No, Copernicus

I have read that shyness is a form of narcissism – the idea that everyone is as interested in your foibles as you happen to be, that everyone must notice everything about you. 

Here, it’s not just a feeling. 

Once, I was lucky enough to find a moto driver who only spoke Swahili.  With the aid of some interpretive dance, we managed to come to the agreement that I would direct him home.  Just then, a shopkeeper across the busy street told him in Swahili exactly where I needed to go.  While I was grateful for her help, this did not help my paranoia at all. 

My troubles with moto drivers continue in a similar vein – mostly because they don’t believe that I don’t speak or understand French well. 

“Is your family here?”

“Uhm.  Yes.”  Please don’t ask if I’m married.

“How many children?”

Do I have?  Do my parents have?  “Uhm.  Ten.”  My Seed team is family, right?

“Oh!  I thought Indians don’t have many children.”

Earth to Friendly Moto Driver.  “Ha ha ho ho.”

“When will you get married?”

Here we go.  “Uhm.  When God tells me to.”

“Oh, you’re not Muslim?!”

“No!”

“Good!  So do you live in that area?  Do you go to work every day?  Except Sunday?”

Paranoia springs eternal.  “My schedule is… open.”

“Okay, so you should call me when you need me.”

“Oh, look, we’ve arrived – toodles!”

Upon sharing my woes with my American teammate, I was met with flat incomprehension.  “He just wants your business.  He’s probably not, you know, trying to rape you.”

A part of me took note of the word probably, but the rest of me was sputtering in indignation.  I mean, well.  Really.  Of course he wasn’t going to rape me!  Probably!  It’s not that everyone wants to rape me!  It’s just that my schedule is…  Well, it’s my personal schedule, and…  I trailed off into awkward silence under his very peaceful, very white American male stare.    

Fine. 

Fine!

The next day, I resolved to change my attitude.

“Are you from India?”

“Yes.”  I can do this.

“Do you live in this area?”

“Yes.”  This is fine.

“I live close to the lake.”

“Ah, that’s nice.”  Maybe the American was right.  That happens sometimes. 

“I have four children.”

“That’s great!”  Americans are beautiful people.

“Do you work every day?  At this time?”

“Most days – at around this time.”  A leopard can’t change my shorts.

“Are you from India?”

“Yes.”  See, not everyone is after you!

“When will you decide to get married?”

 “When God tells me to.”  Remember the American: Not everyone is trying to rape you. 

“What if it is a Congolese man?”

“That would be fine.”  Not. Everyone.

“I like you.”  [Actually, he used the word for love, but I was trying to hold on to my newly turned leaf.  Also, I decided to show some grace as I’ve accidentally confessed love in the past.]

“Ha ha ho ho.” 

“What is your criteria for loving a man?”

I hate all Americans from the history of time until now.  “God will show me.”

“What about his education?  How much have you studied?”
What is happening.  “I went to university.”  

“I have studied somethingsomething.”

“Oh, look, we’ve arrived – toodles!”

“Do moto drivers ever ask if you’re married?” I once asked my Congolese teammate.

She raised her eyebrows in regal disdain.  “’Ow can zey ask such questions?” she intoned.

“Sorry,” I mumbled – realizing I probably wouldn’t be asked if I looked and acted like the Queen of Sheba, either.

All that – just to get to work.  So by the time I arrive, I am past the point of no return with regard to men who stand at the gate to wish me a good morning and smoothly segue into asking whether I’m married.  Work makes an abrupt turnaround in that we may visit schools to see if we can make presentations regarding sexual violence (perhaps even harassment) awareness.  One of these was a convent; I think the Commander-In-Chief Nun took one look at my nose ring, heard the word ‘sexual,’ and decided she wanted off this ride immediately. 

(I’m partially joking – I learned schools are in the process of preparing for finals, which we should have known and planned for.  However, Nun Bar None was still a little more taciturn than necessary.)

Sometimes I have long, drawn-out discussions (mangling French as needed) about the upcoming elections and the difference between Hutus and Tutsis (hearing it drives me insane every time – two genocides and continued internal turmoil over nostrils and disputed intelligence).  One afternoon in particular reminded me why we (as a collective international presence) were here – even though most of my daily experiences are of a Christian population which enjoys food, football, and teasing foreigners. 

For the first time, I was involved in a meeting with other international organizations in order to share updates, alerts, planned projects, disputes, etc.  The number of alerts that were shared were beyond my understanding. 

• Rape
• Abduction
• Homes burned
• The trafficking and exploitation of women and children from IDP camps
• Natural disasters involving loss of life and property that do not make the news
•  The re-integration of child soldiers within a community and worries of re-recruitment during the summer holidays or abductions during the school months

These are people!  I thought, mentally translating into English and frantically scribbling names and notes.  Your people!  While I’m joking about the power and water here, people are frightened to send their children to school!  How can I write that 85 women have been raped with no shame? 

I couldn’t even begin to understand what held this tottering, failing state in place, much less unravel what was ‘wrong.’  We once did an exercise which highlighted that to untangle the current issues, we had to trace them to the source and work outward.  What is the source here?  Colonization?  Industrialization?  Dictators?  Foreign involvement?  Armed groups fighting each other for the sake of the country and at the expense of the people?  NGOs renting land from warlords?  An economy running desperately on millions of dollars hinging on thousands of conditions, many of which don’t involve local citizens?  A desire for cheap resources?  Congratulatory pats on the back for keeping land pristine and wild when an entire growing population are hungry for jobs?

This is war, but only – only – because I’m suddenly watching from balcony seating.  Before, it was another part of Africa involving too much money, too many people, and a lack of organization.    

Shyness is not the worst form of narcissism.