Where in the World is Colleen?

For the past 6 months, I’ve been meaning to write this post. “People are people” is a phrase I find myself using often. Usually, it is met with nods. I’ve used it to express trust, compassion, understanding and amusement. I’ve been collecting examples when I am struck by something so similar and familiar yet a world away.

But maybe this phrase is best expressed by the original author.

Almost exactly a year ago, a friend of mine, Helen Brennek, wrote a stunning post on her blog from Zambia entitled “People are People.” Though simple, the truth in this sentence made me pause for a minute. The elegance of the phrase and the brilliant piece of writing that accompanied it has stuck with me since then, a reminder and a boost of hope.

It is easy to look at all the difference, the distance that separates us, the different food and different dress. It is easy to think “how strange” and “how odd”. And yes, there are differences; that’s part of what makes people and cultures so interesting.

But there are many similarities too. Sometimes, it is easier to focus on the differences and forget about the similarities that pull us together. These similarities make it possible for a girl raised in a large Canadian city in a small family to move overseas and live quite happily with a Malawian family in a house of 8, or to spend a night in a rural Malawian village with a couple who have never travelled and devote their days to their farm.

Like Helen,  I have had to re-examine my assumptions and perceptions of the world.  I have had to re-examine my thoughts on the people in it.  And like Helen, I have reached the conclusion (time and again) that it is not where you live or what you look like but who you are that really matters.  Sounds simple, but unfortunately it’s easy to forget.

It is always easiest to see with children. They run around, play with toys, have no desire to do homework and try to outwit their parents to little avail. The little ones carry around a toy or blanket, maybe suck their thumbs; the older ones chastise the little ones just like I used to do with my younger sister (sorry Laura!).

Women love to dress up, do their hair, arrange their houses, gossip and visit. Malawian women, like women the world over, take pride in their appearance and their homes.

The men love cars. It doesn’t seem to matter where you are in the world, when a nice car drives by, all the heads turn. Boys race homemade cars up and down the road. While the cars might look a bit different, being made from discarded beer cartons with bottle caps for wheels and a twisted hanger for a push, the idea and the joy that it brings is the same as the boys playing with their Toys-R-Us cars infront of my house back in Canada.

A grandmother chastises her granddaughter for pulling at her dress and fidgetting, just as my grandmother did.   A grandfather spends his afternoon sitting in the shade, enjoying the visits of his neighbours and children under his grumpy fascade and harsh tone.

A wife in a village sitting near the window turns away from her lunch to look outside and observe the comings and goings of her neighbours. It is a gesture so familiar; one that I have seen my mother do many times out our front window, that I have done myself.

Like Helen said, “People are people”, no matter where you are.

I arrived in Malawi over 6 months ago now, eager to get my feet on the ground. Within 3 weeks, I was out in a village, living with a rural Malawian farming family for a week, shadowing their every move, struggling through my rudimentary Chichewa and building friendships. (Chisasiko Village) It was a very moving experience, one that taught me a lot about myself and provided me with a brief glimpse into agriculture, rural Malawi.

Yesterday, after too many failed attempts to get back and after far too long, I went back. Hoping on a motorbike and navigating the bumps, boulders and twisty red dirt roads I made my slow way there.

Honestly, it was strange to be back. Everything was at once the same and yet different. I kept catching myself saying “Liti ndinabwera…” (When I came before…) followed some observation or remark on what was new or what was not.

When I was there in December, it was planting season; the fields were being hoed, maize and beans were planted, tomatoes were coming into season. Everything was shades of red-brown, green and blue. I made friends with a young lady named Yana, and promised myself I would learn Chichewa so that when I went back, we could communicate beyond the smiles, as nice as they were. I saw the children inch closer and closer and looked forward to seeing them grow a bit taller on my return. I saw the almost completed irrigation canal and freshly dug fish-pond; I heard about their plans for both.

