Standfast.
The word itself looks kind of interesting at first glance. I mean, think about it: You take something as boring as ‘stand,’ add an exciting word like ‘fast’ and a cool looking and sounding combination is what comes out of it… much like die-hard I would say.
But what does standfast mean? Does it imply that somebody has to stay on her feet without eating for days on end? Does it mean that somebody has to jump up from his seat really quickly? And why is it that this word is so capable of driving fear into the hearts of Peace Corps Volunteers everywhere, including Mozambique?
Well, to make matters clear; Standfast, for those of you who are not versed in Peace Corps lingo, is the third stage of PC’s security plan and it involves Volunteers staying in their community until danger, either real or forecasted, has passed. Not so exciting anymore, is it? I guess it depends on your perspective.
For the past three weeks, Peace Corps has had all of its volunteers on standfast because of the once every five year occurrence of national elections. Despite the extremely peaceful and relaxed comportment of Mozambicans in general, PC has had its share of fears about possibilities that might come up… especially as a newer party rapidly gains influence throughout the country. Thankfully, as standfast is now just ending, no such violence has been realized and put a volunteer in harm’s way, but it’s never a bad idea to be cautious.
Having said that, time during standfast for me has at the very least provided a very interesting outlook on Mozambican politics and the role of the campaign as I’ve experienced some of it firsthand. For instance, I’ve become more and more fascinated with the FRELIMO party, which controls all Moz political branches and most significant appointments. One thing is for sure, as I’ve passed through the city and have seen their endless rallies, I have been constantly struck by the popularity of the party itself, but also, by the silence of the other parties. Do other parties even exist? If so, don’t they know that its way past time to get up and campaign?
What’s interesting about the political demographics here is that down South especially, you’d be hard pressed to find anything other than FRELIMO support. FRELIMO posters cover telephone poles from top to bottom, chapas, walls, and so on. Meanwhile, RENAMO, which up until now has been the only ‘major competition,’ if you can call it that, have been mostly silent as residents of Maxixe still have vivid memories of RENAMO’s war crimes during the civil war years back. ‘E Frelimo e que fez, e frelimo e que faz…’ you hear everybody singing constantly: ‘It’s FRELIMO that got things done, it’s FRELIMO that continues to get things done.’ It’s FRELIMO who won independence from Portugal, it’s FRELIMO that is currently developing Mozambique.
But let us not forget that there’s the third party: MDM. MDM is a new political player that has roots in both FRELIMO and RENAMO and has gained serious momentum in the country from other FRELIMO dissidents following its creation in March. Despite this fact, it encountered a serious roadblock months back (along with cries of injustice from the international community) as FRELIMO prohibited MDM from registering candidates in 9 out of 13 provinces from Assembly. FRELIMO claims the proper documentation was not handed in on time, while MDM is crying ‘corruption’ and ‘foul play.’ Whatever the case, the US ambassador recently commented in response to the situation on how the point of a democracy is to include as many choices as possible, rather than to limit them.
Despite all this drama, I’m sitting here during standfast having already spent numerous hours reading, studying Portuguese, and listening to people talk about politics and development. I do not believe that having one party dominate politics is a democracy, but I have also wondered what might happen if FRELIMO fell to another party. What would happen if a party like FRELIMO lost to another like RENAMO or MDM, who have no experience, and some would argue ‘capabilities,’ to govern a country? Would Mozambique lose all of the progress that it has made in the past few decades? Or are these very politics of fear and entitlement holding the country back for choosing another, possibly better way?
I suppose that’s not my place to decide, is it?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
A Brief Rundown on a Traditional Wedding
Not too long ago, my friends Nick, Anne, and I attended a traditional ‘Mozambican wedding’ for our buddy Shaun and his girlfriend Epifânia.
Now, before I go any further, let me just explain that I qualify the words ‘Mozambican’ and ‘wedding’ for two reasons: First, while Epifânia is indeed a Mozambican woman, her fiancée Shaun is an American, ex-Peace Corps Volunteer from Boston. Second, the ceremony that took place was not a wedding in the sense that it used to be back twenty or thirty years back. No, it was a ring ceremony; a way for Shaun to ask permission from Epifânia’s family for her hand in marriage, in exchange for requested goods, in accordance with local tradition.
When we arrived at the house of Epifânia’s family; Nick, Anne, and I found Shaun waiting in the living room with a few friends. As he explained to us, he pulled up to the house and was met by Epifânia’s aunts singing as they processed towards the car. One of the aunt’s put a sheet over his head, picked him up (and Shaun’s a taller guy mind you), put him on her back, and carried him to the spot where we found him.
When we asked Shaun what was supposed to happen afterwards, he told us that he had to wait until the family called so they could put a sheet over his head again, lead him to the bathing bucket and have him wash up before he put on his suit for the ceremony. Apparently he was supposed to not use all of the water and then leave some money by the tub when he finished.
