From Ferguson To Zambia

Today I heard the news that the Missouri grand jury—made up of 9 white and three black members—made no recommendation to charge Darren Wilson, the white police officer that shot Black, 18-year-old Michael Brown.  NPR has compiled a list of documents used as evidence before the jury you can see here. The evidence overwhelmingly shows that Brown charged Wilson and that Wilson acted out of self-defense. That’s the information the court heard.  Those are the documents.

But that’s not the truth.

We need to stop accepting the dominant cultural narrative as the truth. We need to stop accepting the information that gets to the courtroom, the major newsrooms, or the cultural creators of the world that are defined by capital and by whiteness. In contrast the voices of Ferguson, MO and Chawama, Zambia remain silent. We hear Darren Wilson’s side of the story, but we can’t hear from Michael Brown because he is lying cold with not one, but six holes in his body.

As the drama and flashiness of this verdict, trial, and even the protests continues, I hope we don’t get bogged down with deciding the truth about the character of either Michael Brown or Darren Wilson. Take a moment and look at the truth in your own life. Look at your own character.

How many of your friends are people of color? How many have you invited to your home? How many have invited you to their home? Have you lived in poverty? Have you experienced police brutality? Does history show your ancestors as slaves?  How many friends or relatives are or have been incarcerated? Are you enjoying privilege? Are you working for justice?

Let me answer these questions myself and let me answer them as I would have before I came to Zambia.

How many of your friends are people of color? Honestly, not many. My friends and family and the majority of people I interact with daily, let alone meaningfully, are white.

How many have you invited to your home? I can barely think of any instances.

How many have invited you to their home? College friends and colleagues.

Have you lived in poverty? No.

Have you experienced police brutality? Never. Even though I cried getting my first (and only!) speeding ticket.

Does history show your ancestors as slaves?  Nope.

How many friends or relatives are or have been incarcerated? Nada.

 Are you enjoying privilege? Yes.

Are you working for justice? Not hard enough.

My life is segregated. My life is different than many Black Americans, who compared to whites are more likely to live in poverty, experience police brutality, and are incarcerated. Every action has a reaction. Every piece of the pie I take, leaves less for the rest. My privilege comes at a cost.

Let Ferguson remind me of this. And not accept the injustice I am living.

My answers to these questions have certainly changed since coming to Zambia. Now I go weeks without seeing another white person. I experience poverty everyday, though I can’t say I live it compared to most of my students. The sad thing is I had to travel halfway around the world to change my segregated, privileged life. I could have driven fifteen minutes into inner city Milwaukee. Will I do that when I get home?

To all, but especially my white family and friends, don’t ignore Michael Brown. Don’t ignore Ferguson. But I think more importantly don’t ignore your own life, your own privilege, your own segregation.

It’s quite humbling and disheartening to come to a different country and then realize how broken your own homeland is.

Please read this blog to find out ways whites can respond to Ferguson.

Demons

We were finishing our normal prayer time at CCAP’s Chawama Prayer House when it happened. But this was no average prayer time for a muzungu who grew up in the PCUSA. Prayer time here starts with song. The leader comes to the front of the church and begins a call and response type song that is typical of Zambian music. After a song or two or beautiful, belting harmonies, the prayer begins. First here. Then there. As the song fades, speaking voices grow one after the other. Pretty soon the room is booming with layer upon layer of words of thanksgiving, petition, and praise. People pace the room. Hands and arms shake. Where a few moments before there was harmony, now there is the dissonance of sixty voices speaking on top of each other. Normally prayer time comes to a close once again with song. The leader sings out a melody and soon the voices fade back into song.

But this Sunday one voice did not. One man kept talking and talking and talking, rather agitated as it were. Not being able to understand his language, I was totally lost as members in the congregation slowly pulled his arms leading him into the vestry, or back room of the church. As the pastor, began his sermon, a few more people sauntered into the vestry. Soon the pastor had to speak louder to stifle the shouts coming from there.

He turned to his congregation and said, “Not all spirits are from the Lord.”

Turns out I was in the presence of a demon.

Weeks later, my good friend invited me to her baptism at her Apostolic Church. It was a very special day in which I traveled with her and some in her congregation, traversing the rain and hail on the roads, to the Kafue River where the sun peaked out to shine on those who waded into the great stream and submitted themselves to the water for baptism.  We left after a church service, which ended in deliverance. Again, this prayer/act began with song, but pretty soon people were surrounding those overcome with something. The possessed’s eyes were closed. They would fall to the ground, one quite painfully with his body completely straight. The pastor would yell, “What do you want with her?” And the person/demon would say, “A gift.” Then people would yell, “Fire, Fire! In the name of Jesus, come out!”

                                                                  My friend praying

My friend then asked me if I would like to be prayed for. I agreed and together we went up to the pastor. He took my hands and in his fiery speech, he prayed and periodically shook my arms. I felt the urge to follow his lead and as he shook my arms, I released the tension in my body and let my body shake with his tremors. When he finished, an older man took my arm and led me to my knees. He then grabbed my head and began to move it around and around in circles. Hands were on my shoulders and I could sense a crowd of people gathering around me. My eyes were closed and the song continued all around me. Pretty soon my arms were in the air. It was at this point that my friend photographed me.

I had taken some pictures of the deliverance a few minutes earlier. My friend was adamant that I do so, so I joined another man walking around snapping pictures.  This was against my inclination. I didn’t want to identify myself as the stranger in the room more than my skin color already showed. Also, I categorize religious experience as a very personal. To each her own as far as I’m concerned and I didn’t want to intrude. The times in prayer I have felt closest to God have been through the silence and meditative songs of the Taize worship style. Something I can do by myself, or silently with others. But this was no Taize worship service. When I look at the picture my friend snapped of me: this woman, kneeling on the floor, hands in the air, being delivered… I don’t recognize myself. The first time I looked at the picture, I snapped my camera off within seconds, feeling embarrassed. I worry about prayer and even religion being showy or self-important. IEach week at my church here I have trouble praying because it feels like I would be yelling at God, even performing for those around me. I believe that volume, eloquence, and duration in and of prayer don’t necessarily make a difference.