Now, things look at bit different. The growing season has come full circle with the end of harvest near. The bright colours are gone, replaced by grey skies of looming clouds and fields of pale green and gold. Yana has gotten married and moved away to Lilongwe to start her life there. It was this change that hit home hardest of all. It strikes me as strange how we become so attached to a person or an idea. At once, I am sad that she felt she had to leave her home to build a life of better opportunity, and I am glad that she took the steps to do it. Silently, I wish her well and much success.

The irrigation canal is completed and the fishpond is full of water and baby fish. But the fields are still being ridged and nothing has been planted; farmers are not convinced it will work. They are not convinced that anything can grow in a dry and cold season. It is a reminder that you can put in all the physical materials and do all the trainings you want, but we are talking about behaviour change. And change is hard, even for people with far less to loose and far less to risk than many of these farmers.

But some things have not changed; while I have seen the children in my community in Dedza grow up, marvelling at how quickly the children who were babies on my arrival are now running, the children in the village were not noticeably changed. I brought some pictures; I could compare. Takondwa, a girl the same age as Akuzike, has grown no taller in the same time it has taken Akuzike to shoot up. Akuzike moved from breast feeding to porridge to bread in 6 months, Takondwa is still at her mother’s back and breast. And although the other children seemed happy enough to see me, similar trends were apparent. Distended bellies, a sign of malnutrition that I had conveniently overlooked and which rarely presents itself in Dedza, drew my attention.

“It is the difference between living on 1-dollar-a-day and 50-cents-a-day” Tears tells me later that night. Even being here, it’s easy to forget.

I am searching my heart for signs of pity. It is not pity I feel, but a twinge of guilt. Guilt that I learned so much and forgot so quickly. Recognition of the amazing opportunities I have been granted by virtue of having been born in a time and place that recognises women and provides education and health-care. Grateful for my parents and family that raised me healthy, happy, wanting for nothing; who taught me to be curious, to care about people, to search out opportunities.

I didn’t take pictures. I didn’t have the heart.

We all know giving is good. Most people are inspired to help others, driven by a sense of fairness and duty. But what happens when that sense of duty and desire to help gets in the way of doing good work? What happens when you get in your own way?

I have often railed against charity, more since I have seen it here. People don’t need charity. They don’t need your pity and self-righteous help. No one, be they in a foreign context or in your own backyard, needs your quick fix solutions and answers to problems you don’t understand.

Good intensions are NOT enough.

Like the old proverb, “the road to hell is lined with good intensions.” It could not be truer.

I don’t think I will ever really understand what could motivate a couple of Canadians to fly over and think that they can do good work that would help people in a foreign context, with needs different than their own, with different priorities and constraints.

Over breakfast this morning, this is what I witnessed.

A charity (which I will keep unnamed out of courtesy to the individuals) of 4 people fundraised some money from friends and their community back in Canada. They have come out for 2 weeks a year for the past couple of years to help 5 villages in Malawi. They distributed mosquito nets, blankets, WaterGuard to clean the water. This year, they are here for 3 months.

At first glance, maybe this seems like a good idea. Yes, combating Malaria by the simple distribution of mosquito nets makes sense (to us) … less people sick, more people able to work, reduced expenses for healthcare and medicine… possible eradication of the disease. BUT, go deeper!! WHY do they not have mosquito nets? Could they not afford them? Do they not enjoy sleeping under the net? Is it not socially acceptable? Are they not able to access them? Are the distributors too far away? Are they waiting for an NGO or charity to come provide them? What is the government policy on mosquito net distribution?

The underlying assumption of distributing them for free is that people CANNOT access the nets for reasons of “poverty” or financial constraints. Maybe, but it’s much bigger than this. We are talking about an underlying behaviour change, like washing hands with soap, something people KNOW will keep them from getting sick but still don’t do, despite having readily available soap. So WHY did they need YOU to come in provide the nets? And when you are gone, what will happen to them? Will they use them? If they get torn, will they repair them? After all, they didn’t ask for the nets and didn’t buy them… what incentive is there for taking care of them?