As we waited for Shaun to finish his bath then, I asked a friend from the University what these traditions were about. Why the sheets and the separation from everything? And interestingly enough, neither he nor anyone else I asked seemed to know what the reasons were. It’s still shrouded in mystery to this day…
Finally, Shaun and Epifânia came out and sat in chairs across from her entire family with nothing between them except an esteira (straw-ish) mat laid out on the ground and a suitcase on top. As the ceremony continued, a woman opened the suitcase and took out all of the gifts that Shaun had brought. She would say something in Xitswa and then Shaun and Epifânia would walk on their knees with the items in hand to give to the father, mother, aunts, grandmother, etc; who would in turn impart words of wisdom or a blessing on the couple. Then Shaun and Epifânia would walk on their knees back to their chairs until the next gift was ready to present.
Flash forward past the delicious food and the party chit-chat, and we arrive at what was, in my opinion, one of the best parts of the party. As Nick Anne and I stood watching, guests moved down the row towards the couple in song and dance to give them their presents. ‘No Joao, you can’t just leave presents on a table and wait for the thank you card in the mail 3 weeks later, you need to bring your present to the couple while singing and dancing… I hope you brought your dancing shoes…’ Needless to say, Nick, Anne, and I had an awesome time dancing our card up to Shaun and Epifânia as the women around us sang songs and clapped.
After that, they had a local dance group get up on the dance floor and bust a move as everyone sat down kind of tired from the gift giving. ‘But no… we must dance more!’ Everyone seemed to say as they got up anyways. A bunch of booty-shaking songs later, I found myself in a dance off with some members of the dance troupe. I’d like to claim a moral victory on that one, but am glad it wasn’t caught on video… :)
Yeah, but that was it… Seven hours of awesomeness that honestly felt like two and enough dancing that Nick and I even decided by the end that our own weddings would be much better off if they were more like Shaun’s. Here’s hoping wedding number three of the season comes sooner than later…
Now, before I go any further, let me just explain that I qualify the words ‘Mozambican’ and ‘wedding’ for two reasons: First, while Epifânia is indeed a Mozambican woman, her fiancée Shaun is an American, ex-Peace Corps Volunteer from Boston. Second, the ceremony that took place was not a wedding in the sense that it used to be back twenty or thirty years back. No, it was a ring ceremony; a way for Shaun to ask permission from Epifânia’s family for her hand in marriage, in exchange for requested goods, in accordance with local tradition.
When we arrived at the house of Epifânia’s family; Nick, Anne, and I found Shaun waiting in the living room with a few friends. As he explained to us, he pulled up to the house and was met by Epifânia’s aunts singing as they processed towards the car. One of the aunt’s put a sheet over his head, picked him up (and Shaun’s a taller guy mind you), put him on her back, and carried him to the spot where we found him.
When we asked Shaun what was supposed to happen afterwards, he told us that he had to wait until the family called so they could put a sheet over his head again, lead him to the bathing bucket and have him wash up before he put on his suit for the ceremony. Apparently he was supposed to not use all of the water and then leave some money by the tub when he finished.
As we waited for Shaun to finish his bath then, I asked a friend from the University what these traditions were about. Why the sheets and the separation from everything? And interestingly enough, neither he nor anyone else I asked seemed to know what the reasons were. It’s still shrouded in mystery to this day…
Finally, Shaun and Epifânia came out and sat in chairs across from her entire family with nothing between them except an esteira (straw-ish) mat laid out on the ground and a suitcase on top. As the ceremony continued, a woman opened the suitcase and took out all of the gifts that Shaun had brought. She would say something in Xitswa and then Shaun and Epifânia would walk on their knees with the items in hand to give to the father, mother, aunts, grandmother, etc; who would in turn impart words of wisdom or a blessing on the couple. Then Shaun and Epifânia would walk on their knees back to their chairs until the next gift was ready to present.
Flash forward past the delicious food and the party chit-chat, and we arrive at what was, in my opinion, one of the best parts of the party. As Nick Anne and I stood watching, guests moved down the row towards the couple in song and dance to give them their presents. ‘No Joao, you can’t just leave presents on a table and wait for the thank you card in the mail 3 weeks later, you need to bring your present to the couple while singing and dancing… I hope you brought your dancing shoes…’ Needless to say, Nick, Anne, and I had an awesome time dancing our card up to Shaun and Epifânia as the women around us sang songs and clapped.
After that, they had a local dance group get up on the dance floor and bust a move as everyone sat down kind of tired from the gift giving. ‘But no… we must dance more!’ Everyone seemed to say as they got up anyways. A bunch of booty-shaking songs later, I found myself in a dance off with some members of the dance troupe. I’d like to claim a moral victory on that one, but am glad it wasn’t caught on video… :)
Yeah, but that was it… Seven hours of awesomeness that honestly felt like two and enough dancing that Nick and I even decided by the end that our own weddings would be much better off if they were more like Shaun’s. Here’s hoping wedding number three of the season comes sooner than later…
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Domestic Violence in Mozambique
There it was again. That shriek was really loud this time, too loud to have been children playing around and wrestling as they always did. And what would kids be doing out so late anyway?
I looked at Anthony, who was staying over for the night, and we instinctively got off the couch at the same time to go outside and see if we could hear it again.
The scream was bloodcurdling.
