do that? Or why doesn't everyone do that? Not that throwing money at the situation will help in the least to solve it, but that the emotional burden and sense of responsibility is there to such a degree nothing is too much, no action is too far out of the way or inconvenient or absurd- especially when it's all essentially too little to begin with.
So we found ourselves riding down the road with two rival gang members tucked neatly in behind us- although, the boy who elected to go with us from the second group was not actually the one who did the assaulting. They were both getting the good word from Christian about how to get along, how to look out for each other and not be overcome by their circumstances. I am not sure what kind of ears these words of advice fell on, but the boys remained quiet and respectful.
We arrived at the school and Christian asked them to wait outside on a bench in front of the gates. The security guard was ready to shoo them away until he received assurances the boys were with Christian. He drove inside, recovered his bits of cash and presented them each with the promised treasure- along with more words of encouragement I am sure. A little drop in the bucket. They disappeared into the road again until next time.
And I was left with something of a story and a reminder to be grateful- not just about what I have, as in the material things, but about who I have in my life. Someone like me. Someone who gets overwhelmed by the wrongs of the world and is just trying to figure out how to make it seem right. Even if it's only for a minute- this time. Maybe next time it will be for longer. Maybe together, we'll find a way to make something lasting, even if it's small- this time. And maybe after that we'll find a way to make it bigger, or someone else will find a way. Story after story will build until it's nothing but normal tales of little rides and big emotions and the whole thing is rather boring after all. All the rides leave nothing to remember but ordinary intersections full of people waiting for transportation, on their way home to houses full of children and none on the street corners.
But also the world of Kinshasa. And in Kinshasa, determining normal can take some effort. Finding the middle ground is never very easy as one is exposed to a series of extremes that eventually make every adventure seem normal and the mundane seem downright exotic. It is a land where all stories take on mythic proportions and hover in the realm of legends as no truth can ever be denied or validated. Stories become a jumble of real life experience woven together with bits of imagination based on cultural or linguistic misunderstandings. So much color and vitality gets added with translation- from Lingala to French and French to English; from Congolese to European and European to American (and really, Europe is not a country and so comes complete with a million nuances in how a tale might be interpreted yet again...) Each transformation adds another layer and with each layer the absolute truth gets buried deeper revealing only a more basic, universal truth about human nature.
One of my favorite stories is about a former student, though the details were shared with me by his personal tutor. His previous job was unclear though he had initially been hired by a US Embassy employee as a chauffeur. It turns out he wasn't quite competent at that position but was well liked and so the woman created some other job to keep him around. And it was in this role that he found himself accompanying her along a ride down the streets of Kinshasa. The details get fuzzy here, but supposedly she stopped a gang of street kids (or more likely, they stopped her) and somehow an offer of dinner was presented. Only one agreed- one was brave enough to hop in the car, head off to an unknown destination and eat food from a stranger (the plethora of rules and suspicions surrounding food from strangers and neighbors alike could be the subject of an entire blog itself.)
This chance encounter led the woman to finding out more about his family (apparently he had uncles in other parts of the country which she was eventually able to contact) and arranging, with their permission, to adopt him. This teenage boy. Who now lives with her in the US. A life changing, fairy tale-ish, mythical sounding, legend-like story no matter how you approach it. I mean, who does that? Invite street kids home for dinner? Who gets in cars with strangers offering only the promise of a hot meal? And who adopts a 12 year old kid they happened to run into on the streets of Kinshasa? Both their lives were changed. Remarkably. Forever.
So, if your comparing my story to that story, it's hardly so breathtaking. It's hardly remarkable. But I still found myself feeling in awe, counting the ways I love someone, recognizing with gratitude that I am lucky to have certain people in my life. People who think like me. Our story is not that story, not that remarkable one but just this ordinary one. On a quiet May day. May 17th, in fact, a holiday in Kinshasa.
Nothing clears out the capital like a jours fériés, a public holiday when all businesses and most stores are closed. The boulevard is empty and even the street corners are devoid of the masses that can normally be seen waiting for transportation throughout the day. Its hard to imagine where 9 million people can disappear to, but public holidays inspire a certain kind of magic.
This May 17th also happened to be a Saturday and so my boys were flooded with social engagements that required a bit of chauffeuring around town, which is how I came to witness the eerie calm for myself. I'd been watching a student dance rehearsal at a local school when I realized it was time to pick up Nabih. Happily this coincided with the end of rehearsals and so Christian offered to help me locate the exact spot of the birthday party- somewhere just off the end of the boulevard.
It was about 4 o'clock and the streets were beginning to show small signs of life, people emerging to celebrate the holiday with a beer at their favorite night spot (or early evening spot, as the case may be.) Traffic was mostly non existent and we were able to make our way downtown undeterred. Well, to a certain point. A few street kids appeared at one stop light- they really know us both by now and whether we are in a school car or Christian's car it's no use- they see us a mile away, stop to say hello, to ask for money, or to offer insults or compliments depending upon the mood of the day. Christian told them we were on our way to the Gare Central and maybe on the way back, if we found something, we'd pass it along. I looked at him incredulously.
