H2O

I think at this point, most people are at least mildly aware of the social justice issues around access to water (if not, it’s likely you have consistent internet access- Google it). For many of us, it’s a given that when we open the faucet or press a button in our kitchen, bathroom, shower, washer machine, dishwasher, toilet, garden hose, etc. water will come forth. It’s that simple.  In most cases, this water is also clean and drinkable. Now, by no means do my community mates and I lack access to water- we are still privileged in this context, but we do have to think much more about our water. We have a water tank in our compound that gets filled with rain water and during dry season by pipes from the city. We then fill buckets from this tank for multiple uses. One bucket stays in the kitchen for dishwashing, cleaning vegetables and boiling and filtering for drinking water. Other buckets get filled for laundry. The dirty water from laundry is then used for flushing the toilets. Other buckets get filled for bathing. Again, remember, we are still privileged in this context. Most of our neighbors do not have a water tank, most of our neighbors have to carry their buckets to communal tanks and pay per bucket of water. So, water is not a given, it is a sacred resource.

Water has a complex identity- it’s necessary, yet commodified; life-giving, yet destructive. Before coming to Tanzania, I intimately witnessed the destructive powers of water as I rummaged through 20 years of summer memories with my brother and dad as we cleaned out our bungalow which had taken on about 3 feet of water in Superstorm Sandy. It was emotionally draining, smelly, and physically exhausting. And we were lucky. We were really lucky. Many others lost everything- all of their memories, not just the summer ones, all of their belongings, not just the beach-themed ones. On Palm Sunday, as we were preparing to leave for retreat, parts of our Luhanga neighborhood and parish experienced the destructive power of water. Rainy season began a few weeks ago and since then we’ve had periods of consistent and heavy rainfall pretty much each day. The river near the parish was quite full already and it couldn’t take any more when the rains poured down for about two hours straight, so it overflowed and flooded the surrounding area. This same area experienced a historically destructive flood last year, thankfully this one was not of the same caliber, but it caused damage nonetheless and as is frequently the case, the poor were the ones most affected. 

Now, I realize this next part might upset some people, I acknowledge that, but I want to challenge you . . . Superstorm Sandy got weeks worth of media coverage. People in Tanzania knew about it; they knew about a storm that was happening thousands of miles away from them in a land in which they could only dream of stepping foot, and yet, this river, right in their backyard floods pretty much every year and destroys homes, schools, businesses and regularly disrupts daily life. Did you know about it? I wouldn’t have. There weren’t any news reporters donned in parkas and galoshes covering the “Great Luhanga Flood” and I’m pretty certain that other small towns and villages throughout the world are regularly affected by these natural disasters which no one hears about. Now, one could argue that this flood was not of the same caliber as Superstorm Sandy, there wasn’t as much at stake, not as much money and resources destroyed, not as much valuable time was lost. In doing so, though, we are neglecting the years of back breaking work that went into accumulating just enough money to secure the small home by the river; we would be placing a value judgment on one person’s life and livelihood over another’s. We are saying, “One person’s time is worth more than another’s. One person’s health and safety is more important than another’s.” Some people might be comfortable with that assessment, but I’m not comfortable with it, it makes my heart break. In being comfortable with that, we’re saying, “Yeah, it’s ok that some people get all of the news coverage, all of the resources, all of the opportunities to create a stable, happy life for their families. They deserve it more than others.” When frequently, not always, but frequently this ‘worthiness’ is determined by an event over which we have absolutely no control- our birth. And the variety of situations into which a baby is born throughout the world varies about as greatly as the possibility of careers I have the opportunity to pursue. I am implicated in this dilemma, we all are, but that implication is cause for hope, not despair, because that means that each one of us is enabled to: 

do something and do it well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest. We may never see the end results, but that’s the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own. (prayer attributed to Archbishop Oscar Romero)

Now, we each just need to figure out the unique way in which we are called to do something.