While Anthony stood in my sandy yard, I went to pause the movie we were watching, and then walked out with him to the dirt road outside my neighbor’s fence. When we finally slipped out the back fence door we were met with a crowd of my neighbors watching something that was too dark to pick out.
I turned to one woman and asked, “What’s going on?,” as my eyes adjusted a little and I saw what looked like somebody on the ground holding another person. Did somebody pass out or something? I wondered.
When she didn’t reply, I asked again and she finally said, almost at a whisper, “He’s killing her… he’s killing her.”
As she said that, my eyes fully adjusted to the darkness and I could see very clearly a man and a woman on the ground struggling and exchanging fists. The group of ten to fifteen people who had gathered had been standing around and watching the entire time. And from that point on, the rest was slow motion.
The man got up and started kicking the woman in the side, shouting in Xitswa, and she in turn cursed at him in between blows. Without really thinking I moved to pull the man away, noticing how he reeked of alcohol, while Anthony helped up the woman.
The next ten minutes was a repetitive dance… the woman comes charging, we pull them away; the man comes charging, we pull them away; repeat two or three times. On the very last time that the woman charged, her ferocity was enough that she broke Anthony’s grasp and tackled the man to the ground.
“She’s biting him!” I heard Anthony shout as more people than before came to try and separate the two.
And indeed she was. We had a hard time trying to pull them apart since doing so could only make it worse for the man, as the woman bit down hard, but they finally got up and Anthony and I went back to restraining them.
Then all of a sudden, as quickly as it’d started, the ferocity stopped. The fires in their eyes went out and everyone just stood there. The woman’s bruised eyes were finally visible. Meanwhile, the raw flesh on the man, which obviously had to be the bite marks, was in plain sight on his ears, arms, and upper body. Anthony and I couldn’t bring ourselves to say anything at all.
Finally, they walked their separate ways as the man said something clearly in Portuguese, rather than in Xitswa as they’d been speaking the entire time. “I’m going to kill myself! I am! I’m going to do it!”
With that, the neighbors went away one by one and Anthony and I walked back to my yard where the lights finally revealed stains of the man’s blood all over my clothes. I really thought I was going to throw up…
It’s one thing to read about domestic violence and to hear about its common occurrence, but as I learned recently, it’s a completely different thing to witness firsthand. Reading about it, one can only imagine what it looks like, maybe pasting different scenes from movies together or thinking about that one, awkward fight you saw when you were in 6th grade. But the reality is very fast, very brutal, and very unnerving.
In talking to various Mozambican friends since, I have been surprised to see what I believe to be hatred towards domestic violence, but also an unnerving acceptance of its reality. “Of course, Vic, that sort of thing happens here all the time… that’s just how it is.’
Having lived in this country for merely thirteen months, I know I can’t hope to understand many things… maybe even most things about Mozambique’s cultures and ways of life. But I do believe that domestic violence has very much to do with traditional views of woman as property and recognize that these very views themselves continue to die hard.
Not too long ago, I attended a ‘ring ceremony,’ which for all intents and purposes is a traditional Mozambican wedding. It was beautiful, it was extremely fun, but it was also interesting to note how closely it resembled an exchange of goods. Whether or not the couple in question views it that way, or even the family for that matter, the custom is in fact for the man to present a series of expensive gifts ‘in exchange’ for the hand of the family’s daughter in marriage. Meanwhile, the entire ceremony itself is sealed with a ring on her finger so that everyone knows that she ‘belongs to’ only her husband.
Here in Maxixe at least, I have noticed even more blatant examples of gender inequality in simply observing daily life. Men bring home the money and food, while women stay at home to cook and take care of the kids. Everyday I see numbers of men at the bars in the middle of the day, more so on the weekend obviously, while I pass by scores of households with women crushing matapa leaves in dinner preparation and children playing around them.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I understand that many people hold religious beliefs concerning the man being the head of the household, with the woman being more the co-pilot of the family as she ultimately bends to the whim of her husband. I respect that view. I don’t agree with it at all, but I respect it just the same.
That said, even with religious ideas in the mix, surely we can all agree on one thing. No matter who you are: man, woman, American, or Mozambican; domestic violence is simply unacceptable. Not only is it harmful for the victim, but it represents an ultimate low for the victimizer, man or woman, who has to resort to violence to get what he or she wants, which is power in this case.
Having stated what for many is the obvious, this leaves us at the unavoidable question: what can we do about it?
As I’ve said, tradition dies hard, especially here in Mozambique. At the very least though, one can look to and point out the certain changes that have resulted through development and interaction with the West such as a slow decrease in the practice of polygamy in the strict definition as well as the presence of women in important community and business leadership positions. Nowadays, more women have an increasingly defined power that needs no violence to assert.
So what does reality in Mozambique say about prospects for change in the future? Well, these changes, though slight and not necessarily universal by any means, highlight the importance of education and development to fighting violence and ignorance. Try as we may to have programs directed at alleviating the causes and effects of domestic violence, the biggest factor to play a role in its ultimate undoing will be time. The rest, I feel, is up to the culture in question.
