Last Days

I left Omatjete yesterday—the last couple of weeks still swirling around in my head. The weeks that brought out the best and worst in me. The day before Thanksgiving there was a terrible fight between two thirteen-year-old fifth grade boys named Simeon and Ricardo. It started just as school was letting out in the small, central courtyard between the classroom buildings. I rushed in to break them up but couldn't manage it alone being small and with the boys so angry. The other kids were leaving the classroom and a crowd began to gather. I heard Ms. Kahaanga announce something in Otjiherero and as I went in to try to separate them again one of my Daniels (I teach four of them) grabbed my arm, "No, miss you can't. Ms. Kahaanga said they must fight. Then they can respect each other." I stared at him, shock and revulsion spreading over my face. There was a sizable crowd now including most of the teachers, all just watching. The teachers were on the elevated steps leading up to the classes. The Queen was surveying her domain from her office. I was down in the sand with the students.

The boys fought on. I hesitated, started to go in, and hesitated again. Daniel kept shaking his head at me, "They will stop when the arm is broken." His voice was not cruel or amused, just matter of fact. Suddenly, two grade 7 boys dove in and wrenched them apart and I saw that Ricardo, the boy who was losing, had a bloody nose. I felt sick. The grade 7 boys let them go and Ricardo—humiliated in front of the whole school— attacked again. Still no move was made by the teachers.

All of you (with the exception of my little sister maybe) will probably agree that I am not a violent person by nature. In fact I generally tend to avoid conflict and confrontation if I can. But this sight, watching this boy's humiliation, feeling so appalled by the principal's decree, and frustrated by my own hesitation sent a fury through me which I have known only a few times in my life. I was the angriest I have been all year and propelled by this rage I shouted incoherently, soared through the crowd, grabbed Simeon by the collar, and crashed him into the wall. "I am not going to sit here and watch this all day!" I bellowed.

My emotion seemed to break the spell. The first grade teacher came forward and took Ricardo to wash his face. I let go of Simeon and as I stalked off I shouted, "Is this what we do now—we just let the kids hit each other?" But I was so angry and my words came so fast that I doubt anyone understood me. I hate that I lost control like that, in front of everyone no less, but in the moment I wasn't embarrassed or afraid or remotely sorry. I was too furious to feel anything else.

Things are always better in the morning, right? This was particularly true on my one and likely only Thanksgiving in Namibia. First, I received the news I've been waiting on for two months: that Tjizakuje was admitted to Martin Luther High School! I tracked her down at break and told her what I had learned. She broke into her beautiful, glowing smile and hugged me tightly. Then I had to find Naftaline and tell her that she was on the waiting list, which didn't mean no but didn't mean yes either. She will find out in January and I will keep 'holding my thumbs' until then.

A little while later I took the completed grade 5 English exams to Ms. Kahaanga in her office. We hadn't spoken since the fight the day before and I had already made up my mind to defend my position should she bring it up. The secretary was in the office too and as I came in Ms. K said, "We were just talking about the fight yesterday. I have been feeling very bad about it." This caught me off guard. I nodded, "I didn't want the learners to hurt each other," I began. "Yes," she interrupted. "I can see that it touched you. I am very sorry." I was so shocked by the apology that it took me a minute to thank her.

And then, later that afternoon, Dr. Venter—the uncommonly kind Afrikaner doctor in Omaruru—called to let me know that Benson's HIV test came back negative. The day had truly turned out to be a worthy Thanksgiving despite the absence of good food.

Last weekend, the grade 6 teacher Ms. Gertze, who is also Naftaline's aunt, invited me to her farm to celebrate her 52^nd birthday. Ms. Ikorua, her son Funa, the other Ms. Gertze (grade 5 teacher), Zuma—the nice policeman in town, Naftaline, and a farmer named Jonathan who was our driver came too. Before you get the image of a big red barn and corn fields let me say that a farm in Namibia consists of a large plot of land way out in the middle of nowhere with cows and goats wandering about. The farm we went to was a tiny neighborhood of about 10 scattered houses in the valley of several large hills and in the shadow of the tallest mountain in the region. It was a beautiful place. For one there was an underground spring which provided the settlement with clean well water. The group took me there and we all stared amazed at the amount of water just bubbling out of the ground. A tiny stream even ran down through the trees that were large and arching—almost like a miniature forest. Then Naftaline took me to the top of the tallest hill so we could see the whole valley including the dry riverbed and a cemetery with about 30 plots. The settlement even had a church: a large shady tree with a ring of stones around it.