Just before the flood on Sunday, the congregation of Luhanga Parish raised their palms to be blessed by Holy Water. On Monday evening, I ran to the ocean and instantly felt rejuvenated and closer to home. In September, my nephew was baptized by Holy Water, a symbol of his ‘death to an old life of sin and rebirth in Christ,’ in January my grandfather received his Last Rites and his casket was blessed with Holy Water, a sign of his transition from one life to the next. If we look closely enough- God is in everything, a glass of water, a flood, a birth, a death, a shower, an ocean, a cup of tea.

Updates

A few updates and then reflections to follow:

1. Last Friday marked the end of the first quarter of the school year at Loyola. With the end of the quarter came: final marks, report cards and parent teacher conferences in Swahili (more on that later).

2. Holy Week began on Palm Sunday which our parish celebrated with enthusiasm and a procession into the Church in the rain, through the mud. Last night we had Mass and Adoration for Holy Thursday and today we will go to the parish for Good Friday services, Easter Vigil tomorrow at 8:00 p.m. for many weddings, baptisms, confirmations and first communions . . . it’s known to be even longer, more crowded and definitely hotter than Easter Vigil in the U.S. because of all of these celebrations, but it is also known to be extremely joyous!

3. With the end of the first quarter came an opportunity for rest and relaxation as my community mates and I travelled about an hour away for retreat with the volunteers from Dodoma. This retreat focused on the four values of J.V.C.: social justice, spirituality, simple living and community. Each community planned a session and we held thought-provoking, challenging and affirming conversations on each of those topics, plus a session on current events and life as a woman in Tanzania. The retreat center was run by the Carmelite nuns who were wonderful hostesses. The center was also conveniently located just about a 1 1/2 from the beach which provided great incentive to get up and run each morning as the sun rose and to walk later in the day for sunset. We were also staying about an hour away from Bagamoyo which is a historic town in Tanzania known for its port and its roots in the Eastern slave trade routes. We took a morning to visit the museum and tour Stonetown Bagamoyo.  

4. Overall, things have been going really well for me- I’m growing mentally, emotionally and spiritually each day. It’s strange to not be “working for change” in the same concrete ways I had in college, but right now I’m living in the questions I had been asking for a while as I confront my privilege on a daily basis.

Old Turtle

I want to share the text of a story which has taken on personal significance recently and a short reflection on it. I typed the text of it in this blog, but it is worth adding to your personal or family’s collection whether you have teenagers or toddlers. The watercolor illustrations also complement the text gorgeously and are worth the $18.00 investment. It is called, Old Turtle and the Broken Truth and was given to our JV community by Cat Keating, a recent FJV from our Dar community!

Old Turtle and the Broken Truth

by Douglas Wood, Watercolors by Jon J. Muth

“Once, in a beautiful, faraway land . . . that was, somehow, not so very far . . . a land where every stone was a teacher and every breeze a language, where every lake was a mirror and every tree a ladder to the stars, into this far and lovely land there fell . . . a truth. It streaked down from the stars, trailing a tail as long as the sky. But as it fell, it broke.

One of the pieces blazed off through the night sky, and the other fell to earth in the beautiful land. In the morning, Crow found the fallen piece. It seemed to be a sort of stone, shiny and pleasing to the eye. He picked it up. “This is a lovely truth,” said Crow. “I will keep it.” And he carried it away. But after he had held it for awhile, and examined it closely, Crow said, “This truth does not feel quite right. A part of it is missing. I will look for a whole one.” He flew off and dropped it to the ground.

Other creatures who liked shiny things soon noticed the truth as well-- Fox, Coyote, Raccoon, each picked it up and carried it awhile. But they, too, found that it had rough edges and was difficult to carry, and its sparkle soon lost its appeal. “We do not need this broken truth.” they said. “We will find a whole one.”

Butterfly and Bear also discovered the truth, drawn by its sweetness. But each found that it left a bitter taste after all. “There is something missing in this truth,” they thought. And they left it alone.

After awhile, none of the creatures even noticed the broken truth anymore, and it lay on the ground, forgotten.