I looked at Anthony, who was staying over for the night, and we instinctively got off the couch at the same time to go outside and see if we could hear it again.
The scream was bloodcurdling.
While Anthony stood in my sandy yard, I went to pause the movie we were watching, and then walked out with him to the dirt road outside my neighbor’s fence. When we finally slipped out the back fence door we were met with a crowd of my neighbors watching something that was too dark to pick out.
I turned to one woman and asked, “What’s going on?,” as my eyes adjusted a little and I saw what looked like somebody on the ground holding another person. Did somebody pass out or something? I wondered.
When she didn’t reply, I asked again and she finally said, almost at a whisper, “He’s killing her… he’s killing her.”
As she said that, my eyes fully adjusted to the darkness and I could see very clearly a man and a woman on the ground struggling and exchanging fists. The group of ten to fifteen people who had gathered had been standing around and watching the entire time. And from that point on, the rest was slow motion.
The man got up and started kicking the woman in the side, shouting in Xitswa, and she in turn cursed at him in between blows. Without really thinking I moved to pull the man away, noticing how he reeked of alcohol, while Anthony helped up the woman.
The next ten minutes was a repetitive dance… the woman comes charging, we pull them away; the man comes charging, we pull them away; repeat two or three times. On the very last time that the woman charged, her ferocity was enough that she broke Anthony’s grasp and tackled the man to the ground.
“She’s biting him!” I heard Anthony shout as more people than before came to try and separate the two.
And indeed she was. We had a hard time trying to pull them apart since doing so could only make it worse for the man, as the woman bit down hard, but they finally got up and Anthony and I went back to restraining them.
Then all of a sudden, as quickly as it’d started, the ferocity stopped. The fires in their eyes went out and everyone just stood there. The woman’s bruised eyes were finally visible. Meanwhile, the raw flesh on the man, which obviously had to be the bite marks, was in plain sight on his ears, arms, and upper body. Anthony and I couldn’t bring ourselves to say anything at all.
Finally, they walked their separate ways as the man said something clearly in Portuguese, rather than in Xitswa as they’d been speaking the entire time. “I’m going to kill myself! I am! I’m going to do it!”
With that, the neighbors went away one by one and Anthony and I walked back to my yard where the lights finally revealed stains of the man’s blood all over my clothes. I really thought I was going to throw up…
It’s one thing to read about domestic violence and to hear about its common occurrence, but as I learned recently, it’s a completely different thing to witness firsthand. Reading about it, one can only imagine what it looks like, maybe pasting different scenes from movies together or thinking about that one, awkward fight you saw when you were in 6th grade. But the reality is very fast, very brutal, and very unnerving.
In talking to various Mozambican friends since, I have been surprised to see what I believe to be hatred towards domestic violence, but also an unnerving acceptance of its reality. “Of course, Vic, that sort of thing happens here all the time… that’s just how it is.’
Having lived in this country for merely thirteen months, I know I can’t hope to understand many things… maybe even most things about Mozambique’s cultures and ways of life. But I do believe that domestic violence has very much to do with traditional views of woman as property and recognize that these very views themselves continue to die hard.
Not too long ago, I attended a ‘ring ceremony,’ which for all intents and purposes is a traditional Mozambican wedding. It was beautiful, it was extremely fun, but it was also interesting to note how closely it resembled an exchange of goods. Whether or not the couple in question views it that way, or even the family for that matter, the custom is in fact for the man to present a series of expensive gifts ‘in exchange’ for the hand of the family’s daughter in marriage. Meanwhile, the entire ceremony itself is sealed with a ring on her finger so that everyone knows that she ‘belongs to’ only her husband.
Here in Maxixe at least, I have noticed even more blatant examples of gender inequality in simply observing daily life. Men bring home the money and food, while women stay at home to cook and take care of the kids. Everyday I see numbers of men at the bars in the middle of the day, more so on the weekend obviously, while I pass by scores of households with women crushing matapa leaves in dinner preparation and children playing around them.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I understand that many people hold religious beliefs concerning the man being the head of the household, with the woman being more the co-pilot of the family as she ultimately bends to the whim of her husband. I respect that view. I don’t agree with it at all, but I respect it just the same.
That said, even with religious ideas in the mix, surely we can all agree on one thing. No matter who you are: man, woman, American, or Mozambican; domestic violence is simply unacceptable. Not only is it harmful for the victim, but it represents an ultimate low for the victimizer, man or woman, who has to resort to violence to get what he or she wants, which is power in this case.
Having stated what for many is the obvious, this leaves us at the unavoidable question: what can we do about it?
As I’ve said, tradition dies hard, especially here in Mozambique. At the very least though, one can look to and point out the certain changes that have resulted through development and interaction with the West such as a slow decrease in the practice of polygamy in the strict definition as well as the presence of women in important community and business leadership positions. Nowadays, more women have an increasingly defined power that needs no violence to assert.