I know by now this is the only way to refuse. Simply saying no only invites more insistent pleas for something- money, water, a piece of candy- anything to acknowledge they are there, you see them and they exist. But really, we'd jumped in the car kind of impulsively and I hadn't brought my bag along. We had no phones, no francs and no little treats. Nothing. And we weren't going to find anything at the end of the boulevard either. We would be driving back as empty handed as we were now.
Sure enough on the way back, as we stopped at a light, the gang of kids came swooping upon us. While we chatted, they multiplied. There must have been a good fifteen or twenty of them, all ages from 15 to 6, hanging on the metal divider between the road with nothing to look forward to on this jours fériés with it's empty streets and naked sidewalks. I capture enough of the conversation to hear Christian promising them $5 as long as they share it altogether. And someone had to come with us. Because, of course, we were still empty handed and lint pocketed.
I shake my head at his feeble nature. He finds it so hard to say no. The sheer numbers of those kids would have conjured resolute denial for me. There is no way I could have handed out enough francs to satisfy everyone and maintain calm and order. Sometimes handing out francs seems like exactly the wrong thing to do. It feels frustrating and useless. It feels condescending and power trippy- feeding into images of the foreign savior when really it's more like tossing pennies into a wishing fountain and expecting miracles. What I really want is a way to end the dilemma. I want everything to become a simple problem with an easy to identify solution and see it fixed. Right now. Sometimes driving down a Kinshasa street can be so emotionally exhausting.
But Christian never lets these things overwhelm him. He doesn't get bogged down with long term solutions or wage useless inner battles with himself over ultimate right and wrongs. He simply does what he can. In the moment. And right then, he could offer to take a kid for a short ride and give him $5 to share with his friends and maybe buy a few moments of happiness, or relief, or at least enough baguettes to go around. He used the time in the car to offer his version of ministering the good word- not necessarily religious conversion but moral and ethical decision making. Christian's take on how to be a better person and get along with those around you- look out for the little kids, essentially. I'm loving everything about his gentle spirit as we continue down the boulevard.
And then we stop at another light. I consider this "my" spot since I tend to see these kids more often. The first group we encountered was much further downtown and so they aren't as familiar to me. Christian "knows" them better than I do, if our brief encounters can really be considered knowing someone. But it is a lot harder to refuse the more familiar faces. As this group begins to crowd around the car, I notice our friend in the back hitting the button to slowly roll up the window. He slouches a bit in the seat and makes sure the door is locked. Turns out, it's a rival gang. Apparently one of the boys in this group assaulted our passenger sometime the week before.
As I track the conversation, again in Lingala, my understanding comes and goes. I begin to shake my head. Seriously? We're taking another one with us? I imagine a fight breaking out in the back seat. Taking one kid back to the school for a bit of cash is a good deed....but taking two? Is there a limit? Had he crossed the threshold from funny little story to legend in the making? Not quite. I guess.
But who does that? Who feels so touched by the helpless situation of these boys on the street that they invite them into the car for a ride down the road because they left home without their wallet? I guess the better question is who doesn't do that? Or why doesn't everyone do that? Not that throwing money at the situation will help in the least to solve it, but that the emotional burden and sense of responsibility is there to such a degree nothing is too much, no action is too far out of the way or inconvenient or absurd- especially when it's all essentially too little to begin with.
So we found ourselves riding down the road with two rival gang members tucked neatly in behind us- although, the boy who elected to go with us from the second group was not actually the one who did the assaulting. They were both getting the good word from Christian about how to get along, how to look out for each other and not be overcome by their circumstances. I am not sure what kind of ears these words of advice fell on, but the boys remained quiet and respectful.
We arrived at the school and Christian asked them to wait outside on a bench in front of the gates. The security guard was ready to shoo them away until he received assurances the boys were with Christian. He drove inside, recovered his bits of cash and presented them each with the promised treasure- along with more words of encouragement I am sure. A little drop in the bucket. They disappeared into the road again until next time.
And I was left with something of a story and a reminder to be grateful- not just about what I have, as in the material things, but about who I have in my life. Someone like me. Someone who gets overwhelmed by the wrongs of the world and is just trying to figure out how to make it seem right. Even if it's only for a minute- this time. Maybe next time it will be for longer. Maybe together, we'll find a way to make something lasting, even if it's small- this time. And maybe after that we'll find a way to make it bigger, or someone else will find a way. Story after story will build until it's nothing but normal tales of little rides and big emotions and the whole thing is rather boring after all. All the rides leave nothing to remember but ordinary intersections full of people waiting for transportation, on their way home to houses full of children and none on the street corners.
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