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.

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.

life lines

Though I have been feeling more in sync with the spirit of Congo these last few weeks, there remains a memory that lingers. It has merged with the special effects of a movie scene, in the way that memories often do, hazing the line between the reality of what was and what appeared to be.

As it lingers in my memory, it carries with it the soft scent of Guinea, country of my heart. I was wandering a grocery store in search of nothing really, except to pass the time while others shopped. The way I see it in my mind is like this, though the reality has long escaped me.

An area of the store opened up to showcase the dairy items and a small deli. There was a man talking to one of the deli workers and I felt his eyes on me as I passed to examine the yogurt and exotic cheeses. I felt the eyes of this stranger and sensed the conversation coming to a lull, a break as the man moved towards me floating softly with a hand reaching out. "That fabric," he said. "That fabric is from my country." His words seemed filled with pause and remembrance in the way of one who has been too long seperated from his homeland. I was wearing the traditional indigo of Guinea, the beautiful deep blue patterned with white cowery shell designs. It is one of my favorite, soothing and gentle against my skin. It always leaves me with the warmth and spirit of guinee filling my soul. I felt beautiful this day, wrapped up as I was in the richness of my homeland. "That fabric is from my country?" he repeated, this time more of a question, as though doubting himself, doubting my self standing before him.
"Yes," I replied, my heart quickening. "From Guinea." And in that moment, my eyes were searching this man for some sign of kindredness. I felt anxious and nervous as though I were meeting an old friend after a long absence, searching for something to say that would cement the bond between us, compatriots. And of course, in my haste, I spewed out a brief description of my times in guinea and spilled out my family connections, saying nothing yet somehow saying too much. Because, while I was filled with this eager desire to cross a bridge, he seemed stuck in awe, a state of perpetual pause.

I rambled on, nonsense that did not seem to move the conversation forward. He just stood with his far off gaze. It is such a complicated affair for me, proclaiming my love for a country that is not my own. Could he see inside me? Could he tell that I was a guinean despite my white skin and American affect? We smiled...or maybe just I smiled. In my memory, this man remains in a state of confusion. I shared names and regions but he never got past the fabric and whatever memories of his country it evoked. I admit, I didn't see much of Guinea in him. He was older, larger, light skinned, business like. Not the artist type or soldier type I am most likely to come across in my travels in Guinea. So there we stood, in the middle of some modern grocery store in Kinshasa, searching each other for signs of a far away home as if reaching out for life lines.

I see other cultures connect. The Belgians are especially good at forming alliances. You need only be from Belgium to be invited to a dinner or an afternoon on the river. It doesn't seem to matter much if you like each other, have things in common or get along. It is the country tie that forms an immediate "us" in this place of "other." Eventual we separated, this man and I. I left with a small feeling of regret, knowing I hadn't expressed myself the way I'd wished and feeling like I couldn't really let him get away- this chance for a connection. Part of me was keen to ignore all the thoughts pointing out our obvious differences. But instead, I drifted off with my doubts, keeping my eyes open for where he would go and wondering if I would work up the nerve to follow and arrange some future meeting during which we would surely have even less to say and share.

I saw him outside in the parking lot, getting into a UN vehicle. There was one last moment of considering a mad dash to his truck with...what? An invitation? A request? A plea? I felt a bit like a drowning victim watching a plane soar overhead that could not see me, would not save me. I was left simply with the memory of his hazy question and confused stare. How could this piece of Guinea be so close and yet so far? Oh, how I miss my country. It seemed to be what we were both thinking, though lost in our separate images of the same place.    

In the end, I took refuge in my fabric, wearing it like a treasured shield, a badge of honor and allegiance.
I heard his question for the rest of the day and despite our odd encounter, it gave me hope and courage.