So what does reality in Mozambique say about prospects for change in the future? Well, these changes, though slight and not necessarily universal by any means, highlight the importance of education and development to fighting violence and ignorance. Try as we may to have programs directed at alleviating the causes and effects of domestic violence, the biggest factor to play a role in its ultimate undoing will be time. The rest, I feel, is up to the culture in question.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Remarks on Entitlement in Mozambique’s Education System
Before I started teaching at the local University about a month ago, I remember looking forward to my first day with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. While I myself am a health volunteer and therefore hadn’t had much experience in the Mozambican classroom, I had previously heard the horror stories from the education volunteers about the school system in this country: the rampant corruption, cheating, endless amounts of red tape within the administration, and so on.
You can imagine how relieved I was when, because of Sagrada Familia’s make-up and leadership, I had few run-ins with these kinds of morally objectionable situations that my colleagues have often discussed. At the same time, that is not to deny the fact that I have indeed had my ‘run-ins.’
The fact of the matter is that grade inflation is a problem. I’m not claiming that it is a frequent issue at the University, but I can say that many of my students have most definitely come from a background in which they are rewarded for what they frankly do not deserve. Of course, to speak from a cynical point of view, the situation makes more sense when the focus is on what’s at stake for the school. ‘The system is weak and the professors are poorly educated? Well, let’s compensate with boosting grades around the board.’ ‘If we’re turning out classrooms of kids with poor marks, then our school is ultimately going to look bad, right? Maybe if we just give them enough points they can pass on to the next grade and we can try again.’ Instead of fixing the problem at hand, it seems that the situation is merely given a band-aid.
As has been evidenced by my own classroom, the effects of such an education system can be crippling to the work ethic and general mindset of the students as individuals and as a body. Rather than the school being a place to challenge oneself to work hard and to learn, it becomes for many something resembling a prison: ‘Just put in the time and eventually you can get out and move on with your life.’ Education is not respected or celebrated, and therefore it ultimately fails.
Now, with my own class I have encountered these challenges with a few of my students, where its obvious that grades are more important than the material and I as the teacher am expected to be very ‘generous’ with my policies and grading procedures. My response, which has been working thus far, has been to keep putting the focus on them. “You were sick the day before the quiz? Well, you knew about it and it’s your responsibility to get the notes.” “You want to blame me for your bad quiz grades, but you have not come for help at all since class began in July.” You are ultimately responsible for your own education.
In these ways aforementioned, amongst others, I am trying to accomplish a few things. I am very focused on demonstrating responsibility to my students, but also am attempting to push an improved work ethic. I promise I do not get my jollies from failing large chunks of my students or taking off points from their average because of excessive absences and tardiness. Rather, I truly hope that they can learn something valuable from my class outside of the actual material and that they can take some of those life lessons with them in their future endeavors. I hope that when they graduate from this teacher trainer college that they take these ideas and use them in their own classrooms. Since the openness to learn brings about knowledge and knowledge is indeed power, I ultimately (and possibly naively) hope that this desire becomes contagious.
You can imagine how relieved I was when, because of Sagrada Familia’s make-up and leadership, I had few run-ins with these kinds of morally objectionable situations that my colleagues have often discussed. At the same time, that is not to deny the fact that I have indeed had my ‘run-ins.’
The fact of the matter is that grade inflation is a problem. I’m not claiming that it is a frequent issue at the University, but I can say that many of my students have most definitely come from a background in which they are rewarded for what they frankly do not deserve. Of course, to speak from a cynical point of view, the situation makes more sense when the focus is on what’s at stake for the school. ‘The system is weak and the professors are poorly educated? Well, let’s compensate with boosting grades around the board.’ ‘If we’re turning out classrooms of kids with poor marks, then our school is ultimately going to look bad, right? Maybe if we just give them enough points they can pass on to the next grade and we can try again.’ Instead of fixing the problem at hand, it seems that the situation is merely given a band-aid.
As has been evidenced by my own classroom, the effects of such an education system can be crippling to the work ethic and general mindset of the students as individuals and as a body. Rather than the school being a place to challenge oneself to work hard and to learn, it becomes for many something resembling a prison: ‘Just put in the time and eventually you can get out and move on with your life.’ Education is not respected or celebrated, and therefore it ultimately fails.
Now, with my own class I have encountered these challenges with a few of my students, where its obvious that grades are more important than the material and I as the teacher am expected to be very ‘generous’ with my policies and grading procedures. My response, which has been working thus far, has been to keep putting the focus on them. “You were sick the day before the quiz? Well, you knew about it and it’s your responsibility to get the notes.” “You want to blame me for your bad quiz grades, but you have not come for help at all since class began in July.” You are ultimately responsible for your own education.
In these ways aforementioned, amongst others, I am trying to accomplish a few things. I am very focused on demonstrating responsibility to my students, but also am attempting to push an improved work ethic. I promise I do not get my jollies from failing large chunks of my students or taking off points from their average because of excessive absences and tardiness. Rather, I truly hope that they can learn something valuable from my class outside of the actual material and that they can take some of those life lessons with them in their future endeavors. I hope that when they graduate from this teacher trainer college that they take these ideas and use them in their own classrooms. Since the openness to learn brings about knowledge and knowledge is indeed power, I ultimately (and possibly naively) hope that this desire becomes contagious.
