People

People

March 18, 2011

            I have been a people watcher for most of my life and have always assumed that I am a pretty good judge of character.  Recently, I have come to realize that my first impressions of many people here may only have been characters that I created in my head.  I viewed Tanzanian people through American eyes.  It was all I knew.  I matched behaviors that I saw to personalities I knew back home.  I judged them according to my standards.  It was my way of making sense of a new and strange environment.  However, my eyes have changed.  They are no longer solely American.  Is it possible that a part of me has become Tanzanian?  Now I often find myself reassessing my opinions of the people I have met.  Culture really makes a difference.  It reminds me of a kaleidoscope.  In one frame you see a certain image, but give it a twist, overlay it with a different culture and the picture changes.  People that I wrote off as lacking in morals or common sense have become good people, but conversely, people that I ascribed with good intentions and kind hearts now seem to have been only serving themselves.  At first this was very troubling for me.  How could I have been so wrong about a person?  How could I have made such a mistake?

            I imagined throwing the kaleidoscope down and the cover coming off, spilling hundreds of tiny, individual crystals out on the floor.  Each one was different, but then again, they all were alike.  Arrange them one way and you see an American, another way, and they have become Tanzanian.  I am beginning to understand.  Strip away the culture and you see the heart.  You see the person.  I have begun to trust my eyes less and rely more on what I feel.  Unfortunately, what I feel most is pain.  For some, like Neema, it is very strong.  It is true, she goes to school now.  She is learning to read and write, but when she leaves the school, her coach becomes a pumpkin again.  She returns to the world she has always known.  She is my house girl without a name.  She lives in fear of making a mistake but in everything she does, she will err.  She does not speak because she will always say the wrong thing.  She does not laugh because the joy has been beaten out of her long ago.  This is the life she knows.  Neema means “grace of God.”  My friends Kris and Keli sent her an angel ornament for Christmas, a white angel carrying a lamb.  I gave it to her when I visited in February.  She smiled and said, “For me?”  Yes, Neema, you are the lamb.  God has sent you a white angel to remind you that you are a very good girl and that you are truly loved.  Let your soul rest in God’s arms for a while.  I said a prayer that she would be allowed to keep the angel.  I prayed that she would always keep the memory. Oh, sad little Neema.

            Who is her tormentor?  Who would beat this slight child with a stick?  My friend, Victoria, that is who.  You are probably thinking, “How horrible,” but if you were Tanzanian, it is very likely that you would do the same. I have stopped separating people here into categories of good and bad based on whether they hit children with sticks.  Now I judge them on how much or how hard they like to hit.  Remove the culture and observe what is there: pain, discouragement, hopelessness, frustration, fear.  We would all like to say that we would do better than this, but faced with the same circumstance, who knows how we would respond.

            There are others whose lives have been so difficult that you would not blame them if they have become cynical and cold-hearted.  You want to congratulate them for having managed to survive.  But when you get to know them you are amazed at the beauty and strength of their spirit.  They have not just survived, they have thrived.  God has protected them for some purpose, like Fidesta.

            “Tell me a story Fidesta, a happy story about your childhood.”

            “A happy story Madam?  I do not remember any.”

            “You have no happy memories? Then tell me about your life.”  

And she told her tale of four young children, all in primary school, living alone as a family.  Fidesta was in 3^rd grade and Yuda had just begun school.  As the years went by, the family became smaller and smaller.  The oldest brother left to study at an A-level school in Dar.  The older sister decided to marry in order to escape.  Fidesta and Yuda were alone.  Life was very difficult.  They had to rush from school in the afternoon, prepare food, and do their chores to make sure they were inside and the house closed up before dark.  That was when the nighttime visitors began to arrive, men banging on the walls of the house, calling Fidesta to come out.  She and Yuda had a battery powered radio and they turned it up as loud as it would go to block out the voices.  Still they were afraid and could not sleep.  Fidesta could not study.  She developed peptic ulcers and could no longer eat beans.  Someone at school told her to shift to Mkuu; they had a hostel for girls. She received permission; however, now Yuda, was left alone.  Safe from the men but not from the stress, Fidesta worried constantly about her young brother.  Sometimes she would make up stories to leave campus and would sneak home to see how he was faring.  She really did not have much hope for her future.  Survival was her life.

            “Madam, I have remembered a happy story!  Two stories in fact!”

            “Tell me Fidesta.”

The first happy story took place after Fidesta had been sick and had stayed overnight in the hospital.  She needed 15000 shilings to pay her bill.  She had no money so she went to her grandfather and asked him to help.  He told her he had no money to give to her, and when she pleaded with him, he told her to go ask her dead parents.  Maybe they would reach up from their graves and give her some.  She did not know what to do, so she went to her parents’ gravesite and cried.  Feeling defeated, she returned to school.  A few days later, Sister called for her and told her she had visitors.  She could not imagine who it could be.  She went to greet them and met a couple who had been friends of her parents.  They wanted to give her some money, 50000 shilings.  Fidesta was astonished. She thanked them and they went away.  She made up a story and went home.  She paid her bill and then gave Yuda his half of the money.  He was afraid.  He demanded to know where she had gotten such a sum.  She told him, “From God.”

The second happy story occurred fairly recently.  Fidesta needed a place to stay for the school break because the hostel was closing.  She had no idea where to go.  She was sitting on a wall near the church when she saw a “Mzungu” come out.  Her friend told her to go ask the white teacher.  Maybe she would help.  Fidesta was afraid.  She said, no, she could not, but God gave her courage and put words in her mouth.  She went and asked the woman if she could carry her bag and escort her to her home.  You know the ending of that story.  God brought them together.  Now Fidesta has a mother, she and her brother go to good schools, she has hope and a future.  God has blessed her indeed.  That is a happy story.  But the thing that touches my heart the most is that Fidesta has promised God that when she gets a job, she will find two young orphans, a little boy and a girl, and she will give them a new life like God has given her.  Every day, I am amazed at her loving heart and her profound faith.  Fidesta, what a beautiful spirit!