Then a human being found it. He was walking slowly, listening to breezes, gazing at beauties above and below and all around him, when he found the broken truth. On it was writing, and the writing said: “You are loved.” The man held it carefully, thinking it was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. He tucked the broken truth into a safe place and kept it. Sometimes he would take it out and admire it. And the truth sparkled just for him, and whispered its message to him alone. And the man thought he had never felt so proud and so happy.

The man took this wonderful truth to his people-- those who lived with him, who spoke as he spoke and dressed as he dressed and whose faces looked like his. And together they cherished their newfound truth and believed in it. They hugged it to themselves and it became their most important possession.

After awhile, the man and his people did not hear the language of the breezes and stones anymore, but heard only their truth. They did see the mirrored beauty in the lakes, or the ladders to the stars, but saw only their sparkling truth. And for them, it was enough. And they called it . . . “The Truth.”

The Truth made the people feel good and proud and strong. But soon they also began to feel fear and even anger toward those who were not like themselves and did not share their truth. The other beings and other people of the lovely land seemed less and less important. And the language of the breezes was hardly ever heard anymore.

Time passed, and other people said, “We must have this Great Truth for ourselves, for with it comes happiness and power.” Many battles were fought, and the broken truth was won and lost, won and lost, over and over again. But such was its power and beauty that no one ever doubted it, and when they were without it, they felt a great emptiness where their truth had been.

The stones and trees suffered. The breezes and waters suffered, and the animals, and the earth . . . And most of all, the people suffered.

Finally, the animals went to Old Turtle-- ancient and wise as the mountains and seas themselves. Crow and Fox went. Coyote went. Raccoon, Butterfly, Bear and many others. All went to see Old Turtle.

“This truth the people quarrel over,” they said, “we have all held it ourselves. It is broken and does not work. Please tell the people.”

“I am sorry,” answered Old Turtle, “but the people will not listen. They are not yet ready.”

And the suffering continued.

           

Until one day . . . a Little Girl came to find Old Turtle. She had traveled very far, had crossed the Mountains of Imagining and the River of Wondering Why, had found her way through the Forest of Finding Out. And when she had grown tired, she had ridden on the backs of animals or the wings of birds, and they had helped her find her way.

Finally they came to a great hill in the very center of the world. From there, the Little Girl thought she had never seen so far, or seen so much beauty.

But when she saw Old Turtle, she could hardly speak. She simply looked with eyes full of wonder.

“Why have you come so far to find me, Little One?” asked Old Turtle. Her voice rumbled like far away thunder, but was as soft as the breeze through the caterpillar’s whiskers.

“I . . . I wanted to ask a question,” answered the Little Girl. “Where I live, the earth is sore and people are suffering. Battles are fought, over and over again. People say it has always been this way and will never change. Can it change, Old Turtle? Can we make it change?”

Old Turtle spoke, “The world as you describe is not the world that has always been, Little One.”

Then Old Turtle told of how the people had found the broken truth, and the suffering it had caused. “It is because it is so close to a great, whole truth that it has such beauty, and that the people love it so,” said Old Turtle. “It is the lost portion of that broken truth that the people need, if the world is to be made whole again.”

“But where is the missing piece?” asked the Little Girl. “Can we put the truth back together again?”

“First, my child,” said the Old Turtle, “remember that there are truths all around us, and within us. They twinkle in the night sky and bloom upon the earth. They fall upon us every day, silent as the snow and gentle as the rain. The people, clutching their one truth, forget that it is part of all of the small and lovely truths of life. They no longer see these truths, no longer hear them.

“But . . . perhaps, Little One, you can . . .”

“I -- I’ll try,” said the Little Girl.

And she thought once more of her long journey. She looked upon all the beauty that surrounded her, from the far hills to the flowers beneath her feet. She saw the movement of the clouds and the soaring of birds and the dancing of light upon the green and living earth. She heard the whispering of a breeze.

And gradually . . . a feeling came over her, as though all the world were made of truths. As if the world had been made just for her and she had been made for it. And she felt a secret smile somewhere deep inside . . . and thought that, perhaps, she understood.

She looked once again at Old Turtle, her eyes more filled with wonder than before.

Old Turtle spoke again.