Dealing With Death in Mozambique
Since arriving in Mozambique, I have on numerous occasions felt angry and frustrated in the face of such a different culture. One day I might get mad at a Mozambican for bluntly telling me that my Portuguese needs work. Another day I stand at the counter of the bank for the 5th time in 2 weeks, waiting to find out whether I can finally begin to go through the process of requesting a bank transfer. Then, of course, there was the one day a few weeks ago that made all others pale in comparison.
Without wanting to go into too much detail, two Mondays ago, as I was heading down to Maputo with my friend Chelsea, our chapa ran over and killed a young, preteen boy crossing the street in downtown Xai Xai. Besides the initial shock and the obvious fact that both Chelsea and I were pretty upset, I became extremely angry as I further assessed the entire scene.
Looking around I saw faces unmoved, dry eyes, and even heard people complain about the travel delay. I saw people going about their business selling phone credit while others gathered around to see the young lifeless body still resting in a puddle by the side of the road. I saw a side of this culture that has been tough to swallow as a person growing up in my own.
In the weeks following, I have had a few conversations with Mozambicans and Americans alike as I’ve tried to make sense of what I witnessed. Why didn’t that boy’s death seem to affect anyone besides myself and Chelsea? Have Mozambicans experienced death so much as to remain numb to its emotional effects? Why didn’t I see any kind of sympathy in the eyes of the driver?
Having taken into consideration my conversations with Mozambicans, I have seen a different perspective of death than I am used to. Sure, not reacting may be an emotional defense mechanism, but in a lot of cases it appears to be that sympathy simply does not extend outside of situations involving family and friends.
If it is true, that Mozambicans simply do not care for others outside of their family and friends, what does this say, if anything, about Mozambican culture itself? Could it be that while this is true, it is an indirect result of dealing with death all of the time? Or is the culture simply sinister, as American upbringing might tempt us to believe? Having reflected upon these questions for awhile now, I’ve realized that I cannot hope to answer the first two adequately and that the third question itself is simply leading to an unfair conclusion.
To say that a culture is sinister in the manner which is presented, is to effectively dehumanize the people that make it up. But I must, at this point, protest such a crude assumption since it’s obvious that Mozambicans love and are loved. Rather, the point of contention is why there is a tendency to not care as much for strangers or people outside of one’s closest friends and family. Then again, why do we care about what happens to people who we do not know?
In America, like Mozambique, our view of death is not universal, but can be the reality for many. That having been said, as is often the case back home, sympathy does not occur unless there is an association made with the person who is dead or suffering. ‘Oh my goodness, that boy on the news is the same age as my son.’ ‘That woman in the hospital looked like my Aunt Jill.’ And so on.
So what does it all mean? Mozambicans sympathize for friends and family. Americans sympathize for friends, family, and people the remind them of friends and family. Is the American way right or are we just deceiving ourselves to the point that we have to trick ourselves into caring?
I guess in the end I don’t know for sure how to answer any of these questions. I’m still in the midst of processing things and trying to understand where people are coming from. Whatever the case, my inner thoughts aside, please pray for the family of that boy, that they find comfort and peace in such a difficult time. . .
Without wanting to go into too much detail, two Mondays ago, as I was heading down to Maputo with my friend Chelsea, our chapa ran over and killed a young, preteen boy crossing the street in downtown Xai Xai. Besides the initial shock and the obvious fact that both Chelsea and I were pretty upset, I became extremely angry as I further assessed the entire scene.
Looking around I saw faces unmoved, dry eyes, and even heard people complain about the travel delay. I saw people going about their business selling phone credit while others gathered around to see the young lifeless body still resting in a puddle by the side of the road. I saw a side of this culture that has been tough to swallow as a person growing up in my own.
In the weeks following, I have had a few conversations with Mozambicans and Americans alike as I’ve tried to make sense of what I witnessed. Why didn’t that boy’s death seem to affect anyone besides myself and Chelsea? Have Mozambicans experienced death so much as to remain numb to its emotional effects? Why didn’t I see any kind of sympathy in the eyes of the driver?
Having taken into consideration my conversations with Mozambicans, I have seen a different perspective of death than I am used to. Sure, not reacting may be an emotional defense mechanism, but in a lot of cases it appears to be that sympathy simply does not extend outside of situations involving family and friends.
If it is true, that Mozambicans simply do not care for others outside of their family and friends, what does this say, if anything, about Mozambican culture itself? Could it be that while this is true, it is an indirect result of dealing with death all of the time? Or is the culture simply sinister, as American upbringing might tempt us to believe? Having reflected upon these questions for awhile now, I’ve realized that I cannot hope to answer the first two adequately and that the third question itself is simply leading to an unfair conclusion.
To say that a culture is sinister in the manner which is presented, is to effectively dehumanize the people that make it up. But I must, at this point, protest such a crude assumption since it’s obvious that Mozambicans love and are loved. Rather, the point of contention is why there is a tendency to not care as much for strangers or people outside of one’s closest friends and family. Then again, why do we care about what happens to people who we do not know?