(Church)

As Naftaline and I walked back to the house from the cemetery we came upon a very old tree that stretched out horizontally over the riverbed. The trunk was thick and inviting and we took turns climbing and walking over the river. On the way back Naftaline told me that the tree was so old that her aunt played on it when she was a child. That day at the farm was one of the nicest days I have spent in Namibia.

(Naftaline and Herero elder)

My last week happened fast. Almost as if I went to bed Sunday night and woke up on Thursday. A small crowd of kids inhabited my stoop incessantly like brightly colored moths attracted to my kitchen light. I was utterly grateful for their company. The girls braided my hair. The boys kicked a ball around in my yard. They asked me questions, asked for objects I was leaving behind. For an hour on Wednesday I was convinced I had to come back for another year, but that feeling faded as I reminded myself that I just don't like goodbyes.

(Jolanda and Herero doll she made for me)

But the goodbyes came, as they must. Though in Namibia it is more like a farewell. I will try to keep in touch with several of my learners, but I know it won't be easy, given that most have nowhere to receive mail and no phones for me to call. On Friday, we closed the school and had our last assembly. The learners sang me a song they had practiced for my going away. I could not contain my tears and once they saw me crying, many of the children started crying too. All of the hostel kids went home shortly after that which meant I had to say goodbye to a lot of my favorite sixth graders, including Basson. We stood in my kitchen, not knowing what to say, and so I did the only thing that felt natural. I hugged him and found that he was still young enough to want to be held like a little boy. I put my arms around him and for the first time in my life I felt like a mother. He cried into my chest and I let him, putting one hand on the back of his head. I thought this must be what it's like to love a child of your own. To need to hold him every bit as much as he needs to be held. To not want to let go even though you know you must.

(Omajete Teachers)

My last weekend was spent in the company of some of the learners who live in the village. Naftaline, Monica, and of course Tjizakuje, the person it was hardest to leave behind. Talking was sporadic as usual, but I have learned that when language is a barrier, you learn to decipher character without words. Watching people's actions, gestures, and expressions far more closely. Every word becomes precious, more meaningful. Conversations happen in fragments. Lonely, lovely snippets to be cherished and searched. However fragile and brief, ultimately that's what all of my relationships here have been built upon.

As the government car pulled away, I turned around and caught a last glimpse of some ambling goats and cows, most searching the dirt for a solitary shrub or a discarded bone. I was reminded of looking out my window on an unbearably hot September afternoon in third term. There was a donkey inching along the road, his front hooves handcuffed together so that walking was nearly impossible. The road beside my house leads on to the water troughs, and I knew that was where he was trying to get. I watched him for ten solid minutes. In that time he had barely hobbled from my house to Ms. Kahaanga's. And I thought, he is never going to make it to the water. He'll die first or give up—which is really the same thing. I thought the lives of my learners are on his back, and just as slowly, just as hindered they attempt to quench an old and aching thirst.

I fly home tomorrow. Will arrive on Thursday morning. Hardly seems real that in two days I will be with many of you again. Thanks to everyone for a year's worth of listening. See you very soon.

Benson and Basson

So it’s started. The countdown. The realization of my leaving. I can feel it and I can tell that some of the kids are starting to feel it. One of the people I will miss the most when I leave is a 13-year-old sixth grade boy named Basson. Almost from the first day of class I’ve been attached to him and the attachment has only grown throughout the year. He’s skinny and small with big dark eyes and a bright smile. Basson has a gentle soul. While he enjoys his fair share of play and joking around I’ve seen him hold a nervous 2^nd grader’s hand on the way to the store, carry a girl’s bag for her as they hailed down a car to hike, and offer this same girl his only sweater on an exceptionally cold morning. These my seem simple, trivial gestures but here in Omatjete such actions by a 13 year old boy (or any boy) are as rare as rain.

What I love most about him however is his intense love of books. I remember watching him in the library, how absorbed he was, how impossible it was to distract him from the bright pages. Our library is a small converted classroom with one table and one chair. The children sit in groups on the floor as they read (or talk). But not Basson. He likes to hide away instead. I’ve often spotted him curled under the only table or situated between the chair and a corner or ducked behind the door. He likes to be alone. That way it’s just the book and him.

I began to realize that he was sad about my near departure when he stopped slipping into his own little world at the library. The past two weeks he has come to sit next to me instead, engaging me in conversation about what he’s reading, sitting just close enough so that his tiny, childlike arm can brush against mine.