“Remember this also, Little One,” she said. “The Broken Truth, and life itself, will be mended only when one person meets another-- someone from a different place or with a different face or different ways-- and sees and hears . . . herself. Only then will the people know that every person, every being, is important, and that the world was made for each of us.”

For a long time then the two friends were quiet, high on their hill in the very center of the world. And in her heart the Little Girl thought she could see other people in other beautiful lands, people with their own ways, their own truths . . . people different from her own, but still, somehow, The People.

Finally, the Little Girl asked one more question, “Old Turtle, how will the people learn these things?”

“By seeking out those small and simple truths all around them,” said Old Turtle. “By listening once more to the language of breezes, by learning lessons from the stones and animals and trees and stars. Even turtles,” she chuckled, “and little girls.

“Now, Little One, it is time for you to go, to return to your people and tell them what you have seen and learned, and to help them mend their Broken Truth.

“Take this with you,” said Old Turtle, as she placed something in the Little Girl’s hand. “I have saved it for a very long time, for someone just like you.”

The Little Girl looked at what the Old Turtle had given her. It was a kind of stone, a mysterious, beautiful stone. It was lovely to touch, and it made her feel good to hold it.

She squeezed it tightly, then tucked it away for her journey.

“Thank you, Old Turtle,” she said, and hugged her friend’s great, leathery neck.

And then she started home.

Once more she traveled through the Forest of Finding Out, crossed the River of Wondering Why and the Mountains of Imagining, Crow led the way, and again when the Little Girl grew tired, all her animal friends helped. She sometimes touched the stone the Old Turtle had given her to renew her strength. And it took a long time yet almost no time at all . . .

And she was home.

But it had been a very long journey, and those who take great journeys of the heart are changed.

The people did not recognize her. And when she spoke, they did not understand. She told them of her journey, but the people could not follow her words. She spoke of a world made of small and gentle truths, of all the peoples being one People. But they could not catch her meaning. She explained about the Broken Truth and the need to make it whole. But the people did not believe her and could not understand.

Finally, Crow, seeing all that had happened, flew to the place high above the village where the Great Truth was kept, in a place where all could see it. He cawed and cawed in his loudest voice. And suddenly the Little Girl knew what to do. She climbed to the high place herself. She took the Old Turtle’s stone from her pocket and  . . . carefully . . . added the missing piece to the old, broken one.

The fit was perfect. “You are loved and so are they.” The people looked. And looked. And looked. Some frowned. Some smiled. Some even laughed. And some cried. And they began to understand.

Time passed and upon the beautiful land the trees climbed like ladders to the stars, the waters shone like mirrors, and the people saw their beauty. A breeze stirred and they heard its music. Tiny truths fell by day and night, gentle as the rain and snow, and the people found them and kept them in their hearts.

And slowly, as the people met other people different from themselves, they began to see . . . themselves.

And far away, on a hill in the very center of the world . . .

Old Turtle smiled.”

I have been reflecting on this story as I begin to see myself and my loved ones in my neighbors and students and even in my community mates who look a little more like myself than say, my students. I have also been reflecting on this story in light of building religious tension in Zanzibar. There has been an increase in violence toward Christians, particularly Catholics, in Zanzibar in the past few months and weeks which seems to mirror the battles described in this story. Religion is a tricky thing, you see. It can be an incredibly unifying force in the world, as I have experienced in tangible ways. When my grandfather passed away just a few weeks ago, I found deep comfort in being able to celebrate Mass with my students on the day of his funeral when my family and friends were gathered together celebrating his life. We said the same prayers and received the same nourishing truth in the Eucharist despite the miles which separated us. I have found community in attending daily Mass at Loyola and I have found friendship in the religious sisters teaching at Loyola. One sister is from India, another from Uganda, another from Tanzania. I begin my day with these strong women from different corners of the world celebrating a common faith and worshipping a common God.

Religion has the power to unify and foster community when it is at its best. Religion also has the power to create impenetrable boundaries, violence and war as we have seen throughout history. You don’t have to look far. Open a newspaper and you can read about relentless religious violence in the Middle East, stubborn resistance toward building mosques throughout Europe or political vitriol arguing religion’s place in marriage, abortion, poverty, healthcare, unemployment, etc. Our human history is fraught with religiously-motivated violence and wars.

