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. 

what could be more terrifying?

I wrote this back in early April. Perhaps, being too close at the time, I couldn't post. But now, in the interest of honesty and with some reflection, thought it might be ok to share.

What could be more terrifying

Than looking into his face

His childish face

At my window

Begging me for something

Anything to ease the hunger

He carries with him everywhere

But I do look

I look deep into his eyes

As his hand holds onto my door

His seven year old hand

I look deep into his eyes

And see someone who is anything

But a child

And I look across the street at the ground

That ground

Where he will most likely pass the night

It is deep, rich earth

Moist and saturated with the rains

Perhaps the concrete will be more

Inviting tonight

Cradling his small bones

With her rocks and crevices

I look down at his feet

Those feet

Bare and dusty from his travels

What could be more terrifying

than looking into his face

Deep into his eyes

And seeing

That he is just a child

My child, any child

Out there on the street

I looked deep into his eyes

And I drove by

What could be more terrifying

Than who I have become?

What has been so disturbing to me are the constant articles about child sorcery. It is a common problem in Kinshasa that children are thrown out of their homes after being accused of sorcery or witchcraft. Many are beaten or taken to churches to undergo rituals of exorcism. There are lists of random “signs” of being possessed and they range from leaving a bedroom door open at night to sneezing too often. Some children report their mother simply said, “You eat too much.” 

And so this evening as I sat in the miles of traffic and was approached by the endless beggars of the road, I made myself really look at the children outside my door. One in particular, so young, I looked deep into his eyes searching for the thing that could allow a mother to throw her child out. This looking deep was not easy. I wanted to open my door, invite him in and take him home.  But I can’t save them all. When the traffic comes to a standstill, the streets literally fill up with handicapped, homeless, hungry humans.   

It is no longer faces on a tv commercial. It is no longer something happening a continent away. It’s here, outside my door. I can roll my window down and touch the hand of a lonely, starving child. I can’t stop the tears from welling up because this boy is alone and my two children are in the back munching chips and feeling loved.  I cry all the way home through stalled traffic and honking horns. I cry as I make dinner and correct my students’ papers. I don’t want to be this person that drives away from a seven year old on the street. I stop myself from going back and I make up crazy plans and wonder if they are crazy after all. I can’t continue to live like this, with myself. I can’t continue to drive by a child. I wonder if I can rent a house. I wonder if helping five children would make it any easier. Would it satisfy me? Would I feel like it’s enough? I wonder how I can truly make it happen and if I have the courage. Mostly I wonder what on earth has happened to us humans to make this our reality.

As I read- most recently Malalai Joya- which reminds me remarkably of Benazair Bhutto- I have this perspective of looking down from above. It is what I imagine God must see looking out over us humans. It is deeply disturbing, something gone horribly wrong. It is century after century of war and violence, slavery, brutality, humans hurting humans. There are small pockets fighting for change, looking for the brighter path. But so much of it is covered in the blood and misery that we have brought to each other. It is completely overwhelming to me.  

 

danse toujour

Some dreams have a way of sneaking up on you. They’re the kind of dreams you hold onto in the back of your mind, the ones that you visualize before falling asleep or when you’re taking a long ride on a hot and noisy bus. They’re the kind of dreams you recognize in the movies and say, “Yeah, that could be me.”  But it’s not really you even though you’ve been following all the steps that you think could possibly lead you there. It’s the kind of dream you hope happens, but you’re not really convinced will happen.

I guess there is something of a difference between a dream and a goal, although at times it feels like a dream is something you hold onto before it happens and a goal is what you call it once you’ve managed to achieve it---by whatever means. Several times in my life now, I’ve looked back to realize I have achieved quite a number of the things I set out to do and am a bit astonished to think I’ve reached my goals, actually  made them reality. Because much of the time, I feel like I am stumbling through life trying to make the best of the poor decisions from my youth.

It was during our spring break that I had the chance to experience that rare moment when you just know everything is going to be all right. I had thrown together something from my wardrobe that I felt would suffice, whatever black and white I had. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but it was me and it was comfortable.  I found myself tucked away in the back corner of a small open air bar, changing for my first performance in Congo, my first performance ever I guess I could truthfully add. Jacques handed me some clothes he said he’d purchased just for this event. He had mentioned it before but I had prepared for ill fitting clothes, too tight, too small, something that would make me self-conscious and unable to feel truly free.

The nervousness I had was only slight. I’d spent most of the day visualizing myself on stage, smiling, feeling the music, doing what I love to do most.  Of course, I felt entirely uncertain it would go that way- I also spent a good bit of energy suffocating the thought that I might just freeze up and forget everything. It could happen.

However, as I slipped on the silky smooth black pants I was surprised by a comforting fit. The white cotton shirt was equally soothing. That was the moment I knew everything was going to be fine. I wasn’t going to forget the steps or freeze up. I was going to dance.

What I found is that being on stage can be quite deceptive. There is no audience. The lights leave you blinded and impossible as it seems, you could almost imagine yourself alone up there, practicing just as you do when you’re in the studio. I imagine the experienced performer can use that to their advantage and lose themselves in the music, the rhythms, the call of the audience.