I believe all this, but none of that was my motive as I submitted myself to deliverance last Sunday. I had been welcomed into the church of a dear friend, and her dear, dear community welcomed me with open arms, shaking with passion. They offered me a most precious gift to them: their prayers. The greatest way to thank them was to humbly accept. So I put myself at their mercy. I surrendered my body as they moved me this way and that, so much that I was sore hours later. And much to my surprise I felt something in their prayer. A spirit? God? I don’t feel the need to use those terms although I certainly could. I felt like the people around me were offering me their energy and in return I was giving them back the only thing I could: myself. I felt the presence of those around me. I could see their shadows from behind my eyelids. I could hear their voices all around me.  There was a community surrounding me, and they were choosing to put their focus into me. I could feel emotions rising. When it ended and the pastor asked me how I felt, I simply said, “I feel loved.”

So many things are different here in Zambia. Demons are real. People speak in tongues. There is witchcraft. There is Satanism. People talk about the devil. There have been times that I honestly feel like I had left Planet Earth. What book did I enter? Where am I? But I am on the same Earth I have always lived. This is reality.

I’m not here to scientifically prove or convince anyone, even myself. When I say, these things are real I mean that they are beliefs, and therefore forces, that actually affect people here in Zambia. I am here to be in relationship with Zambians so I have chosen not to judge and attempt to meet those around me just where they are. They live in a world with demons and I want to know them, so I live in a world where they experience demons too.

In my first weeks in Zambia taking culture classes at FENZA, we heard from an amazing Catholic Father who researches demons and spirits and has experience with them in his ministry. He found that when his parishioners come to him complaining of a demon he hears everything they have to say but then asks questions to name and classify the person’s suffering. He accepts the demon, and then seeks understanding of the earthly manifestations of human suffering that might be behind the spirit.  He sees the person as someone in pain and then as he gets to know the person he asks to bring in people around the possessed person, usually their family members, to solve the problem relationally. He told us that the Catholic Church used to have an Exorcism Department in Zambia, but the lines were so long each day, they had to close the office. His relational method works wonders.

I think Father Bernhard is doing good work in Zambia. He meets people where they are, with the terms they use, and works to build and save relationships. When I saw deliverance taking place at my friend’s baptism service, I watched a woman surrounded by others. In the moment, the focus of those around her was not on themselves, their energy was directed at her, they were giving their minds and spirits, their voices.

When talking with Father Bernhard and in that moment, it struck me how things like depression, grief, low self-esteem, and mental illness can be demons. To me, this is more figurative, but I can understand how those very real problems can become something classified as true and real demon. Call it what you will, persistent problems are real. In the service of deliverance, I imagined this woman as bogged down with the dispirits of depression, of feeling lower than low, of having something hanging over her that she couldn’t shake, holding her back, keeping her from being her true and free self. And around her were people… People who wanted to pull that madness out of her. People in her community danced vigil with her and waited for her self to return.  People loved her.

It makes me think, what demons are in my own life? And who will be there to help deliver them out?

Finally, all this musing brings me back to YAV orientation back in Stony Point, NY, when we looked at Mark 5:1-20, in which Jesus casts out the demon, “Legion” from the Gerosene Demoniac. Usually when I read this story I thick, “Oh boy, one of those bible stories!” On the surface, it’s a story of magic; a story of the spirit world crossed over into this world, a reality I certainly have not experienced in this life. In the story, Jesus casts the demon into a herd of pigs, driving the swine into the sea where they meet their death. In the past I’ve read this as an unexplainable miracle in which Jesus shows some wicked Hogwarts-like skills. With the help of some Biblical history, our leader told us that the story takes place in a location occupied by the Roman army and that the swine are the food source for the soldiers. Jews certainly would not be eating pork. With this reading, Jesus’ act becomes not a display, but a subversive act of defiance and protest of the Roman Army: Jesus’s Boston Tea Party, so to speak. Whether he waved a wand or physically moved the pigs himself seems like a lesser point to the fact that Jesus committed a very political act, sticking it to an oppressive military regime. It seems there is a lot more to these demon stories than meets the eye. So what else is behind the demons people experience here? Demons aren’t just the modern manifestation of African Traditional Religion, they are found in the Bible. They are even found in the lyrics and title of Imagine Dragon’s hit song: “Don’t get to close, it’s dark inside. It’s where my demons hide. It’s where my demons hide. “

Demons are real here in Zambia. Where are they real in your life?

                                                                  At the Kafue River

Manzi (Water)

I live in a house with no running water. It took me two hours to realize the extra work living with no running water creates compared to living with it, but it took me over a month to get sore muscles from fetching it. For the first month, someone was living with us who did the whole job of fetching water from a pump a few hundred yards from our house and then filling the buckets that sit outside the toilet, bathing room, and those under the sink in the kitchen. After he moved out, the job was left to my host mom at first and then later my sister.

After watching my sister sweat it out over this work, I told her the next time she went to fetch water she needed to tell me. And so she did. And that is how I found myself on an empty stomach leaving a warm dinner on the table to go carry extremely heavy buckets of water that I had to stop to rest every hundred yards or so, in the dark at 8pm, and getting sweaty after I had just bathed.

There is a pump in a walled community of houses directly next to our house and also one across a field next to the school. We pay the homes to use their water. We fill the big buckets first, which need two people to carry them. After the smaller one have been filled, we begin to take the buckets and leave them right outside the front door. The process is slow. It takes time to fill each bucket and then time to move the buckets outside the house. And then more time to take the buckets into the house and to their respective places. Each bucket has its place, which I have had to learn. The time lends itself to socializing. The waterspouts are places people gather. We, or mostly my sister and cousin, chat with our neighbors and each other. My little brother usually comes, too. One memorable scene he burst into tears as we waited for our buckets to fill because my sister acted like she had found a cockroach and put it on his body. There was nothing in her hands, but he did not know that.

We’ve frequented the spout in the walled in community more because it is closer to our back door. You must move over a step, quite fun with a heavy water bucket in your hand, into the walled in community and then navigate your way in the dark between the wall and the house, trying not to step in the mud created by splashing water. My flip flops, or slippers as Zambians call them, has gotten stuck a few times in the muck. Then sometimes you have to dodge a clothesline full of drying clothes. Doors open at varying times as women in chitenges throw their dirty dishwater onto the mud or plants outside. Often they come and sit and wait with us.