Of course, religious truths are not the only ones we cling to. We have as many or more cultural truths in which we seek comfort and refuge- truths which do have value and tremendous importance to individuals and whole communities, truths which can shape individuals and communities in life-affirming ways. The problem comes when we fail to see the value in the variety of truths of religion or culture which exists in the world. The problem comes when we cling to our truths with clenched fists or defend our truths with tanks and guns.

The message of this short story seems so simple, “You are loved and so are they.” But, at the same time, we can see why clinging to our broken truth is so attractive. Our happiness and personal interests and livelihoods are at stake. We can understand why the man clings to his broken truth, why he guards it and worships it and why others want to seize it for their own happiness. We are human and we are flawed, like the religions we cling to, but we also possess the potential to create communities and recognize the truth in each other and the truths in creation. Unlike the animals in this story, we have the capacity to create communities, to love each other and to grow closer to God by seeing Him or Her in all things- in all people, even the ones who worship a different god . . . in all experiences, even the really difficult, heartbreaking ones . . . in all of creation, even the ugly, broken parts.

We have the capacity to recognize common truths in each other and in all of creation. It can be really difficult at times, it can feel like we’re losing parts of ourselves in the process, parts of ourselves that we value and call our whole ‘self,’ but the self that we can become when we do this is much closer to the whole truth than the partial piece we now cling to. As humans, I believe, we are called to seek this whole truth in each other and in creation . . . and the good news is that we don’t have to move to Tanzania for two years to do it either!

A Few Updates (sorry for the lack of creativity)

This blog is long overdue and therefore, probably not as coherent or complete as it should be. Bear with me, here are a few updates on different aspects of life here:

1.  I just finished my fourth week at Loyola. Wow. Ok. I now have a pretty good grasp of all of my students’ names and a preliminary sense of their personalities. The variety of levels of ability in each of the classes is a challenge, especially when it comes to speaking English. It seems that even 11-15 year olds understand the universal language of a sticker, so it’s nice to have that trick up my sleeve when behavior is poor or participation is lagging. For the most part, though, my time in the classroom has been wonderfully challenging. I continue to grow in my appreciation for all of the educators in my life. As the daughter of two educators, I thought I had a healthy appreciation for them already, but there’s nothing like standing in front of a class of 38 students everyday to give you a taste of how much energy it really takes to be a teacher. So, thank you, to all of the educators reading this- for your energy, your commitment and your respect!

2.  This past week I took the dala dala(public transportation ‘system’) by myself twice! This was a necessary step toward an increased feeling of independence which I have missed deeply. It’s funny to think that the 14 year old who travelled into Manhattan everyday on her own would become a 22 year old intimidated by something called a ‘dala dala,’ but alas it was a surmountable challenge which left me highly satisfied despite a few mistakes along the way. Both trips were to Posta (the only Post Office in Dar es Salaam)- one was to send mail, the other to pick up a package from a thoughtful, fabulous family member! I made different mistakes each time, but learned what not to do next time and made some Tanzanian friends along the way! It was simultaneously liberating and terrifying to be the only mzungu on the dala with no way of communicating with anyone but those around me. It forced me to trust strangers and was an excellent lesson in humility.

3.  I am becoming more and more comfortable with saying the responses at Mass in Kiswahili! Granted, I use a little book to guide me along, but my goal is to be comfortable saying the Nicene Creed in another month without the book. Admittedly, I have been using the homily time as an opportunity to memorize the creed . . . probably not the most reverent action, but it is definitely more productive than trying to understand the spoken Swahili homily, at least at this point. Given the fact that I still stumble over the whole “consubstantial with the Father” part in English, one month might be a lofty goal for Swahili, but it’s worth a try! I do attend daily Mass at Loyola in English, so it’s nice to be able to participate in English during the week and practice my Swahili on Sundays.