And the audience did call. Being the only white face in a small troupe of African dancers leaves you nowhere to hide. The Congolese audience holds a potential to be quite candid. I was not sure how forgiving they would really be. “Mondele, mondele.”  The shouting began as soon as we took our first steps out. They continued pretty much throughout the entire 15 minute performance.  I was happy not to know what else they were saying but chose to interpret their cries as encouragement.

It took me some moments to forget the sheer fright of being on stage and simply feel the music. Once that happened, I fell in love. A pure joy of performing. I relished the moments just before stepping out into the lights when we exchanged a quick double hand grasp for encouragement. I loved it from the moment the drums reached in and spoke to my soul right up to the last moment when Coco’s hand reached out to find mine and we took our bow together. We rushed off stage and I was cascaded with congratulations and hugs. As the dancers drifted off to cool down and change, Jacques called them back. They encircled me once again and let out whooping calls and shrill whistles. Initiated. That’s how I felt. I’d done it, my first show.

I heard later that the audience wasn’t all that confident in me to begin with but eventually acquiesced. To be clear, I didn’t perform a heart stopping solo or a sensual Congolese grind, but I did keep up, remember the steps and perform as part of team. And that was the part that truly left me feeling exhilarated all night. The sense of having made a connection, a feeling of  belonging. It’s the part that keeps us human. And it’s why I love the practices as much as that final celebration of showing off how hard we’ve worked. It’s been a long time coming, feeling truly connected here in this foreign land caught between a myriad of worlds as I am.

We danced again the next night. Jacques had organized an amazing three days of dance and artistic performances by over 170 Congolese artists. The turnout was incredible and the range of talent breathtaking. I floated with giddy intoxication for the next several days, holding onto my memories like cherished treasures. Just before our second performance, one of the dancers grabbed my two hands in the customary quick shake and smiled, “toujour.” I hold it as a promise of possibility and good things to come.

Phrases to end a war

Even being right in the middle of things, it’s easy to forget.  As humans we become habituated, conditioned to see the world through the lens of our experiences. I have worked to overcome this, to expand my vision and see with new eyes.  But I retain the ability to be surprised and confronted by the unexpected time and again. Nothing is as simple as it seems.

Every Monday and Wednesday I have been giving an English class to some university students. They have created an organization to make change in their country and are forging ahead with vigor. We happened to meet through a mutual, though distant, friend and it has become a comfortable relationship.  I approached them about English lessons because I thought it would be convenient to exchange for Lingala lessons.  Learning English would help them to bring not just their message but also their methods to a wider range of African countries. There are many English speaking countries on the border of DRC to the south and east. They hope for the opportunity to learn from organizations that are working on similar issues as well as the chance to tell the story of what is happening in their country. The founders come from and have traveled to many cities throughout Congo. They’ve set up organizations in each of these cities with the goals of problem solving the lack of development and documenting the effects of war.  Their aspirations are impressive and the evidence of progress and positive impact abounds.

So we began our English lessons with the idea that I would give them a basic jump start and then perhaps they would move on to a more structured course somewhere, or maybe I would tailor the class to suit their individual needs of getting out their message. It has proven quite fun to teach them, as they are student minded. They write a lot, take notes, ask questions and aren’t afraid to practice. This evening, I even sent them away with homework. 

We’d been talking about feelings. On Mondays the class is structured so that we learn some new vocabulary and then spend much of the time talking, asking each other questions and trying to have a conversation. We learn a lot about each other and this also leads the way to some natural expressions- the idioms of English. This week we were talking about feelings. Things like hot and tired, sleepy and nervous. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. We talked about degrees of feelings from afraid to terrified and happy to overjoyed.  I wondered what kind of things these young guys could be scared of or what life events had brought them joy. My naiveté ever present.

“What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of spiders? Snakes?”  I am asking Alain, who has an always present smile that reminds me of the young Jimmy Fallon, sitting at his 4^th grade desk with his hands folded, smile taking up his face and head bopping to his own rhythm. Alain has that same life-is-great, not a care in the world presence.  So I wasn’t really prepared when he said, “I was terrified when the military came into my house and shot their guns all around.” Of course, he struggled with the English and used a lot of body motions but that only served to make his statement more electrifying. Ben added his own terrifying experience. “When the military was coming in from Rwanda, I was terrified for the Congolese in the east.” There was also some help with wording and a struggle to express the idea. But it was clear Ben was not just worried for himself or his family but for all the Congolese. And when was he most overjoyed? “I was overjoyed when they signed the cease fire to stop the fighting.”

Yeah. Not your average English class is what I was thinking. We had some debate about whether the correct phrase he was looking for was cease fire or peace treaty.  We eventually settled on cease fire. Because that’s why we’re here. To  learn the important phrases.

smoldering pockets

As I have been watching world events, countries falling to natural disaster, governments crumbling to human resistance, I admit to having hoped that Congo would be next. It is time for a true change to grab the African continent and sweep her clean and clear of the foul debris polluting her for so long. It is time for a new age, a return to golden splendor and wisdom that once flowed from the lands long before the tortured hands of colonization wreaked havoc and ruin. Congo remains a unique case and hearing the words on the streets, the casual comments uttered in response to Egypt and Libya, Tunisia and Ivory Coast, I am simply not sure that she is ready here. I search for the pride and belief, the fire and passion that is needed to ignite such a drastic change. Here? Within the country? There may be smoldering pockets, but I am not yet convinced it's enough.