Many times I’ve found myself wanting to find ways to streamline the process. My instinct is to grab the next bucket as soon as it is filled, and then even bring the bucket right into the house to its final resting place. I want to get it done as soon as possible. Especially when dinner is waiting for me. I’ve had to tell myself to hold my horses. Out of respect, I wait to see how they do things and try to do my part in the labor. It’s hard work after an already long day, but it’s better to do it at night than in the blistering Zambian sun. When my instinct to hurry bubbles up, I ask myself, what am I rushing for? Breathe. Fast or slow, the work will get done. As this chore becomes a routine as I do this every two or three days, my wish to hurry lessens. I’m just going to have to do this again, so why not take it easy and enjoy myself as much as I can.

Watching the buckets empty day by day has become a signal to prepare myself for the next round of fetching. I can’t help but be slightly disheartened. Didn’t we just do all this work? Now we have to do it again? The answer is yes. Yes, we do. We need water. And it is amazing to feel its weight literally in your arms and then hours afterward from soreness.

This morning I started singing one of my favorite Taize songs. The lyrics are:

Let all who are thirsty come; let all who wish receive, the water of life freely. Amen. Come Lord Jesus. Amen. Come Lord Jesus.

I was struck by the poignancy of these words here in Zambia. I’ve always loved how the lyrics offer lovely imagery of God’s love as water, something we can drink in, fill us, and sustain us. In the American Midwest, full of lakes great and small, full of homes with running water, water is a substance of abundance. In this context, the abundance of water seems to match the abundance of God’s love. But then there is Zambia, where water is not abundant. So does that mean God’s love is not abundant here? That certainly is not right. Hmm. Thinking of God’s love as water in Zambia might not be a metaphor for abundance. Instead water becomes this amazing, special gift that we seek, that we work for, that sustains us, that we need desperately. The rains become a blessing. A full bucket under the kitchen is a blessing. Water in my cup, a blessing. The Taize song still brings out imagery of the abundant and sustaining nature of God’s love, but in the Zambian context, I am reminded that God’s kingdom—driven by justice, love, compassion, kindness, and equality—has not yet come. There are places that struggle and must work for water. There are places that struggle and must work for justice, struggle and work for equality. People choose to drink exploitation and ignorance instead of love and kindness. May a new type of world come. Where the rains fall and fill everyone’s cup. Where justice falls down like a mighty stream.

Let all who are thirsty come to this world. May they be filled. May all who wish receive. May all who receive, share. The water of life. Freely. Amen.

Nshima, Nshima, and More Nshima!

“You don’t have mealie meal in the US?”

No, I said, looking into a frowning brow of disapproval.

“Teacher ________________, Hannah just said they don’t have mealie meal in the US.”

The other teacher matched her colleague’s furrowed brow and gave the Zambian grunt of displeasure.

I had never heard of nshima before I had my YAV interview to come to Zambia. Nshima is dried maize (corn), pounded into a very fine powder. To cook it, you fill a pot with water nearly to the top. When the water boils, you start pouring the powder into the pot. You let the milky white water heat for another ten minutes or so and then pour more mealie meal into the pot by the bowlful. This must be done while stirring rapidly, yet carefully, so as not to push any of the mush out of the full pot. This step is extremely tricky, at least for me, because I always seem to stir too fast and spill all over the stove, and at the same time, I also stir too slowly because my nshima turns out clumpy. An expert nshima cook, aka all Zambian women over the age of 12, know exactly how to push the long, flat wooden spoon back and forth to remove all clumps while not spilling a thing. After the nshima has been stirred and is at the right consistency, the pot is covered, and it cooks for another ten or fifteen minutes. Then again, the big spoon pushes the nshima back and forth, now quite heavy, until it is thick and ready. Then another utensil is used to spoon the thick mush into ovalular globs set into a silver dish with a matching lid that all Zambian families seem to own.

Nshima, at the village stay, in the open dish with a red rim

At the table, Zambians wash their hands before eating. This is important in a dusty surrounding and when no utensils are used to eat. A Zambian usually takes one to three globs of nshima on their plate. That is a lot of nshima, let me tell you. One rips off a large piece and rolls it in their right hand. Once in a ball, the nshima is used to pick up a leafy green relish, or a bit of fish or chicken.

Meal times are usually around 1pm and then 7:30pm. Meals are late, spread out, and then fairly large to accommodate this eating schedule. Once one has eaten nshima, one doesn’t feel like they need to eat for a very long time.

My first time eating nshima, I found the experience quite fun. I felt rebellious getting my hands messy at the dinner table. Touching one’s food with their bare hands is a very interesting and intimate experience. I’ve never really thought about how forks and knives create distance, but they do. How often have you felt, I mean, really felt your vegetables? Or the sinews of your chicken, or the bones of your fish?

Early on in my time in Zambia I talked with a CCAP pastor about how much time Americans spend just deciding what to eat. I am notorious for this myself. When I go into a restaurant I have to read the entire menu and then really examine how I am feeling, what else I have eaten that day, what I plan to eat later, and what I plan to do later, before I choose the perfect meal that is delectable, nutritious, and practical at the same time. And that’s not even mentioning how much time I can spend in the aisles of a grocery store deciding what food to bring home. I wonder what else I could do with this abundant time I have the privilege to spend on food. Not time spent growing, harvesting, preparing, or cleaning up after said food…just time deciding what I want.

Zambians don’t have this issue. No one asks, “What’s for lunch?” Everyone knows the answer is nshima. “What’s for dinner?” You guessed it! Nshima!

A good friend told me that if she hasn’t eaten nshima, she feels like she hasn’t eaten. This is why my fellow teachers were literally in disbelief that my country does not cook nor sell mealie meal to make nshima. As far as I know, you can’t buy the stuff in the US, and making nshima with cornmeal, which I tried last year, does not yield the same dish.

In my interview for YAV, my site coordinator described nshima and asked if I would be able to eat a foreign substance everyday. Considering myself an adventurous eater who now thanks my mother for instilling the “no-thank-you-bite” for every dish put on your plate, I answered that I was excited to try something new. There’s not much I don’t like, so why should this nshima stuff be a problem. Now I know that because of my cultural perspective I really didn’t have the means to fathom nshima culture.