In America, like Mozambique, our view of death is not universal, but can be the reality for many. That having been said, as is often the case back home, sympathy does not occur unless there is an association made with the person who is dead or suffering. ‘Oh my goodness, that boy on the news is the same age as my son.’ ‘That woman in the hospital looked like my Aunt Jill.’ And so on.
So what does it all mean? Mozambicans sympathize for friends and family. Americans sympathize for friends, family, and people the remind them of friends and family. Is the American way right or are we just deceiving ourselves to the point that we have to trick ourselves into caring?
I guess in the end I don’t know for sure how to answer any of these questions. I’m still in the midst of processing things and trying to understand where people are coming from. Whatever the case, my inner thoughts aside, please pray for the family of that boy, that they find comfort and peace in such a difficult time. . .
Sal do Mundo
Looking back, one of my biggest disappointments in PC Moz has been my own failure to get the proposed orphan mentoring project off the ground. While I can at least find partial solace in the fact that I tried my hardest, this still does little for a person who was both unhappy with his primary job and was having lingering doubts about being here in the first place. For that reason especially, I was more than elated when I stumbled across a project that went above and beyond what I had imagined and, more importantly, that needed some outside help.
Sal do Mundo (or Salt of the Earth; see Matthew 5) is a project run by the Methodist Church in Chicuque, a town right next to Maxixe, and provide many necessary services for local orphans and vulnerable children. Not only did Sal do Mundo provide food for 200 children and their poor adoptive families, but they also gave uniforms and materials for school, gave money for healthcare, and offered health and hygiene classes. If that weren’t enough, according to Guambe, the Pastor’s husband and the man in charge of the project, there were hopes to start sewing and carpentry classes for the kids to pick up some basic marketable skills.
Over the past few months then, Sal do Mundo has had to adapt to having depleted funds, which as you can imagine, had a rather difficult effect on most of the aspects of the program. What’s inspiring, however, is how despite not having money to get paid the activists still go to visit the families in order to at least make sure things are going alright. In fact, they have reportedly been going so far as to pay for treatment out of their own pockets when the children are sick.
My hope, then, having seen what they have already done and what they are capable of doing is to help resurrect various aspects of Sal do Mundo. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I have access to a variety of grants that cannot cover all of the expenses of the project, but can at least support small portions. I’m also attempting to assert the value of having health classes again, while trying to focus on the developmental aspect of the program so that the focus is on projects that will not run continual costs, but will see some concrete, permanent effects in the community.
Thus far, we are in the early stages of reviving Sal do Mundo, Guambe has already asked me to check on the viability of bringing back the food distribution and healthcare aspect as well as the possibility of starting up sewing classes. While I await confirmation from Peace Corps, I am also looking to help in any way without being invasive and hurting something that has already been running so well.
In the meantime, all I can do is to wait, but I remain encouraged that the wheels are indeed in motion. Here’s praying that we can get to that point sooner than later though and that (if I can make a bad pun) the salt does not ‘lose its taste.’
Sal do Mundo (or Salt of the Earth; see Matthew 5) is a project run by the Methodist Church in Chicuque, a town right next to Maxixe, and provide many necessary services for local orphans and vulnerable children. Not only did Sal do Mundo provide food for 200 children and their poor adoptive families, but they also gave uniforms and materials for school, gave money for healthcare, and offered health and hygiene classes. If that weren’t enough, according to Guambe, the Pastor’s husband and the man in charge of the project, there were hopes to start sewing and carpentry classes for the kids to pick up some basic marketable skills.
Over the past few months then, Sal do Mundo has had to adapt to having depleted funds, which as you can imagine, had a rather difficult effect on most of the aspects of the program. What’s inspiring, however, is how despite not having money to get paid the activists still go to visit the families in order to at least make sure things are going alright. In fact, they have reportedly been going so far as to pay for treatment out of their own pockets when the children are sick.
My hope, then, having seen what they have already done and what they are capable of doing is to help resurrect various aspects of Sal do Mundo. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I have access to a variety of grants that cannot cover all of the expenses of the project, but can at least support small portions. I’m also attempting to assert the value of having health classes again, while trying to focus on the developmental aspect of the program so that the focus is on projects that will not run continual costs, but will see some concrete, permanent effects in the community.
Thus far, we are in the early stages of reviving Sal do Mundo, Guambe has already asked me to check on the viability of bringing back the food distribution and healthcare aspect as well as the possibility of starting up sewing classes. While I await confirmation from Peace Corps, I am also looking to help in any way without being invasive and hurting something that has already been running so well.
In the meantime, all I can do is to wait, but I remain encouraged that the wheels are indeed in motion. Here’s praying that we can get to that point sooner than later though and that (if I can make a bad pun) the salt does not ‘lose its taste.’
Monday, July 27, 2009
Bug Problems
‘Oh gosh… I hope she comes back soon. I’m totally gonna be late for work.’ I thought to myself as I sat on my doorstep waiting for my empregada, Raquia. ‘What exactly did she say she was getting again?’
Originally, I never wanted an empregada. I thought it was a horrific idea to hire someone to cook and clean for me when I could just do all that myself. And when I thought about it in terms of a person from a wealthy country coming to a less developed country and hiring a ‘servant’… well… No way, Jose.
