Orphans like me

I am impressed
by orphans like me
that have been flung
into this world
like leaves scattered
into the wind
far from the branches that birthed them
distant from roots that
nourished them
leaving behind our trees
of biological family

I gather these leaves
Their colors and textures
Pleasing in their differences
Rich in their ability to compliment
The skills and talents
We have obtained
through our singular lives

I am impressed
by orphans like me

year of the taxi

I've taken more taxis in these past few weeks than in all my years here in Congo. Despite the numerous warnings, I enjoy the taxis. I like learning the calls that will get me where I want to go and being ushered into waiting cars and buses. I find simple pleasure in the way the city streets pass outside my window and the gentle brush of a person sitting next to me. I like the interaction between passengers- a quick 'bonsoir' or passing small talk. The buses offer the most opportunity for conversation. We share the waiting and the heat.

My trip today was somehow especially  sweet. I went to pick up Mohamed at a friend's house. Getting there was quick and easy. The way back meant traffic and detours were against us. Mohamed was a pleasant walking partner. Even on the street, people talk to us.

We caught a bus in Kintambo and found ourselves in the way back. Mohamed was worried about how we would get out and whether or not we would see our stop in time. A man sitting next to us called him 'our little Congolese brother.' I've learned to enlist the aid of other passengers when I want to get out. They usually speak more French than the drivers and are willing to be louder than I. As I stepped around a leg and over a seat, one man said, "If you find this isn't where you want to be, just get back in." I found them words of comfort and caring. Like he knew I would be too hesitant to get back in if I found myself ill placed. But I am bolder here in Congo. And as I learn my way around the streets by foot I worry less about where I land.

I appreciate these interactions. They help me see a side of Congo I could love. They help my patience grow and make me feel connected. Enlightenment from a taxi ride.

death in the drc

My neighbors are dying. It started with a man whose name I still cannot remember. I am haunted by this. I first met him as the chauffeur for our superintendent. He was so well respected that we sought to offer him a more prominent position working for the school. Some paperwork issues prevented this and led to his eventual dismissal. He found work for one of our school families instead. I saw him often on campus and always made a point to speak with him. A few years ago I sought his services to train a young friend of mine. I hoped he would not only lend his expertise as a driver but also his manner of being, his professionalism. It was a month or so ago that I learned of his death. I have no details.

Last week, a member of our atelier, the custodians and gardeners who keep our campus running and looking beautiful, lost his three year old son. The boy had been at home with his older brother when he suddenly took ill. He died quickly before his parents could even return home and seek medical care. Although money is the customary response, nothing I could offer felt adequate. I see this gentle man who has returned to work after only a few days off and am troubled by the sadness in his eyes. My words of condolence seem ineffectual and small. Death is all around us.

Mama Vero is a woman whose family I have come to know personally. I have visited her house, listened to the stories of her family and run around the yard with her children. She lost her cousin this week. He was a working man, recently imprisoned and finally released, who refused to seek medical care. It is said that upon leaving prison, one must get quickly to a doctor. Congolese prisons are places that breed illness and disease. They think he died from tuberculosis. He had a cough that wouldn't stop until one day it just did. He left behind a wife and young children.

Just as she was leaving with sad news of the funeral occurring tomorrow, Kazadi returned from the market. He asked me if I knew Patrick. Of course, I was acquainted with the young entrepreneur who sold phone cards just outside of the gate. I always preferred to buy from him and often tried to delay my purchase until I saw his umbrella out and his stand open. I hadn't seen him since my return from the summer. Kazadi told me he had stopped by when he saw a woman in Patrick's usual place. Upon inquiring, he found that Patrick had died. Although I did not know this man very personally, the news caused my mouth to drop open. I froze in mid preparation of our evening meal. Patrick? Dead? Not much was offered in the way of reason. Apparently he had died 5 months before. He had a swelling on his arm which was believed to have come from someone he was in conflict with. This ill wishing neighbor had placed a curse on him. No cure could be found and so he succumbed to death.

All around me, my neighbors are dying.

year 4

And so begins another year in Kinsahsa....with all of the elements of a true Kinsahsa livelihood- a bit taxing, fast paced, full of colors and confusion, infused with passion and heartache, at times overwhelming in it's generosity and undervalued in potential.