My experience with nshima has been a blessing and a challenge. I’ve shared common bowls with strangers and friends. It is always offered in abundance. I’ve spent dark evenings during the many power outages in Lusaka learning worship songs with my sister, Precious, as she stirs a pot over a charcoal fire. There would be no Zambia without nshima and so I embrace it.

But I don’t always eat it. After weeks of feeling bloated and too full for my own comfort, I’ve had to learn how to be a thankful guest while also realizing how important food is to our souls, moods, and bodies, and therefore feeding the soul, mood, and body that I have personally been bestowed. It has meant introducing the concept of raw vegetables to some of my friends and it means reassuring them over and over again, that yes, I am satisfied. I’m still figuring this out and I oftentimes feel guilty and out of place eating separate food. What comes first—solidarity or health?

Breakfast has become a cherished time of solitude and delicious nourishment. I treat myself to having yogurt and granola stocked in the kitchen as often as I can. Before school or taking my time on a weekend morning, breakfast has become my time to eat what I love, read and reflect, and start my day right. This morning, my six-year-old brother loitered around me as I set out of my foodstuffs. Despite his cuteness, I’ve recently had a serious problem with him respecting my privacy and I found my feelings of annoyance growing inside me. Can’t I have my time of peace? But how could I serve myself and not serve him? What could I give this young, budding child? I searched for what he normally eats for breakfast. The corn flakes were out. No white bread, either. There was only my food. Only my abundant and healthy food. I honestly did not want to give it to him at first. This food had come to symbolize my comfort. I looked at what has become my comfort: this healthy, abundant food—available to me, but not to others…not to my family that I live with, and I thought once more about how much privilege I have. I have the privilege of an education and health system that taught me what is good for my body. I have enough wealth to secure this lifestyle for myself. Many times we think of privilege as luxury—diamonds and fancy cars—but in reality privilege actually comes in the basic form of healthy eating and even exercise.

I shared my food… and my brother enjoyed his granola, yogurt, and milk. But don’t think of me as some sort of saint. If I am quite honest, I was in a situation in which I could not ignore the unfairness of how much I have compared to others. I sat at the table across from my brother, food all around me, nothing around him, and the feelings of guilt and discomfort got so great, that I shared. I hope I can have the strength to share in a more profound and widespread way when the table I sit is no longer physical but figurative, when I am back in the United States and my brother sits in here in Lusaka. I hope I can give freely without guilt, without discomfort, and I hope I can put my comfort in things that are not in effect indirect exploitation or unequal.

Even as I eat and watch others eat nshima every day, I have trouble fathoming Zambia’s culture of food that is so narrow, yet profuse. Nshima is cheap and abundant so it fits in a nation where sixty percent of the population is officially considered poor. Nutritious, abundant, and varied food is certainly a privilege.  Don’t forget it.

Ps. Today is my little brother’s birthday. Had no idea…

Skin color

This post is about episodes in my Zambian experience that I have encountered skin color and whiteness. I spell this out right away in an effort to acknowledge the delicateness of this issue and I hope that my readers will engage with my experiences with tolerance, compassion, but I also charge them with holding me and my words accountable. I welcome comments and criticisms about my word choices. I also hope each can turn to wonder and look inward into their own lives and experiences.

Here goes.

I scare babies in Zambia. Not all babies, thank God, but over and over again, waiting for my sister and brother at the local clinic, or sitting on a pew at church, I find myself making googly eyes at babies, trying to make them laugh or smile, and to my dismay, the baby turns wide-eyed, nuzzles into their parents shoulder, and then lets out shrieks of fright. This is when the parent leans over to me and says, “She’s never seen a white person before.”

Huh, I think. I honestly didn’t think about being the very first white person a human being ever saw. I’ve never thought of myself as such a novelty, so different. With a history of colonialism and whites coming to Africa, I honestly didn’t expect such a hub bub about my whiteness. I mean this is the year 2014! We’re getting over that race thing, right? (Keep reading…)

While babies show fear, others show disbelief, excitement, and interest. I can’t walk a street in a compound of Lusaka without children calling out to me in limited English, “How are you?” or endlessly repeating, “Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu, muzungu!” (“White person, white person, white person, white person!) I’ve had marriage proposals and much more. I’ve joked that if I ever need a confidence boost, all I need to do is walk around in Lusaka and I’ll feel like everyone loves me.

But I don’t actually feel like everyone loves me. I feel different. I feel out of place. I feel like a thing, not a person. Many times the comments carry the sting of feeling like I will never belong here.

I’ve talked to a few Zambians about this phenomenon. They ask me if their dark skin would receive the same attention in the United States.  I tell them that it would be seen as rude to blatantly point out someone’s skin color as they walked down the street. I’ve never personally seen an equivalent to what I’m experiencing here back home, and I think I would be even more shocked to see it on my own turf. But as I think of my own country’s problem with skin color, I know that my impression of American tolerance isn’t quite right. Sure my ego and identity are at stake and shattered as I walk around Lusaka, but unlike Blacks suffering from police brutality in Ferguson, MO, in my own country, my life is not in danger because of my skin color. The police, even here in Zambia, will protect me more, not less, because of my whiteness.

I have to constantly remind myself that the isolation I feel by the comments I hear around here is a meager fraction of the isolation, let alone brutality, blacks have felt at the hands of whites in Africa and the United States historically and even today. Yeah, hearing muzungu makes me feel uncomfortable, but maybe that’s the point. My discomfort is a reminder of my privilege, but it is also a reminder of the severe segregation still gripping this world.

Last weekend, I had the honor to stay at a cousin of the Tembo’s in another a compound. After attracting attention in the market, when we got home, the cousin reminded me, “People are just so excited to see a white person in the compounds.” Whites normally just don’t go there, let alone live there. I asked the cousin if she personally had ever known a white person. I was surprised when she stopped stirring the pot of noodles to think and then to say, “No, I don’t think so.” I was the first she had in her home.

The “firsts” of sight and of friendship, and the extremity of excitement at my appearance makes me think that the uncomfortable initial encounter with difference is normal and should be expected. The look of fear I have inspired in babies says it all. They can’t help it. It’s their first reaction. I’m not actually that scary, I swear, but their fear is very real. I can’t fault a baby that has only known this world for a few months to react to a stimulus they’ve never encountered in an unsure way. It’s natural. It’s natural to catch your breath when you encounter something new. Maybe it’s even natural to be so scared all you want to do is nuzzle into Momma and hope the world turns back to normal.