4.  My cooking skills are expanding each week as Cait and I prepare dinner for the community each Tuesday and Wednesday. This week we made homemade eggrolls(which were delicious!!!) with a peanut butter sauce and chapati and a spiced vegetable/egg medley another night. Other things which have been added to my repertoire are: homemade biscuits, banana pancakes (Dad, aren’t you so proud? I’ve finally overcome my fear of flipping a pancake!!), ginger Asian vegetable salad and homemade hummus (I’ve come to an unexpectedly high level of appreciation for Tribe and Sabra and even canned chickpeas and food processors after hand mashing a 1/2 kilo of chickpeas into a paste).

5.  I never expected that I would be glued to a copy of The Economist as intently as I was upon receiving one from a family member, but my information intake has been radically reduced with limited internet access and I found myself reading it with unprecedented intensity. I loved reading news about the Inauguration and Obama’s new cabinet and even news about the conflicts in Syria and Mali. Somehow, I forgot how much I love politics and international affairs while in the middle of this international experience, weird how that happens. It’s even more interesting to read about the news from this geographic vantage point. So, if anyone’s feeling generous . . . I’d love old copies of the NYT, The Economist or other news sources!

First Day of School

Just some quick updates from my first day of school at Loyola High School:

We began the day with an opening assembly for the new school year at which new students and staff members were introduced by the Headmaster. We started the assembly with the school prayer, song and the Tanzanian national anthem (all of which I need to learn!!). Following the assembly (8:00-10:00a.m.), we broke for Tea, and then Cait and I divided up our lessons for this term!

My students, the newest students to the school, who will be in the Human Development Program(HDP) in order to become more comfortable with speaking English, are in orientation this whole week. I will teach one Religion class to Form 1 students on Wednesday, but otherwise, the teaching will commence next week! I now know that I will be teaching HDP Current News, Model Assembly, Word Games, Jesuit Values and Oral English. The main purpose of this curriculum is to create an environment in which English is being spoken, written and learned in order to ready the students for the academic demands of an English speaking high school. Fortunately, I have the resources of Former JV’s (FJV’s) and my second year JV, Cait, all to help me with lesson planning for the year!

We closed the first day with a school Mass and tomorrow, I will meet my HDP students and accompany them during their orientation as we simultaneously orient and acclimate ourselves to our new school and home away from home. More reflection to come soon!

Mangia, bella!

Until I was about 12, I was an extremely picky eater. As a young child, especially, I made meal time a challenge. My parents were patient, yet persistent, as were my other caregivers. One of my babysitters’ husbands was a police officer who usually ate lunch with me during the week, he, too, took on this patient, yet persistent attitude with mealtime. His mantra for me at lunchtime was, “Mangia, Bella!” Italian for “Eat, little girl!” (more or less). My Irish family adopted it as an encouraging mealtime mantra, and eventually I became more adventurous and enjoyed a variety of foods. For the first decade, though, it was a challenge.

What does this have to do with Tanzania? Well, for one thing, I’m trying new foods all the time here and enjoying them: from chapati, to coconut peas, to ugali, to ndizi (a savory banana-based dish). Where the real learning happens, though, is in the food preparation. Since I am living here for two years, and not just visiting for a few weeks, I have been learning how to buy, prepare, cook and eat food here in Tanzania. I’ve had several lessons with a host family with whom I stayed for three days, and other neighbors in Mabibo as well as the 2nd year JVs.  Meal preparations are time consuming. By the time we finish breakfast, it’s time to start preparing for lunch- food is bought fresh each day, for each meal, from the local vegetable stand or duka (a small shop selling anything from rice to laundry detergent to cell phone minutes).  Availability of food is based entirely on the season, so whereas in my local Key Food in Stewart Manor, I can buy Strawberries in February, Avocados in November, Blueberries in March, here in Mabibo, if it doesn’t grow here and is not in season, it’s not just a bit more expensive, you can’t buy it. (For more on food justice issues, pick up a Michael Pollan book at your local library or research the local foods movement!)

