Justice

"I wandered through fiction to look for the truth, buried beneath all the lies
And I stood at a distance to feel who you are, hiding myself in your eyes"
Goo Goo Dolls, "Before It's Too Late"

I read once in a sociology book that different cultures are motivated by different things. For example, Asian cultures by honor. African cultures by power. And you know what Americans are motivated by? Justice.

In America, everything is black and white. Something's either right, or it's wrong.
Here in Mozambique, I'm learning that there is no such clarity. Just...gray.

Honesty isn't the extolled virtue it is in the States.

Students cheat blatantly on exams. Why? Because it's considered selfish to not share your knowledge with a friend. They legitimately do not understand what is wrong with peeking over at the test of a neighbor.

I wrote in my last blog post about my best friend/student/next door neighbor stealing food items from my house. My American indignation kicking in: Why didn't he just ASK??
After further reflection, I guess I can sort of see his point: I obviously have an excess of food lying around, why wouldn't I share it? How would I even notice it's gone?

Hoarding isn't a habit here. What you have, you give. You use it to help your friends and your family. Needless to say, savings accounts aren't all that common at the bank.

My friend Calvino had a cute gray puppy for a while Then one day, the dog disappeared. When I asked the younger sister, she informed me that it had been poisoned and had died (a common occurrence). I mentioned it later to Calvino, who told me that, "Nah, it'd just been given to a friend." So which is true? What's the lie for?- to protect the young sister or to protect me, the dog lover of Chicumbane?

After one of my students spent several hours spilling his guts to me about his girlfriend breaking up with him, I mentioned the incident to his best friend several days later, only to receive a blank look in response. "He hasn't told you anything about what happened with his...girlfriend?" "What, is she pregnant?" He asked. I shook my head and suggested he talk to his friend personally...
Later that evening, he came back and whispered, "He told me his girlfriend is pregnant. What did he tell you?"

So, apparently, it's not as important to tell the truth as it is to tell someone what they want to hear. (By the way, my student later recanted the pregnancy story.)

This week, my coworker told me that one of the wooden doors to the latrine we had built for my organization, had been stolen overnight Doors are expensive, but they're also heavy. So immediately I know that it would have taken more than one person to take it down and carry it or transport it somewhere. While I mull over this turn of events, I find myself at the front steps of my coworker's house later that same day to give him something when... through the open front door, I see something in the house. It's a random wooden door, leaning up against his living room wall.

This is the same coworker, who had earlier this week been planting new packets of seeds in his garden at his house. Coincidental, because at work we are currently doing a gardening project and the organization has just bought a bunch of gardening supplies, including seeds.

So here's what I think is going on. I suspect that materials at work are getting siphoned off the top, like skimming funds in an embezzlement scheme. There's always been a fine line between what belongs to the organization and what belongs to the activists. What if someone really needed a door? But didn't have money to buy one? Would it be wrong to "borrow" it for a time?

{Let me give you an example. If you've got a job that you need to fill, you give it to your good friend. You don't give it to the person who is most qualified. Why would you help that person? }

If I'm right, then I'm pretty sure I'm the only one not in the loop, the only one kept in the dark. I'm the only one who would call then out on this, but does that mean I'm not an ally?

The wrongness of the situation cuts me, and I don't know how I can fight this battle. How could I, alone, hold everyone accountable? How can I claim to be a part of their organization, their community, and their culture and not look out for their "best interests?" Why would I want to "deprive" my friends of something that's available, if it doesn't hurt anyone? It sounds kind of messed up, to straightforward American way of thought, but I don't know. I just don't have the energy to make it "right" because "right"... is relative here, isn't it?

The door was stolen by an unknown thief? Aren't they just telling me what I'd rather hear? Is there a reason that "Wa Hemba" (liar) is the most common phrase in Changana?

The more I immerse myself in my community, the more I realize that there's so much that I'm still learning, or just now learning. That's when I know I'm in way over my head.