Little do we know that “normal” includes many different shades of skin, climates, foods, songs, worship styles, cultures, countries, etc… “Normal” is not what we know when we are babies. We have learn that difference isn’t so scary. We have to experience it. We have to take risks to learn it. We don’t know what difference is until we’ve spread our wings and looked up from Momma’s shoulder to double check this interesting person, and maybe after one more quick snuggle, open our eyes and hearts to a new normal, a new color, and new people.

If you think you are colorblind, if you think you are not racist, could you just be nuzzling into your Momma’s shoulder and pretending like you don’t have rational and irrational fears about difference? It’s ok. I’m opening my eyes anew everyday and, let me tell you, it takes effort and it’s scary and it’s certainly not as comfortable as a safe shoulder. But how safe are we if our eyes our closed all the time? What are we missing?

Jubilee

On October 24, 1964, Zambia officially gained independence from the United Kingdom. This lead an end to an oppressive political regime that included a hut tax, in which the colonial government taxed the local people, which in essence forced them to work in order to pay off the tax. Round about or not, this was slavery.

So this October 24^th, 2014, marking the fiftieth year of Zambian independence was special indeed. It celebrated the successful fight to end that oppression fifty years ago and it celebrated a joyful people, proud and empowered, looking toward the future.

For the past two weeks, King David School has spent one to two hours every day preparing for an Independence Day Celebration that occurred on Thursday, the 24^th. Between all grade levels, there was line dancing, traditional dancing, breakdancing, songs, poems, dramas, modeling, and even a Mr. and Miss Independence Competition!

My 8^th graders did a spectacular job performing a poem I wrote for them! Here is the text:

Independence Song

This is the day the nation was born.

This is the day Rhodesia was torn.

A colony gone, now Zambia stood.

Her people rejoiced as all people should.

That big, big day was fifty years ago,

Look around and see what it shows:

A kind, friendly people with peace in their hearts,

Nshima on their fires; they surely look smart.

The beat of a drum and some clapping of hands,

Starts a song, long and strong, sung all through the land.

“We are independent today and in the future to come.

“Let us spread freedom for all and not just for some.”

“We are a family today, now and forever.

“We take care of each other. May hate happen never.

“May each know their worth and follow their dream.

“Fifty years together has made us a team.”

                                   Grade 8 performing at the all school event on October, 23rd.

After a successful day of celebrating with students on Thursday, I decided on Friday morning that I would take up the invitation of my fellow YAV, Devin, and travel to  her compound to spend the night and take part in the official Jubilee Celebrations at the newly built Heroes Stadium. I was nervous because that meant on a long mini-bus ride (by myself!) on what I thought would be an extremely busy and crowded day! After only getting on the wrong bus once (ha!) I made it to an indeed busy and crowded Mandevu, where I met both Devin and Rebecca. Later in the day we each donned a unique Jubilee chitenges (wrap skirts) and made our way into the Independence fray. Needless to say, three white women in African garb attracted a lot, A LOT, of attention and we had to dodge face painters who were determined to give Devin tattoos. We finally made it into the newly-opened stadium which we have admired many times from afar since coming to Zambia.

The place was packed and we didn’t exactly know where to go, so after much wandering and a sorry attempt at sitting on scorching hot stadium seats (the African sun, I’m telling you…) we stood and watched the country’s military spell out the words like “Jubilee” on the field and then demonstrate their fighting skills. My favorite part was when a solider that had fallen from the fake gunfire had his close up on the jumbotron, and just as our sympathies were being drawn out in full force, the “dead” solider opened his eyes to survey the area. The entire stadium found this extremely entertaining. The other highlight was seeing the first President of Zambia, Kenneth Kaunda, from afar. No matter his politics, he was an important leader and it is amazing to say I was with him celebrating the Independence he brought about.

I feel extremely honored to not only have witnessed this historic event, but really be a player in its celebration as I danced and sung with my students and with Zambians on the streets of Lusaka. I pray and hope for so many good things for this country. To the next fifty years and beyond!

C-

Grading or assessing my students is one of my greatest challenges as a teacher.  Other teachers and people around me often ask how my students are performing, and I often have a hard time giving an answer. I’ve given about three tests in each of my classes and I’ve gotten mixed results. Last Friday I probably had the best scores I’ve seen, but I also think I made the test a little easier. I worry about the students’ low scores. Did they really not understand? Am I bad teacher? Was the test fair? And then there is the language barrier. They learn in English, but speak and see the world around them in local languages. I often wonder how they would do if I tested them in Nyanja. Would their comprehension and creativity show up more in a local language? In the end, I don’t care what language they speak; I just want them to competent, creative, thinking individuals.

Last week, I had a conversation with the headmaster about testing in Zambia. In order to pass into junior secondary school you must pass a test in Grade 7, then to move on to senior secondary school you must pass a test in Grade 9, and then finally to receive your secondary school diploma you must pass exams in Grade 12. I’ve seen some of the past exams and they are intense. There are essay after essay question in English and I worry about my Grade 6 and Grade 8 classes taking their exams next year. Many students end up repeating grades when they don’t pass these exams. I found this out when I looked at the birthdays of my 8^th graders and they were a lot older than I thought. I talked with the headmaster about the school I had the honor to work at last year, Wingra School, who has a creative, progressive education philosophy that does not include grades or tests. Working at Wingra taught me to think about the subjectivity of cutthroat tests. I was always frustrated as a student when an assessment didn’t give me the opportunity to show what I did know and study. Maybe I didn’t know certain questions on the test, but I knew answers to other questions that weren’t even asked. I think a good assessment lets the student show off and use what they learned. I’m choosing to test my students every week, but my main motive is to give them incentive to work hard and give them as many exercises to practice what they’ve learned as possible. Without a copying machine and worksheets at my disposal, a test I can write on the chalkboard is a great practice tool.

In contrast, I had a random thought this weekend about a fictitious or maybe very real test called, YAV Year in Zambia. If I had to give myself a grade for how well I am doing this year, I would have to say C-, with many homework assignments that could only deserve a big, fat F. (That means FAIL!) I would give myself a below average score on how I am doing in Zambia. I’m honestly having a harder time adjusting than I thought. For someone used to getting A’s, these feeling of failure really get me down.  I’ve noticed that many times in life when something is challenging or tragic the hardest part is accepting that this challenge is here and real. I spend a lot more time freaking out that I’m freaking out than dealing with problem.

