Somewhere between wistfully watching a woman undergo a desperate hot flash while I was shivering in my scarf... and unwillingly listening to people slowly kill a dog just by my workplace... I gave up trying to understand why I’m here and what I’m doing.
I’m caught in the strange position of realising that I write about the rape of a 12-year-old girl with little finesse and yet have trouble sharing the story of a dog being killed for food on the street.
Do you understand?
I wanted the rape to be a main story – so that readers could take in the fear in some rural parts of the country. This child’s subsequent pregnancy, abandonment by her family, repeated bouts of hemorrhage miles away from a health centre should make you want to do something. Not spare some change in the middle of Christmas shopping, but think of how to support off-grid electricity in rural areas of the world. So that women don’t have to give up educations to find food and fuel. So that all a little girl has to fight is the monster in her head – not a human one.
Meanwhile, thinking about writing a blogpost about a few guys killing a dog – slowly – made me want to be more sensitive. Because I know that some of my friends love animals, and imagining this messy killing would be difficult for them.
I could hear the pained howls trail off to whimpers amidst the cries of a small crowd armed with bricks and machetes. My colleagues were tsking about animal rights and taking videos from the second floor. What else was there to do? Tell them to stop? Tell hungry people that a dog deserves better? When women and young girls can be raped on the roads between villages by men who should be swearing to serve and protect the weakest, regardless of their nationality or allegiance?
All I can do is thank God. That I was not born into that level of need. That level of fear. I don’t know how it feels to grow up surrounded by the love of many brothers and sisters, I don’t know how it feels to rejoice in the birth of a seventh baby, but neither do I know the desperation of an army marching on the gates of my city. Neither do I know bone-deep hunger to leave home for anywhere.
With this in mind, I had a wonderful, if American, thanksgiving with my international organization;s contingent here. I got to hold babies, watch Carrottop be the best babysitter ever, and lose repeatedly at Uno. Oh, and eat, of course. I don’t normally praise Americanisms (Canada’s contributions are just as good), but baked bean casserole, French-fried onions, and cheeseballs (thank you, Avant Ministries in West Africa) are their gifts to the world at large.
I was thankful to be reminded of thankfulness, and especially thankful to be a part of a celebration that included the Phoenix (our house helper), two Congolese families who work with my international organization, and Pastor and his family. The language barrier was really interesting – a Venn diagram of it would involve three separate circles that converge on different planes in different times, or may never converge at all.
In the midst of this, I – a naturally confused person with a sweaty grasp on the Pride Rock of French and Swahili - found myself adrift. I came to briefly in the midst of explaining something profoundly French to Grandma and Pastor’s wife.
Me: So...
Grandma: NO!
Me: And then...
Grandma: STOP, YOU NAUGHTY THING!
Me: But...
Grandma: NO, RLY, THO!
Which was when I remembered that behind that enthusiastic nod and sweet smile was a steel trap of English, Swahili, Maasai, and very little French.
I sighed and chalked my persistent existence up to sheer, blind hope that someday, somewhere, we will all understand.
I’m caught in the strange position of realising that I write about the rape of a 12-year-old girl with little finesse and yet have trouble sharing the story of a dog being killed for food on the street.
Do you understand?
I wanted the rape to be a main story – so that readers could take in the fear in some rural parts of the country. This child’s subsequent pregnancy, abandonment by her family, repeated bouts of hemorrhage miles away from a health centre should make you want to do something. Not spare some change in the middle of Christmas shopping, but think of how to support off-grid electricity in rural areas of the world. So that women don’t have to give up educations to find food and fuel. So that all a little girl has to fight is the monster in her head – not a human one.
Meanwhile, thinking about writing a blogpost about a few guys killing a dog – slowly – made me want to be more sensitive. Because I know that some of my friends love animals, and imagining this messy killing would be difficult for them.
I could hear the pained howls trail off to whimpers amidst the cries of a small crowd armed with bricks and machetes. My colleagues were tsking about animal rights and taking videos from the second floor. What else was there to do? Tell them to stop? Tell hungry people that a dog deserves better? When women and young girls can be raped on the roads between villages by men who should be swearing to serve and protect the weakest, regardless of their nationality or allegiance?
All I can do is thank God. That I was not born into that level of need. That level of fear. I don’t know how it feels to grow up surrounded by the love of many brothers and sisters, I don’t know how it feels to rejoice in the birth of a seventh baby, but neither do I know the desperation of an army marching on the gates of my city. Neither do I know bone-deep hunger to leave home for anywhere.
With this in mind, I had a wonderful, if American, thanksgiving with my international organization;s contingent here. I got to hold babies, watch Carrottop be the best babysitter ever, and lose repeatedly at Uno. Oh, and eat, of course. I don’t normally praise Americanisms (Canada’s contributions are just as good), but baked bean casserole, French-fried onions, and cheeseballs (thank you, Avant Ministries in West Africa) are their gifts to the world at large.
I was thankful to be reminded of thankfulness, and especially thankful to be a part of a celebration that included the Phoenix (our house helper), two Congolese families who work with my international organization, and Pastor and his family. The language barrier was really interesting – a Venn diagram of it would involve three separate circles that converge on different planes in different times, or may never converge at all.
In the midst of this, I – a naturally confused person with a sweaty grasp on the Pride Rock of French and Swahili - found myself adrift. I came to briefly in the midst of explaining something profoundly French to Grandma and Pastor’s wife.
Me: So...
Grandma: NO!
Me: And then...
Grandma: STOP, YOU NAUGHTY THING!
Me: But...
Grandma: NO, RLY, THO!
Which was when I remembered that behind that enthusiastic nod and sweet smile was a steel trap of English, Swahili, Maasai, and very little French.
I sighed and chalked my persistent existence up to sheer, blind hope that someday, somewhere, we will all understand.
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