Trust

Several weeks ago, I began to notice food items missing from my house. Just small things here and there: a tupperware of garlic, a jar of peanut butter, a jar of Nutella, a bag of chips, etc. I'd reach for a packet of oatmeal and discover only one left in the box. At first, I thought I was going crazy. Did I eat all the oatmeal and just forget to add it to my grocery list? Strange, because I'm usually very good about buying things before I run out. I considered the possibility of the onset of early Alzheimer's.
This week, when I bought a brand new box of oatmeal, I numbered the packets 1-10. A few days later, I only had 6 left. AHA!! I had eaten two of them (one a day), which left two unaccounted for. I applauded myself for NOT going crazy, while I began to feel the dull pain of trust shattered in my heart.
Only two other people have keys to my house: my empregada, and my 18-year-old next door neighbor who also happens to be one of my theatre kids. Both of these people were specially entrusted with my keys. I had mentioned these strange happenings to my empregada, who claimed to have no knowledge of what was going on (and also is not aware that the neighbor also has a key). As time passed, and things continued to disappear I shifted my doubt to my neighbor, who is the only one who knows of my daily comings and goings.
This frustrated me, because I consider him one of my good friends and I've always played a big-sister role to him. I would trust this kid with my life, but apparently I shouldn't trust him with access to my personal belongings. What makes this situation even more bizarre is what happened earlier this week. He came over to my house one night after his girlfriend of 3 years broke up with him, and literally bawled into my lap for an hour and a half. It was like holding a man-child who has no idea what to do with his emotions. I'd never seen a Mozambican so upset...EVER. Two days later, he still hadn't even mentioned a thing to his best friend. So what does that say about our relationship, that I'm the first and only person he goes to when something tragic happens?
Now, we seem to be closer than ever. Or....so I thought. Before my numbered oatmeal went missing, and the only person who knew for certain I was gone at certain times during the day... was him. It's heartbreaking.
I feel that the things I have, I give freely. Lately, I've been giving out money right and left to help people that I consider friends. Oh, you don't have money to get to work? Here's 100 mts. Oh, the threatre group is participating in a competition and needs money for transport to participate? Here's 500 mts. Especially when it comes to my sweet neighbor/friend, I'm pretty damned generous. An extra blanket because it gets cold, a pillow, a plate of food a couple times a week, candy... So really, all he'd have to do is ASK and I'd probably give it.
While venting my frustrations to other PCV's, I discovered that most of them had also been privy to similar petty thefts (by friends and people they trust!). And so I start to wonder, if I'm reading too much into all this. To me, this is an act of betrayal, a personal affront. But to Mozambicans, I'm not sure it's the same. Could it be that these acts of theft have nothing to do with me, and more to do with the things that I am perceived to have? I obviously have things in "excess" ; I'm always giving away things. Maybe the assumption is, I have so much I won't notice a few things gone. Or I'll just replace it.
So... my definition of friendship obviously isn't quite the same as others'. But I also can't get trapped in these feelings of bitterness that will only continue to taint my relationships with people. It's hard to explain, but I know that despite what's going on, they do care about me. I'm not wrong in saying that my friendship with my neighbor is as authentic as it was before I discovered the food thefts. And hopefully we'll continue to be close for the rest of my service.
But first... I'm going to need my keys back.

The sights and sounds of africa

By the time you've lived somewhere for 20 months, everything that surrounds you has fallen under the category of "Normalcy." Very few things make you stop and stare. Indeed, very few things that you do make other people stop and stare.
I think that the people of Chicumbane are used to my "white person" quirks- namely the fact that I walk around the neighborhood accompanied by a pack of dogs, or that sometimes I have to chase them home brandishing a stick. After 20 months, these things are just part of the landscape.
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In the morning, I'm sometimes woken up by the soft scraping sound of my neighbor raking the sand. It's a comforting sound, knowing that somebody's taking care of the yard and it doesn't have to be me. (Hey, I bought the rake- fair exchange, right?) This, accompanied by roosters crowing and shortly after, the sound of speakers being turned on wafts music beats through my window. Sometimes, the music from different houses compete to see who can be heard by the most people, something that used to irritate me but has since become the background noise to everyday life.
By the way, it's getting COLD!!! I sleep with a jacket, sweatpants, socks, and two blankets. The tin roof above my head cools my house in the winter and heats it to sweltering in the summer. The only good thing is that when it rains, the pattering sound can be soothing. Although this, too, was something that I initially found disconcerting.
On my way to the latrine in the morning to dump out my xixi bucket, I pass chickens rummaging through piles of dead leaves, surrounded by peeping chicks I hear my neighbors greeting and talking to each other in local language, and sometimes my crazy misogynist neighbor yelling angrily at someone. If somebody nearby is burning their trash, the air smells of smoke. When I first landed in Africa, it was one of the first things I noticed- the constant faint linger of smoke. People burn their trash, burn firewood to cook, burn their land to clear crops.
After my breakfast and morning coffee (gotta love the French press) I head to work at the hospital, a pleasant 20 minute walk in which I usually pass a herd or two of cows and goats heading to pasture, and multiple fresh cow patties. When I first arrived at site, I complained ferociously about the difficulties of walking through sand and now no longer notice it. I'm hoping this means good things for my calves. Also along the way, I cross paths with students in uniform going to and from school, adults heading to work, women coming back from the field. Some of them greet me with "Bom dia" (good morning) or call me by name:
"Mana Vivana!" At all the houses I pass, people are sitting outside.
In the afternoon, I return home for lunch. This is about the time that children notice my open door and come by asking to color. They stand timidly at my door and call "da licenca!" ("Excuse me!") repeatedly until I tell them to go home and come back on the weekend. It's amazing how many times I turn away the same kids who apparently don't know the days of the week. If my neighbor isn't around to shoo them away, they may decide to hop into my trash pit and collect whatever treasures they find. (It's always kind of awkward when you pass children on the street playing with something that obviously came out of your trash pit. For this reason, all hygiene products and discarded medical supplies go into the latrine.) I think I'll need some time to adjust back to weekly trash pickups and garbage disposals...
Aside from the pounding of music, there's also the sound of chatter in Changana, children wheeling their squeaky wire trucks around or whipping a wooden top through the sand to make a sharp cracking noise and keep it spinning, the bleating of nearby goats or children crying (they sound the same).
In the evenings, I go to work where I inevitably encounter mosquitoes- a lot of them (Chicumbane is right next to the Limpopos River). The phase of the moon makes all the difference between intense darkness or well-lit streets. After it rains, there's the danger of falling into muddy puddles in the middle of the path.
Unless it's the weekend, when music from barracas plays until the wee hours of the morning, the neighborhood quiets down by 9pm or so. In the middle of the night, it is dead silent save for the occasional chorus of dogs barking. And rats running over my tin roof.
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At this point in my service, all of this is familiar to me. But the thought that in less than 5 months, I'll be leaving all this behind- probably forever- is sobering. It's one of the things that make me stop and just... be. Just soak in a little more of Africa.