After I thought about grading myself as YAV, I finally realized that that is exactly the grade I should be giving myself. I think if I had given myself and A+, I would be completely arrogant and blind to cultural interactions. If you think you are good at being out of your comfort zone, then you’ve probably never been out of your comfort zone. If I was awesome at this, I don’t think I would really perceive any of the radical differences-- from dress, food, discipline/child supervision styles, worship styles, language, gender roles, and privilege—all around me. If I didn’t see these things and wonder about, feel hurt, and love each in different ways, I wouldn’t be in the state transformation I am in, and I certainly wouldn’t be respecting others.

At YAV orientation, we talked a lot about how hard this year would be and how failure was part of journey. Two months later, I finally get it. I’m not supposed to be good at this, at least not in the terms of assessment I normally apply to myself. I need to assess myself in a new way, a more compassionate, graceful way that lets me fail. I need a new test. I need a new system. As my system of assessment for myself breaks around me, I wonder what other assessments I have about the world will shatter by the end of this year.

Update to my Church Supporters

Here is an update I've just sent to my gracious church supporters, Pres House and Wauwatosa Presbyterian Church!

Dear Wauwatosa Presbyterian and Pres House,

Two months ago to this day you commissioned and sent me off on a journey to Zambia. Since then each day has been full—full of new people who morphed into family and friends; full of eye-opening, earth-shattering realities about poverty and the systems of the world; full of nshima—Zambian food; full of harmonious song, full of handshakes; full of children laughing; full of people shouting at me saying, “Muzungu” or white person; full of marriage proposals; full of loneliness; full of togetherness; full of cockroaches; full of thoughts of how much water I use, full of students wanting to learn so badly; full of many students performing poorly in classes; full of the language; Nyanja, and me not knowing what in the world is going on; full of not knowing exactly what will happen next and being led from place to place; full of dust; full of heat; full of power outages; full of prayer, even with demons; full of markets; full of sweeping and dishes; full of lesson plans; full of not knowing if the kids are actually learning anything; full of dancing; full of effort; just plain full.

Two months have passed and just when I think I’ve been filled to the brim, the people around me find more room to fill me up. I am thankful to them, and especially you at home who are making this experience possible. Thank you for your prayers and support. I want you to know that I am in the thick of life here in Zambia and it is both lovely and challenging. Most of the time I feel a million things at once, but I do know I am transforming for the better. I am grasping a better understanding of God’s beautiful, mysterious, living reality. This understanding is one I knew before, but not in a profound way that sunk in or caused me to act enough. So let my new perspective be a reminder and inspiration to you.

The life each of us live as individuals is not reality. I think we should use “reality” as much broader term to encompass all of humanity. There is a valid and actual diversity in this world, people living in different ways, with different values, under a different system of oppression or even privilege—and all of this is real. This is reality. Reality is not just how you choose to live your life, or what choices you have, or how you read the Bible. Your life doesn’t totally grasp reality because others live life differently, with different choices available, and their lives are just a real—and just as beautiful and just as challenging. Realizing this phenomenon of broad and diverse human reality allows us transcend. If we look at reality as beyond our own experience, we can go halfway across the world, changing our individual life and pick up someone else’s, at least in a small way for a while. If we don’t accept our individual perspective as reality, we can look around us and say, this life I am living, with poverty near or far, is not God’s kingdom. This world with its systems of oppression is not what God planned. When we realize that our own lives are not reality in its completeness, we can change what we see around us!

So don’t stop looking around, Pres House and Tosa Pres! Look at yourselves and see where your life doesn’t match the realities of others and where it doesn’t match the reality God wants for us. If you don’t know quite how to do this, I’m right there with you, but if my time in Zambia is teaching me anything it is that attempting to live into God’s greater reality takes time and starts with merely showing up, over and over again, in the lives of people. Just showing up. Honestly, that’s about all I can muster everyday, but it seems to be working and I am very blessed.

Apologies for the sermonizing, but I am truly thankful for your support and it means so much to know I have such an amazing church family filling me up and sending that love halfway around the world. My cup overflows!

In gratitude, Hannah

Chores

My alarm goes off at 5:30am, but I’m usually awake from the sounds of Amai Abusa (Pastor’s wife) rising and taking her morning bath. Sound echoes in my house, bouncing off the tin roof that covers the entire house which has no ceilings for each room. My morning exercises have included yoga, a series of squats, lunges, and jumping jacks, or just dancing furiously around my room to “A Sky Full of Stars” by Coldplay. Three different times I’ve ran around Chawama and its surrounding compounds with my brother Phillip. On our runs, we pass things like men turning and moving giant wheels down the paved road, two people sharing a single bicycle, roadside stands laying our their wares for the day, children bathing in buckets outside their homes, nearly empty mini-buses, and school children dressed in their uniforms running alongside me and laughing hysterically.

After I feel I have sufficiently worked off the nshima/cornmeal paste of the previous day, I try to get some chores in before getting ready for school. I put on my bright yellow, red, and blue chitenge, or African wrap skirt, and I start by sweeping my room. Even as if I do this everyday I manage to pile up a significant amount of sand and dust, brought in on my shoes and book from the parched land outside that hasn’t seen rain in months. Then I sweep the kitchen, picking up pieces of nshima powder and leafy greens that didn’t quite make it into the pot to get turned into a salty relish. Then I sweep the dining room, carefully moving each chair to get all the hard to reach spots, before moving the dust out the front door and temporarily into the schoolyard outside. After sweeping the porch, I go to get a traditional African broom made out of dried straw-like sticks. I then proceed to sweep the garbage, charcoal dust, and stray plant debris into the garbage pit behind the school. I’ll often see an elder from the church, the same lady passing for work each morning, or a smiling child, and they often ask me, “You know how to sweep?” All are very excited to see a white lady in African garb sweeping the dust and garbage at 6 am in the morning. While there are many mornings where I don’t feel like sweeping, (AGAIN, for goodness sake) but I also feel a growing sense of solidarity in the work. I do what they do.