Well, long story short, I ‘inherited’ Raquia from the volunteer who lived here before me, meaning that essentially not having her work for me would be firing her and cutting off her main source of income. So I decided that it wouldn’t be so bad as long as I had her on a light schedule, coming in three times a week to draw my water, sweep my yard, and do my dishes only. Of course, I didn’t really realize at the time that empregadas can come in handy for other things as well, like extracting bugs from places on your feet that you can’t reach for instance…
I waited for probably five minutes on my stoop with my pant legs rolled up as I examined the bottom of my feet once again. Just a few days before, I had to cut open the callus looking bumps on two of the toes on my left foot in order to get the maticenhas’ eggsack out. What’s a maticenha? Well, it’s basically a small bug that likes to burrow under the toe nails, and apparently under the ridge of feet as well, so it can lay and store its eggs. It lives in the sand, is more common in the winter time, and it was apparently in both of my feet this time around.
As I studied the small black holes in the same place on both of my feet, Raquia finally came back.
“Ok, I found some, Menino.” She said as she held out her hand to reveal… crab claws. Yes, the claws of a crab… in her hands… to be used as tweezers in extracting this garbage from my foot.
“Umm… where… where did you get them?” I said trying to sound casual and hide my hesitancy.
“Oh, one of your neighbors had them left over from dinner.” She said as she grabbed my left foot with one hand and held the crab claws in the other.
‘Whatever,’ I thought, ‘At this point… let’s just do this already…’
As she broke through my skin and tugged at the eggsack, it definitely hit a nerve or two. ‘Gosh, could that crap actually be attached to something in my foot? Or is it just floating around?’ Well, whatever the case, Raquia pulled out everything from my left foot rather quickly. Then, she held it up for me to see: a black, charcoal looking thing about the size of the tip of a ballpoint pen.
“Is that it?” I asked Raquia.
“Yeah… well, at least I hope so.” she said as she grabbed my right foot.
More sharp, momentary pain. More clicking sounds as she clawed through my foot.
A few minutes later, she pulled out the other egggsack. This one was wayyy more disgusting: it was about the size of one fourth of a dime and its texture resembled that of a slug or a snail.
“Good Lord!” I myself exclaim in Portuguese. “Well… thank you Raquia…”
She just smiled and said, “Your welcome… I do think I’m going to keep these crab claws somewhere though because Menino seems to always have problems with maticenhas…”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh I hope that’s not true!”
Originally, I never wanted an empregada. I thought it was a horrific idea to hire someone to cook and clean for me when I could just do all that myself. And when I thought about it in terms of a person from a wealthy country coming to a less developed country and hiring a ‘servant’… well… No way, Jose.
Well, long story short, I ‘inherited’ Raquia from the volunteer who lived here before me, meaning that essentially not having her work for me would be firing her and cutting off her main source of income. So I decided that it wouldn’t be so bad as long as I had her on a light schedule, coming in three times a week to draw my water, sweep my yard, and do my dishes only. Of course, I didn’t really realize at the time that empregadas can come in handy for other things as well, like extracting bugs from places on your feet that you can’t reach for instance…
I waited for probably five minutes on my stoop with my pant legs rolled up as I examined the bottom of my feet once again. Just a few days before, I had to cut open the callus looking bumps on two of the toes on my left foot in order to get the maticenhas’ eggsack out. What’s a maticenha? Well, it’s basically a small bug that likes to burrow under the toe nails, and apparently under the ridge of feet as well, so it can lay and store its eggs. It lives in the sand, is more common in the winter time, and it was apparently in both of my feet this time around.
As I studied the small black holes in the same place on both of my feet, Raquia finally came back.
“Ok, I found some, Menino.” She said as she held out her hand to reveal… crab claws. Yes, the claws of a crab… in her hands… to be used as tweezers in extracting this garbage from my foot.
“Umm… where… where did you get them?” I said trying to sound casual and hide my hesitancy.
“Oh, one of your neighbors had them left over from dinner.” She said as she grabbed my left foot with one hand and held the crab claws in the other.
‘Whatever,’ I thought, ‘At this point… let’s just do this already…’
As she broke through my skin and tugged at the eggsack, it definitely hit a nerve or two. ‘Gosh, could that crap actually be attached to something in my foot? Or is it just floating around?’ Well, whatever the case, Raquia pulled out everything from my left foot rather quickly. Then, she held it up for me to see: a black, charcoal looking thing about the size of the tip of a ballpoint pen.
“Is that it?” I asked Raquia.
“Yeah… well, at least I hope so.” she said as she grabbed my right foot.
More sharp, momentary pain. More clicking sounds as she clawed through my foot.
A few minutes later, she pulled out the other egggsack. This one was wayyy more disgusting: it was about the size of one fourth of a dime and its texture resembled that of a slug or a snail.
“Good Lord!” I myself exclaim in Portuguese. “Well… thank you Raquia…”
She just smiled and said, “Your welcome… I do think I’m going to keep these crab claws somewhere though because Menino seems to always have problems with maticenhas…”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh I hope that’s not true!”
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