The Difference

N2O has given up being worried about my civil status and instead wants to make sure I’m not going to be homeless when I go back to Canada.  I assured her that I have some money tucked away and would be able to find a job soon, but she seemed unconvinced.  She may have been trying to get me to start a business in order to name herself my partner, but I like to think she just thought I was a helpless little bird who couldn’t possibly make it in the world without Mobutu’s Debrouillez-vous speech.

I appreciated the encouragement, but would have been a lot happier if I knew for certain – beyond the shadow of a doubt – that my presence here was making a difference. 

Even a small one.

But I don’t.

I recently heard a story of a health care project proposal that was approved.  It was a three-year, long-term development project that is supposed to extend the reach of mental health support within the country by promoting a full-time psychologist on hospital staff.  Each year would involve the hiring of three new psychologists in three health centres, and the gradual decrease of salary support as the hospital and patients adapted to paying for professional mental health care. 

As of the first year, the tally is 0 clinical psychologists.  Instead, the project has hired a doctor, a nurse, and likely an unidentified family obligation (UFO) – the first two have received 18 hours of training on how to treat patients presenting with mental illness.  The last may well be a dairy farmer.  Not to say that dairy farmers can’t deal with crazy people (Holla, Grandpa!), but I think they need to have a special skill set.  

When I got home, I tried to explain to Butters and Timbit why I was so frustrated...  How, instead of promoting the hiring and training of certified professionals, we were more interested in promoting family members, which devalues education.  How, instead of promoting mental health care, we were interested in money, which devalues the aid system.  How, instead of a project that would exemplify the need for clinical psychologists to deal with war-related trauma in this region, we might instead prove how useless this service was.  How, instead of ensuring the sustainability of a service, we were beginning in the full knowledge that it would never be completed. 

Timbit provided the listening ear; Butters, the answers I didn’t want to hear. 

“It isn’t my responsibility!  I don’t have to--”

“You don’t actually have to do anything.  You could just kill yourself.”

I’m not sure why this was so funny, but it was.  I tried to choke back giggles as Timbit reprimanded Butters for being a terrible person (she’ll give up soon and join us eventually).  I didn’t expect to like living with two roommates, but... well, I’m doing it.  There was even a mini-rainy season – since the volcano trip went so well and you can’t have perfection – and I was over the moon that we finally had water in our tank.  ...Until the taps ran black water which we used for flushing for the next few days.  Carrottop, as usually the only glorious voice of reason in my immediate surroundings, noted that we should be able to use the tank water soon, as long as we let the dirt settle...

As Butters vehemently (for him) refused such blasphemy, I stared out the window and hoped I wouldn’t have to admit that I’d been using this system already so that he could take showers with the bidon water – only marginally cleaner, in my mind.

He utterly ignores this angelic sacrifice on my part and repays me by holding me hostage to conversations.  For example, by mumbling the word ‘peanuts’ and then subjecting me to a lengthy monologue regarding a great pianist he’d once heard about. 

My life is horrifying.

Which is why I take small joys wherever I can find them - for example, when a phone credit seller said I walked like a local.  I was unsure as to what this could possibly mean, but he explained that he’d seen me often on the street and I didn’t seem intimidated.

I deserve a Golden Globe more than Leonardo DiCaprio.

But it is true that I take this city to be my home and have a very hard time imagining that I’m not safe.  That nearly everyone is after my money, certainly, but after my life?  Which is why I find it so odd when locals identify me as a stranger and run about shrieking my race.  I live here – it’s mine.  To the extent that I wouldn’t really want to work in Burundi or Rwanda if I had the chance for the same reason that I wouldn’t really want to work in Pakistan, China, or Japan.  I have adopted certain countries as my own because they have taken pieces of me and replaced them with the memories and lessons of others.  While it is true that I will never be Congolese, I still belong here.

I am different, but I wonder if it’s enough to make a difference.

At work one day, we were discussing English classes with a new student.  I’d set up a few ground rules about timeliness, homework, and the use of French/Swahili in class (mainly to ensure that I had a regular breakfast of the deep-fried bread that I so love).  Our accountant fully agreed with a reward/punishment system, but wanted it to be much more firm. 

“If you speak French or Swahili--”

“You must buy ndazi!” one of my other students interjected.

“No!  I will take you by here!” she insisted, grabbing her throat.

As I curled up in my chair, wheezing with laughter, I reflected that my peacebuilding skills could use some work.   

I am different. 

And I have to believe that is enough.