I also help out by cleaning the dishes at least once a day. We don’t have running water, so that means scooping water out of the many buckets under the sink and filling the two basins. I learned to squeeze the dish soap into an old butter plastic container and periodically get soap from their as I do the massive pile of dishes that usually get dirtied by cooking a Zambian meal. I scrub the dish with the soap then dip it in the first basin to get most of the water off and then dip it again in the second basin before putting the plate on the drying rack. The pot that was used to cook nshima can usually only be cleaned after sitting in water for awhile. The boiled cornmeal mush takes a good half an hour to a full hour to cook so the bottom always gets caked with nshima that can’t be removed without a good soak.

Other jobs around the house include simply flushing the toilet. Each time I have to fill up a buck and fill up the tank manually. To bathe, I heat up water with a plug in water heater, usually used for tea. About two pitchers of boiling water mixed with room temperature water usually brings the bathing water to a nice temperature.

These are just the jobs I do everyday. This doesn’t account for the vegetable cleaning, pounding, boiling and more that goes into cooking relish around me. Or plucking and cutting up chickens or salting the little fish, kapenta I’ve eaten, eyes and all. Or the work of drawing water from a nearby borehole, pushing the giant container back to our home and then the filling buckets of water that sit outside the bathing rooms and in the kitchen. Or shining the floor with red polish. The list goes on.

Most of these chores are necessities. If I didn’t sweep every single day, the house would be full of dust. If Phillip didn’t draw water, we couldn’t survive. Chores have been a lovely way to join in a Zambian rhythm, but they are hard work! And they must be done every day, over and over and over again. I am struck by how much work it is to live. Back home, so many things we need to live are done for us or are quickly at our fingertips. From the vacuum cleaner to running water, we can go about our days, worrying about something else other than cleaning or certainly how much energy or water we are using at that current moment.

Living life by necessity is a trade off. It requires sweat and a little elbow grease and I often wonder if it didn’t take so much darn work to survive, all the people around me could put their energy into changing the world around them or following a personal dream. On the other hand, distilling life to what is necessary in essence makes life fulfilling. Each job one does needs to be done. Each chores fills you up, quite literally if so many have to do with food and water. Each act has a purpose that makes your life better. I find myself more thankful for what is around me. Living life by necessity might be necessary for living a full life. That is quite interesting because that means that a full life isn’t full of so much stuff after all.

How Old Are You Now?

The day I turned 24 my birthday lasted more than 24 hours. That makes it extra special. Seeing as I was born at St. Mary’s Hospital in Milwaukee, WI around 1pm, but I found myself in an African country seven hours ahead of the time zone I was born into, I think that means my birthday lasted a total of 31 hours!

I’m going to take a moment to brag about the awesome people in my life at home and here in Zambia. The days before my birthday, emails and facebook messages started pouring in, including a lovely “Happy birthday” song by Pres House’s Musicteam! I can’t thank all of you at home enough for reminding me I am loved and that I have the most amazing and caring friends and family. You are sustaining me when I feel far away. I am grateful!

My gratitude also extends to King David School’s teachers and students, my host family, and my YAV community who surprised me again and again yesterday. I’ve only lived in Chawama one week, but I’ve already received three cakes! THREE CAKES! Do they know the way to a girl’s heart or what? My family gave me one my first day here, one yesterday for my birthday, and then my sixth grade class also bestowed one upon me!

When I got to school (aka walked out of my front door) yesterday, I found kids milling about outside the six-grade classroom, trying to peek into its windows that were covered with chitenge (African warp skirt material). I wondered what could be going on. Could that be for me? I usually go put my materials in class before it starts, but something told me to stay out. When I walked into the room at 8:00 hours (o’clock), The kids had moved their desks into a circle; the room was decorated with balloon and toilet paper streamers, and there was a lovely colored message on the chalkboard. They jumped to their feet and sang “Happy Birthday” and pretty soon Teacher Febby was putting an entire cake as well as a bag of muffins into my hands. Like the kind teacher that I am, I rewarded them with a test! But actually I think it was a reward because in all my classes, the kids are extremely excited at the mention of test because for many reason that I can expound on another time, accountability and responsibility in one’s own education are not always stressed, I think because of the lack of resources and social challenges. The point is that they like tests. They want them. So after I finished testing Grade 6 and Grade 8, I attempted to go into Grade 5, but was turned away, because they were not ready for me… More scheming in my honor it seemed.

So I returned to Grade 6 and a dance party was in session. Teacher Febby and my sister, Precious, were supplying the music on their phones. I watched the girls do their thang, shaking it at the class behind them, and pretty soon I was asked to take the floor. I happened to be wearing the same dress I wore to the wedding, my dancing debut in Zambia, so I was rip rearing and ready to go! I do have to say that it is difficult to dance when you can’t here the music on a phone because the shouts and cheers are too loud all around you. Shaking it works best to a beat, you know? But it was very fun and all the students peering in from the windows and teachers from other grade levels got to enjoy as well.

So far, the motifs in my life here in Zambia are the act of dancing and chickens, or as I like to think about it together: a dancing chicken. So that’s me, the dancing chicken, choosing not to be chicken, but to dance, even though deep down I just feel like a chicken all the time.

Then to Grade 5 I went, where I found a class at their feet, some kids at salute in the front of the room, and lovely message on the board. They sang “Happy Birthday” and gave me a fruit plate. By that time, it was break time, which meant class time was over for the day. After break, Friday’s are reserved for sport. I got my first experience of netball. Most boys play football and most girls play netball, which is a series of throwing and catching games with a volleyball-type ball. Then we played circle games, including a form of duck, duck, goose and other song and skipping-in-a-circle games. Today my knee is red from totally wiping out of the rocky and dusty ground at one point. I’m happy to be their entertainment!

Then the teacher’s surprised me with a special lunch. We shared pasties, cookies, and “softies” (soda) and we each had a chance to share about ourselves so that I could get to know them. Then finally in the evening my family surprised me with a chocolate cake and a lovely card.

So while I am struggling with the reality of the lack of resources around me, generosity is not scarce here Zambia. I have been given and given and given some more. I am thankful and I feel welcome and most importantly, my birthday fun yesterday taught me that my community around me is fun, full of celebration, and games and worth just being with, playing with, and dancing with. I want to see my kids succeed, but I’m also realizing how important it is to just be there.