I've arrived here changed in many ways. My brief sojourn in the US already feels to be more than a world away.
I've returned to Kinshasa with expectations and hope, only to have suffered as many losses as bits of wisdom gained. The accumulation of knowledge and perspective comes at a price. Once our eyes are opened, once an image has been viewed, it is impossible to un-see it ....though it seems we spend lifetimes perfecting this ability to unsee. 
In the words of The Book Thief.... I am haunted by humans.

the spaces in between

Coming back to New York gets harder every year. People fill up my facebook wall with comments like welcome home, but I wonder what they are really referring to.  It certainly doesn’t feel like home.  The feelings that wash over me as I make my way up familiar roads surrounded by this Hudson Valley beauty are not the welcoming kind.  They are filled with the memories of hardship and alienation that I endured here.  I feel a bit of surprise to find myself back in a land that evokes no comfort.  I knew I was coming but still wonder what it is I am doing here, again.  It was an emotional risk stepping away from here, and returning only brings the sense that I haven’t become completely free.

I wonder for a moment if this is how other immigrants feel when they return to their homelands.  My mind is filled with images of the African artists I know who bring guests home with them each year. It’s not exactly the same I quickly realize. There is a fierce pride and love of their land that I am missing.  

I am here to visit family, reduced at this point to a single person. It’s not enough to fill up every day. I visit some of the friends that I’ve managed to maintain contact with over these years, but they are busy with their lives. In many cases it’s become an annual one day visit. I wonder if it’s worth it, though I enjoy the conversation and the reconnecting.  It’s not the visits I dread, but the spaces in between. The long and awkward days of wondering how to fill my time.

We visit parks and pools, swimming holes and beaches. I appreciate the open, public areas to while away our time. I appreciate the simple tranquility of playing in the green grass and feeling completely safe and sure.  Such an ordinary day at the park is not easy to come by in Kinshasa, but these outings make me more resolved to create them.  The truth is, we’re not here on vacation, so the typical spending money and sightseeing are limited options.   We don’t have a space to call our own or reliable transportation. Every day becomes a maze of determining what we are going to do and how we are going to do it causing the least inconvenience to others. The lack of independence troubles me. 

The empty spaces also inspire reflection.  At times, this can be helpful , but too much leads to depression. I’ve done enough looking back and want to be filled with bright light of the future. It’s hard to engage in forward thinking and planning from this state of limbo.  And I did resolve to take a true respite from work and not complete any major tasks during this break.  I promised to enjoy my children and be truly grateful for the time we have to share together.  I promised to be present in every moment. 

Many of our moments are filled with TV (the boys sound like commercials as we drive past places they’ve heard about- can we stop at Wendy’s?  They have a new fruit salad for only $2.99.) I am dismayed and overwhelmed by their constant requests for everything they see in the stores as we stock up on school clothes and supplies. Even the grocery store has become a series of unending demands for all the foods we cannot find in Kinshasa. 

It’s difficult to continue our sweet routines of stories and books before bedtime.  But we've come to accomplish a mission and if we are successful perhaps this will be the last trip of its kind. As with all challenges, I've learned a bit about myself this trip, who I am, who I want to be and who I want around me. Eager now to begin the business of filling in the spaces.

A conversation of faith

The woman across the desk paused in her writing. "Is he Muslim?"
"Yes, we are Muslim," I responded, emphasis on we. At that she cocked her head up and raised an eyebrow at me. I wondered if this was going to be a problem. I was at a lawyers office having some papers drawn up. She was an immigration lawyer of some foreign descent- Pakistani? Indian? She began to ask some questions about when I'd converted, commenting that I seemed uncomfortable talking about it.

It was my turn to pause. Was I uncomfortable? I remember the first time, after I had internally committed to Islam, that someone asked me my religion. I'd replied, "Nondenominational," and immediately felt overcome with shame and regret. I remember just as vividly the first time I replied with quiet confidence a more sure answer to the same question. "Religious preference?" Muslim. No doubts, no shame but a calm sense of dignity and truth. All was as it should be.  I've come a long way since those uncertain first few days- in my responses to others and my certainties within myself. So her question gave me reason to consider. Was I really uncomfortable? Surely it couldn't be.