Oh baby

Working with girls in Mozambique can be challenging. For one thing, they're so busy. Between school, household chores, babysitting younger relatives, and church, it can be difficult to fit in time to descansar (rest), much less to attend a REDES group meeting. I'll work closely with a promising secondary school girl, only to have her disappear suddenly after several weeks. I find out...her mother is making her run the family vegetable stand at the market. Or she has to stay at home to cook and take care of her siblings. Or she's on the verge of failing a class, and has to spend more time at school studying. Or one of her relatives is very sick and she has to travel to visit them.
Or... she got pregnant. Teen pregnancy is not a novel concept, but here in Africa it is unbelievably common. In my experience, I'd say that the average age that a Mozambican woman has her first child is... between 18 and 20.
One of the most common questions I get asked is, "Do you have children?" (Almost inevitably after "Are you married?") And then comes, "No? Why not?" It seems weird to them that a person could be married but not have kids. It's as if having children validates marriage. My host brother got his girlfriend pregnant about a year ago . After hushed negotiations with the girl's family, she and the baby now live with my host family. They're essentially married. They refer to each other as husband and wife, but I don't think they're actually legally bound.
So even if it's -oops! An accident, usually it turns out okay. Unplanned pregnancies aren't the huge burden they are in the States. There definitely isn't the same stigma and disapproval, or talk of "children having children." At 18, a Mozambican girl is of prime child-bearing age. I explain, "I don't want kids yet, I have plenty of time later." This is usually met with a strange look that says, "Whatever, you crazy white person. You're 24 and you're getting old so you better start popping out those children while you can." I wonder if it has to do with the lower life expectancy in Moz. People die younger, so people procreate younger.
Also, family is such a huge deal in African culture. Having children means more hands to help around the house. Having children means a woman's role of motherhood is fulfilled, and a man's role of proving his virility is accomplished.
Last week, I received a visit from a young girl who introduced herself as Stella's sister. (Stella is a secondary school student who used to be active in REDES and participated in my English Theatre group last year.) I asked how Stella was, mentioning that I hadn't seen her in a long time. "Oh, she's fine. Almost about to have her baby."
...WHAT???!!! If I had a metical for every time I've been surprised to discover that someone I know is pregnant, I'd probably be able to afford a chapa ride to Xai Xai (from Chicumbane to Xai Xai is 10 meticais). For some reason, I'm not very good at picking out pregnant women in Mozambique. One of my coworkers, whom I've known my entire time in Chicumbane, had already given birth by the time I discovered that she was even pregnant.
Maybe it's because a lot of Mozambican women are typically...um, big. Or maybe because no one makes a huge fuss about being pregnant, and it's such a natural thing In America, pregnant women throw elaborate baby showers, post up sonogram photos, complain about morning sickness and cravings and purportedly emit some sort of pregnancy glow. If you're a pregnant Mozambican woman, you don't even get the privilege of knowing if it's a boy or girl before it pops out.
But still. Throughout REDES meetings and events we try to drill in the importance of using protection, family planning, long term decisions, blah blah...It's hard to say how much of it goes in one ear and out the other. Girls see their friends having babies and want one too. They don't ponder the financial drain of having another mouth to feed, or the time commitment that comes with caring for a child, or the impact on their own education (because while they often argue that it is possible to raise a baby and continue going to school, most often they end up dropping out).
Next thing you know, they're knocked up and I'm hearing about it from somebody else. But probably not until 7 or 8 months down the line...