It gets better. Someone (not clear who) decided that the children were not getting enough protein in their diets. (Incidentally, the problem is more that they do not get enough vitamins, which are provided for free when parents take their children to feeding and nutrition centers) The thinking went like this: Protein is important – eggs have protein (so do beans which are readily available and enjoyed) – chickens lay eggs – we should provide chickens. Great!

BUT… Who is going to get the chickens? (questions of access and control) Why do they not eat eggs now? Do they like eggs? Would they prefer to sell the eggs for profit and purchase something that they find more useful like maize flour to make nsima or pay school fees? Are they set up to take care of the chickens? (having safe and secure coups to prevent disease and theft… both prevalent issues) Who else in the area is working on nutrition? Are there government and CBO services available to manage these issues? (yes… the recommended yet poorly attended nutrition and feeding centres… better question is why are people no attending?)

There are many more examples… wells, boreholes, treadle and diesel powered pumps…

And if you go beyond this isolated example, you find stories like this littering the files and walls of far too many offices around the world.

To give these people a bit of credit, they are beginning to realize the complexity of what they have blindly stumbled into. They are taking it in stride, admitting failures as they see them, realizing that this model of giving and charity is not working… they are “at a starting over point.” But how far can you get when you a foreign charity with no vision and a limited if non-existent understanding of the culture and context?
(When asked for their vision for their charity: to help villages and to make them sustainable. I just about lost it.)

Yes, quick fixes and technical solutions are sexy. They are easy to see, easy to understand, easy to feel good about. But they are not the solution that is needed, assuming we could/should ever find a good solution to a messy and complex problem.

How do you avoid this? The only way I know is to admit that you and I DO NOT KNOW the answer, to admit your own faults and failures, to recognise success in others, to ask more questions than you ever thought possible. WHY? Because if we don’t do this, we will continue to make the same mistakes that we have made for the past 40+ years, we will continue to waste everyone’s time and money, and we seriously risk undoing all the good work that might have been done over those same past 40+ years.

You hear it on the news. It makes headlines.

Somali Pirates
Refuge Camps
Starvation and Poverty

A symptom for something much larger and much more complex.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8001183.stm

You see the pictures and the pleas…donate! Fight piracy!

If you are like me, you feel a twinge of guilt, of pity, of shame, but coupled by a sense of helplessness in the face of tragedy.

…Until Somalia literally comes to your doorstep.

Dedza is a small town on the border of Mozambique, strategically located. (I can walk to Mozambique in 1/2 an hour and see well into it from the top of Dedza Mountain.) It is on the major highway between the two biggest cities in Malawi (Lilongwe and Blantyre). It used to be the major gateway for travellers to South Africa, a meeting place for people willing to leave their homes behind in the hopes of finding a better future in the south.

Dowa is about 150km away from Dedza. Currently, Dowa hosts one of the largest Somali refuge camps around. (Malawi has a good history of hosting refuge camps.) I haven’t been to see it (yet), but Somalia has come to see me. Increasingly, Somalis are leaving the camp, by foot or by truck, and coming to Dedza. They wander the streets and go door to door, begging for food, for money. They are starving. When asked, they tell you they have come to make their way to South Africa, a paradise of prosperity in many’s eyes. They tell you that the camps have no food. That there is no water, no health care. That, like the Somali pirates, there is little other option.

I haven’t been to the camp. I don’t know if they are telling the truth or what their motives are. It is hard for me to guess. I’m pretty sure that the WFP (World Food Programme) provides relief, as does the UN and others.

But I do know how it feels to be faced with a news story, to look into someone’s eyes, hear the broken English and be smacked with an alternate reality.

Somalia has arrived on my doorstep.

(Mom, don’t worry. Dedza is still a nice, safe and friendly place. I have lots of people taking care of me and I’m just fine.)