Once you have bought the ingredients, you must begin prepping. In order to avoid typhoid and the like, all skins must be removed from fruits and vegetables, or they must be cooked for a few minutes on the stove/flame. Now, in our home, we do have cutting boards and a semblance of  a counter on which to cut and chop and a stove top with two gas burners. Most homes, though, have neither stovetops nor counters. Food prep is done in the shade outside (where it is cooler) with women bent over on small stools and pots cooking on small kerosene powered single flames. If you want to make a simple meal, let’s say, of rice, beans and some veggies, you must begin by sorting the rice- looking for rocks, leaves, bad pieces of rice, etc. Then you continue with sorting the beans- looking for rocks, bugs, misshapen/diseased beans, then cleaning the dirt off, then soaking them for an hour or so, before cooking them. Similar process with the veggies- scrubbing dirt off, then, peeling, then chopping, then eventually cooking.

I share the details of this process, because they are important. It’s important to paint this picture accurately, because if you start to add up all of the different steps for just one meal, you can see how it becomes necessary, or at least immensely more convenient, for one of the parents to stay home. In Tanzanian society, it is the mother who stays home, and really it makes sense in this context. It’s not to say that some women don’t work, there are some who do, but those who do, usually have a house girl, a young woman, probably around my age, who is charge of meal prep, child care and hand washing the laundry. As JVs, though, we live in this interesting balance- we’re full time teachers, but we’re also trying to live simply and in solidarity with our neighbors, so we don’t have a house girl, nor should we, but people do wonder why we don’t. 

My privilege is constantly on mind, I am a 22 year old white woman, with a college degree attempting to live in solidarity with my neighbors in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. I work at a prestigious Jesuit high school, yet, I wash my laundry by hand, we cook our own meals, clean our own house, burn our own garbage, etc. I don’t know for sure, but I have a feeling our neighbors have a lot of questions about our lifestyle. I’m sure I’ll be coming back to this question in the future, but going back to my picky eating habits as a child . . .

What I’ve noticed is that children are the same everywhere. And that phrase, “Eat your food, there are starving children in Africa who would eat it,” is just really silly (by the way, I don’t think my parents ever used that tactic). Yes, there are hungry children in Africa, but there are hungry children all over the world, and my guess is there are some much closer to your home than in Africa. Henrieta, my 10 year old host sister, loves to eat chips (french fries) and when they are served she hardly notices the rest of the food her mother painstakingly prepared. Jay, my 4 year old host brother, spills his mango juice and then runs to steal a sip from his older brother, then drops his food on the floor. Danny, a 3 year old neighbor, drops food on the floor as he eats and his mother cleans it up and tosses it outside for the animals to eat. My nephew, while very careful for a 2 1/2 year old, spills things and makes crumbs (especially when he eats a donut in the car . . . ehemm, Matt), his cousin is a messier eater and just before I left, he stole some french fries off my breakfast plate and I think Henrieta would have done the same if she was sitting next to me at the Omega Diner! 

So let’s not guilt ourselves or others into eating more, or less, but rather become more appreciative for all of the hands and people (there are many) which have been involved in bringing the food to our tables. Let us be grateful for modern conveniences, such as refrigeration, and full functioning kitchens which allow women the opportunity to work if they choose and men to be involved in meal time preparations and clean-up. Let us be mindful of our eating habits, but not obsessive.

“Karibu Sana!” “Feel at home!”

Today (Monday, December 10th), we visited Gonzaga Primary School for the first time. I was so grateful to be surrounded by the energetic children and the welcoming faculty and staff. While this will not be my full time work placement, I will be visiting here occasionally with students from Loyola High School as part of their service requirement. One of the phrases repeated with each introduction was, “Karibu sana! (very welcome) Feel at home!”  I love this phrase because it is indicative of the welcoming spirit of the people of Tanzania and my JV community in Dar and Dodoma. As crazy as it sounds and as much as I miss everyone already, I do feel like I could be at home here. Granted, I have to learn A LOT more Kiswahili and cultural norms before I truly feel at ease in this new place, but the important part is that the 2nd year JV’s and all of our neighbors, parishioners and students want us to ‘feel at home’ and the sentiment alone is enough to ease some homesickness. So, rest assured, I have been welcomed with loving and patient arms!