More likely it was the tone in which she presented her questions. "Practicing? Are you a practicing Muslim? What is it that made you convert?" I wasn't really sure which position she was coming from, but I admit, initially, I believed she herself was a Muslim. I felt a bit as if she were testing me in some way, and this is what led to the reluctance to answer her questions. My journey to faith and acceptance is one that was truly enlightening and personal. I spent years researching, reading and cautiously skirting the edges. Finally, I read the Qu'ran and all of the pieces fell into place. Everything that had never really made sense or had tested my faith too much were suddenly resolved. This inner sense of conviction is not easy to translate into words. But I did try. "What is it that just made sense? What do you mean by that?" she queried as I wondered why she couldn't see, as I did, that this conversation did not belong in the middle of our legal business.

Words hardly seem adequate to express the clarity that enveloped me as I read the role of Jesus, a prophet, a man, not the son of God. I remember realizing how simple a mistake was made in the time that passed and the perspectives that changed as the Bible was written. Accepting the Qu'ran as the word of God, unchanged and directly spoken, left no room for doubt. I tried to explain how, as simple as this realization felt to me, I understood it to be something that caused wars between nations and - living in Congo as I do- could be the point of unresolved conversations and debates that stretched long into the night.

I began to hear words from her, even as she listened intently, phrases that signaled I'd misunderstood her intentions. "God as the trinity." She went on to explain her firm Christian beliefs and the fact that she'd been raised Christian in a Muslim society. I pointed out the difficulties of extracting culture from religion. I mentioned that, were I to compare her to a Christian growing up in mid-America, there would be differences. These differences related to circumstance and culture as opposed to actual tenets of the faith. She didn't seem to agree but her face was alight with the joy of her belief. Even as her words seemed to contradict this light. "The only salvation is through Jesus Christ, not through good works. There's nothing we can do." She didn't seem to see the irony. All I could think about was the importance of humans caring for other humans and wanting for their fellow borthers and sisters all they would wish for themselves. I resisted the urge to tell her my belief that when we can truly help and love our neighbors with genuine sincerity, would the will and wishes of God be fully realized.

I looked across at her beaming face as she shook her head and uttered words that seemed hopeless and full of darkness. "There's nothing we can do."  I'd worked hard to keep this conversation from becoming a debate or a struggle of wills, even as I began to wonder if she was trying to convert me. I couldn't synchronize her vision of our duties (or apparent lack of) in this world with the happiness she exuded.

"That's too bad," was all I could respond. We turned back to our legal matters and I felt oddly reassured about my faith.

the loveliest thing

They said things like, “that’s a talented group of people you were with” and “it was entertaining,” which speaks volumes for what they didn’t say. And while I meant to smile and be a show person, it’s definitely something I am working on.  The dance area was small, there were no blinding lights which could send me back to the rehearsals of my memory and the audience was quiet. I almost preferred the shouts of mondele.

But there was so much more to this performance than the actual show. The loveliest thing was getting ready. I was prepped, dressed and made-up by men.  A ticklish turn around to the stereotypical female preening.  As a fire warmed the drums, someone wrapped me in a raffia skirt and raked his hands through the tangles. I felt like a princess as beaded necklaces were draped over my head and across my chest.  Various headwraps were tried and discarded, my dreds being a bit too fluffy on top to accommodate a wrap.  The men prepared each other as well, applying face powder and painting on tribal markings. It’s always behind the scenes that holds the most flavor. I stood still with eyes closed and an upturned face as Dendu scooped up the red powder.  I felt his hands pass across my cheeks and heard him exclaim in a whispered breath, “beautiful.”  Since we were outside, there was no way to check my appearance but sometimes feeling it is all that’s needed. I was passed on to someone else who applied white dots across my face and down my arms. And then we waited.

 Having spent 15 years in the restaurant business, I am well accustomed to enjoying the party from the fringe. I find it exactly satisfying, providing a sense of purpose and lifting all social pressure to engage in small talk with people I barely know while still allowing for a sense of festivity. So we sat outside, waiting for our cue and myself wishing the little Lingala I know was more at hand.  We grew cold together out there in the cool breezes of a Kinshasa night in June. I laughed as I watched them become more animated, dancing and drumming on the bleachers in an effort to keep warm.

The truth of it being, these guys were amazing. Despite the quiet audience filled with cameras but little spirit, they exuded energy and ability.  I am honored to have had the chance to be part of their group and while, I vow, should I get a “next time” I’ll smile more, have more fun, be less terrified, I still have those moments before hand etched in my mind like a magical memory. A soft pressure against my cheeks, a whisper of beautiful in the night air. Exactly how it feels to be dancing.