Not ok

For some reason, the Declaration of Independence came into my brain today as I was standing outside my classroom before lessons began. I was probably about the age of some of my students when I learned those famous words that Thomas Jefferson penned: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Those words are still powerful today. As a young, budding American student learning these words, I remember feeling excitement, as if opportunities to be free, successful and full of bliss were gems just waiting for discovery at any moment. And I was right. I’ve had many moments of liberty, of accomplishment, of feeling content. I’ve had so many opportunities, especially when it comes to education. For the past three days teaching at King David School, I look back at my experience in elementary and middle school and wonder why ever complained about anything. I had all the pencils and notebooks I wanted. I had a whole library of books available to me. I had teachers trained at top-notch institutions. I had toys and a playground. I had so much, and I have since gotten so much.

But right now, at this moment writing this blog, which I briefly had to pause to kill a cockroach in my room, at this moment, I am pissed. I am angry. And I keep having these moments everyday in my life here in Zambia where all I can do is repeat over and over again: This is not ok.

If you think life on this earth is fair, you are wrong. You are wrong. You are wrong. You are wrong, Life on this earth in the way humanity currently organizes itself is not fair. The tools my students have for learning is chalk, a chalkboard, thin notebooks, and a few pens. That’s it. As a teacher, I have access to overused, outdated textbooks that don’t even comply with the recent change of curriculum in Zambia’s education system. So when they go take their tests, which determine if they can continue with school in grade 7 and grade 10, my students won’t even have the books that teach to the test they must take.  These children are beautiful. Their smiles are warm. Their laughs are contagious. They run and sing. The 6^th graders want to learn so much that they arrive at school and sit waiting in their desks before the class is even supposed to begin. They just sit waiting, calling out their teacher’s name. These kids have potential. These kids are smart. And they deserve better than they are getting. I feel helpless that I can’t really give them what they need. They don’t need to repeat or copy more words they don’t understand, but with such limited resources, a lesson that doesn’t surround memorization of ideas they don’t know and understand is nearly impossible. I loved school because I knew it as a place to explore, to read and read and read some more, to get excited when hearing about times gone past, to learn and get top marks. It turns out I loved school because I had resources. I want resources for my kids here in Zambia! Where are they, world?

My emotional rage at unfairness doesn’t just stop at the walls of my school, but extends across the compounds of Lusaka.  As I’m adjusting to living my life here in Chawama compound, essentially a slum, I never know how to feel. I can focus on the people. They are joyful, vibrant, full of harmonic song, and blast loud, African pop music. They invite me to their homes, this stranger with white skin, and want me to eat a whole sleeve of Eet-Some-More shortbread cookies with Fanta to wash it down, then show me the room next to their living room, which turns out to be a huge chicken coop (inside their house), they then proceed to insist on giving me a live chicken as a gift (a great honor for a guest), and then proceed to feed me an entire Zambian meal. They are generous and they have a lot to give. But they don’t have jobs. They probably don’t have running water, let alone purified water that would keep them from so many illnesses. They live in poverty.  And it is not fair.

Beautiful people like Zambians will continue to live in poverty unless societal systems change. If you are sitting comfortably right now and you think this isn’t your problem, think again. Injustice somewhere threatens justice everywhere. Even though I feel so far away and am missing sooooooo many people back at home, I thought to myself today, these are my people. Even though I feel so different here, so alienated in some ways because I can’t speak Nyanja very well, the people all around me are my people. They are my people, just because they are people. They are people on this earth. God’s people. The Earth’s people. People. We should love and care for people. Just because.

This unfairness is not ok.

Ndili Nkuku

For five weeks, I haven’t slept in the same place for more than a week, sometimes less than two nights at a time. Tonight I find myself underneath a mosquito net of a very comfortable twin bed with a beautiful maroon and gold comforter. Tonight I find myself in my home for the next ten months. I’m here to stay. Finally.

I can easily leap from my front step to the landing outside the doors of all the classrooms of my school. So needless to say, when I arrived during break time at school I was welcomed with throngs of children, many my own students as of this Monday. I am ready for this more permanent move, but it was still nerve-wracking to say goodbye to my support network of this past month. I kept my emotions at bay, but the next thing I knew my host father told me that my sister wanted to see me in the next room. I drew back the curtain to the workroom and found my sister, Precious, kneeling on newspaper, taking a knife to chicken. Its literally feathered friends lay on the ground around her. Aunt Ruth sat next to her plucking out feathers.

I sat on a stool and observed for a bit. The moment brought me back to an episode in my Nyanja language class the previous week. Our teacher was explaining that Nyanja does not have a verb, “to have.” Instead, one must say, “I am with.” The teacher’s example was “Ndili ndi Nkuku,” literally translated as “I am with chicken,” but which actually means, “I have chicken.” For a brief moment I had incorrectly translated, “Ndili” (I am), as “I have.” So I thought to myself, “Why would you say ‘I have with chicken.’” I then proceeded to raise my hand and ask the teacher, “Why can’t you say, ‘Ndili Nkuku’?” I didn’t register the smirk on the teacher’s face at first. Then it hit me; I had just proudly declared to my Nyanja teacher and the world, “I am a chicken.”

Then here I was a week later with chickens lying all around me. Some with feathers, others with their feathers floating in silver metal bowls with water sitting next to them. I didn’t know what to think. Should I worry about the sanitation of the area? Was I feeling disgusted by the severed head of the chicken hanging from tendrils of its neck? Was this the moment I became a vegetarian?

I decided not to answer those questions and just sit, watching the women work. I watched Aunt Ruth pluck a whole chicken and when she turned to the next one, I plucked up (no pun intended) to offer my help. She handed me the carcass and I felt the weight of its body. I pulled at the feathers, and I was surprised at how easily they came off. Pretty soon I found myself praying. “Thank you, God, for this chicken. For the life it had….for that life that I can feel in my hands as I feel its weight…as I can still feel the workings of its muscles. This chicken is a gift.”

That chicken was another reality check. This is what I eat and have eaten so many times. Most Americans don’t like to think about where their food comes from. Whether you eat plants or animals, we eat other life, and we should be thankful for it. I took that chicken by the legs and started plucking because it was an act of solidarity with my new family. This is how they prepare food. This is my family now. Am I going to back away from this reality? Or am I going to join in?