From South Korea, with Love

I can't remember how long it's been there. It is gnarled and dark and appears to have been forged with the first dawn of time. I drive by it several times a day and marvel at its ugliness. Apparently it was a gift. I had to stop the other day and actually walk up to read the plaque to believe this. Who would give such a thing and even worse, how do you receive something so monstrous?

To be fair, I mentioned my thoughts to a friend and she didn't exactly agree. While she didn't go so far as to proclaim beauty, she did state that she never thought of it as ugly. "Looks like a wrestling statue....or something." I snapped a few (bad) photos with my phone, which can't really do justice to the artwork. But it's a dark sculpture and I am not even sure I could capture it with my regular camera.

The general outline is apparent, that's really all you can see driving by as well

The round nodules are faces contorted in pain

  There are a few leg like structures that melt into each other. Faces jut out at odd angles and all seem in agony. The sculpture is coarse and rough and forged with darkness.  It stands just across from the grounds of Camp Tshatshi, a military camp that surrounds our school. It is near the entrance to the old "zoo" which, legend has it, used to boast wild animals like zebras and elephants. Apparently in tough times, the zoo was loosed and all the big game were eaten. The community registration building of Ngaliema rests just behind the statue. People come here for any number of legal documents and weddings can be viewed on most weekends.  It's an odd juxtaposition.

The plaque declares this a 50-years-of-independence gift to the Congolese people, who have endured terrible hardships and wishes them solidarity in the face of a radiant future. Grand words for such a bleak statue.  I have read recently about the phenomenon of "dark tourism" - sites of mass death that draw in visitors. Congo certainly has a history of its own holocaust and could join its peers in erecting some kind of memorial to honor the tragedies of history that have taken place here. The statue seems to kind of fit in with this theory. It's the only one I can come up with that really makes any sense. Of course, I guess any site in DRC would be more of a living, breathing work of art-  as the tragedies haven't quite ended yet.

lessons from a language

Spies. Intrigue. The decimation of a culture. My first official lesson in Lingala played something like an action adventure movie, without the stunts of course. The spies and intrigue part I am less inclined to write about just yet, still suffering from the uncomfortableness that comes from knowing people may not be who they seem...and intently so. What I have agreed to do is exchange English lessons for Lingala with a group of young university students. It seems like the perfect exchange. They can gain the ability to spread their message about the truths of Congo beyond the borders of French speaking countries and I can learn a bit of the local language in order to converse with shopkeepers or soldiers, whichever I might have need of.

My first lesson seemed to prove the difficulty of learning this language, though I've been told it's actually quite easy and can be learned and spoken well in mere months. I have my doubts. I've heard a lot about Lingala, from it being a military language, brusque and even brutal in it's form, to the fact that it has been just as slaughtered and mangled as the citizens of Congo. Lingala is spoken in the capital, Kinshasa, in a form that is mixed highly with French and has morphed with the youth (slang versions abound.) During my lesson, I had to confront my image of 'Africa,' as Congo is forever forcing me to do.

I came with my knowledge of Soussou, a language spoken in Guinea. I came with my understanding of African patterns in greeting and conversation. I assumed it would carry over. "Isn't it polite to first ask about the family, the work, the people at home before I get down to business?" I ask my teacher. He has begun with greetings and name presentation but I was expecting the ritual call and response that signals a typical exchange. "How are you?"-response- "How is the family?"-response- "How are the affairs in your village/town?-response- AND then I could get around to introducing myself or talking about why it is I came along. Maybe. After I had answered all of those same questions and threw in an emotional, "ehh" or two. And had something to eat.

Not so here in brisk and busy Kin. Here, I am told, they will scorn me for asking all of those "old-fashioned" questions, though of course, it is up to me if I choose to persist. Even the typical Lingala greeting, Mbote, is met with denial. That is the old way. It is harsh and stark to hear my teacher tell me in such a clear voice that people have long carried shame of their culture and are quick and eager to adopt European ways. I know this. I've read this as an effect of the horrors of history but to actually hear it from the mouth of a young, intelligent Congolese is stunning. I feel how it is affecting my language lesson (there are at least 3 ways to say everything depending upon the age and gender of the person I am talking to and that is only here in Kinshasa. If I am to travel to an equatorial region where they speak a more 'pure' form of  Lingala, there will be a host of words I simply don't know.) It's daunting as I fight my natural urge to want to learn the original form, though it will do me no good in Kinshasa to have these Lingala words no one really understands. I remember Lubumbashi and Nairobi with the bustling streets and the strong proud, "Jambo" greeting me everywhere. I never hear Mbote except from the mouth of another mondele or a few of the older atelier on campus.

But mostly I am struggling to accept the words I hear from my instructor. 'We've lost our culture, our identity and many people reject what is left in favor of European ideals."  It's one thing to read about the deaths of over 10 million people and to comprehend the brutalities suffered at the hands of colonial masters. But to have a vibrant, beautiful, young Congolese man sit before me some 50 years later and utter his regret at having no identity to cling to and being rebuffed by his fellow brothers as he strives to ignite the flame of pride in nationality is more than astonishing. It's decimating. I don't even know how to respond. There are no words strong enough to express my sorrow and sympathy. I am reminded of an article I read by a BBC journalist who made his home in Ivory Coast. With a marriage, recent citizenship and new house just behind him, he is facing the troubles there from the perspetive of one watching his home crumble before him. John James writes that the anguish he feels cannot be summed up in English and so he reaches for a word in  Baoulé... Yako.....meaning deep sorrow and regret. But it's only my first official Lingala lesson. I haven't had the time to acquire this kind of linguistic compassion. The chasm of my horror slowly opening, I just nod and stare. I understand, is all I can manage to utter. An understatement to say the least. I have no concept to help me understand this rejection of self; unexpected lessons from a language.