(Basson, on my left/ Ovandu-Ovawa on my right)

It’s taken me five months, but I finally finished Charlotte’s Web with both of my classes. The kids who actually listen were devastated at Charlotte’s death. I was overjoyed that they’d noticed and better yet—cared. Basson never takes his eyes off the photocopied pages while we read. The day we finished he showed up at my house asking to see my copy just for a little while. I’m not sure I would’ve said yes to any other boy. Basson doesn’t know it yet, but that copy is staying here in Namibia when I leave- with him.

I’m taking my friend Benson to the doctor to get an HIV test tomorrow. He came to me in secret, begging me not to tell anyone. Benson is in ninth grade at the closest high school—Otjiperongo. I haven’t really let myself think about the possibility of the test being positive. Because if it is, I still have to leave and if it is I will leave knowing a kind 16 year old boy will soon be dead. Benson is the source of a lot of sadness for me. He’s a good kid, cares about school, knows English reasonably well, thinks about others, and yet still he has opened himself up to AIDS. I worry that if he isn’t hearing the warnings, no one is.

(Benson, grandmother, and cousin)

That’s when the guilt starts. Thinking about leaving these kids, wondering if they will end up in Benson’s shoes in just a few short years. Knowing that even if I was to stay there’s no guarantee that I could save them. Saving is too bold a word. An arrogant word. A hopeful word. A word we are all desperate to be capable of, at least for one person. And a word that has eluded me for eleven months.

Living here has been a heavy experience. To be needed all the time. To have the world around you become a drain and you are the spinning bath toy trying not to be washed away. The water is filled with greed and selfishness, with wishes and curiosity, with admiration and laziness, with real love. I feel constantly dizzy, constantly tugged upon.

It’s such a strange extreme. Sometimes I think everything I do is pointless and other times I think, my God, what would happen if I weren’t here?

It just occurred to me that Thursday is Thanksgiving. One of my favorite holidays having spent many wonderful ones as a child with a grandmother I have recently lost. We’re supposed to eat good food and reflect on what we are thankful for. So often my thankful part gets lost amongst the stuffing. This year, however, I don’t have any turkey; all I have left is my thanks. Thanks that Benson felt like he could confide in me, thanks that I have a family who will miss me this Thursday, thanks for Basson’s tiny little arm, and thanks to all of you for taking the time out to listen.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Family

It’s been an emotional, strange couple of weeks. Two weekends ago the World Teach volunteers had our End of Service meeting in Otjiwarongo-- a nice town about an hour northeast of Omaruru. We stayed at a beautiful guesthouse with hot showers, good breakfasts, and even a pool. It felt good to be with everyone again, talking about our sites, future plans, staring in awe and disbelief at those brave enough to stay for a second year. The meeting covered dealing with return culture shock, how to put this year on our resumes, evaluating our sites, etc.

Mostly it was just time to be with a group of people who have shared my life for a year. Who know in great detail what it has been every day to be here. In some ways, I feel close to them simply because of that fact. Monday morning we boarded combis—one going north—the other south, just as we had that morning 10 months go when we all headed to our sites for the first time. The parting was bittersweet—all of us acknowledging our sheer joy about going home but sad too because most of us knew we’d probably never see each other again.

I did not have time to dwell on the last meeting when I returned to Omatjete. To begin, last week was insane at school because of a cultural festival we hosted on Saturday November 3^rd. The teachers seemed to think that preparing for this event was excuse enough to sit in the staff room Wednesday-Friday without going to any classes—making it nearly impossible for me to teach my own classes because the unsupervised students ran rampant through the school—and this two weeks from exams!!

(Pictures from Cultural Festival)

But a bigger problem clouded even my frustrations at school. On Wednesday Funa and Tjizakuje came to my house asking for food. Their mother has been in another village for the past three weeks caring for her own dying mother. Tjizakuje’s older brother (and by older I mean 30ish) has been responsible for them and I think little has been done. Two weeks go, Tjizakuje nearly collapsed in class and I had to walk her home because she hadn’t eaten in two days. I’d given her bred on that occasion and told her if she ever needed food to come to me. And here they were a week later standing on my stoop with hopeful eyes. I loaded them up, yet felt powerless to do more—hoping only that they would always come if they were in trouble.

Then Thursday after break, as I was trying to control three classes all by myself, Tjizakuje’s best friend Monica approached me with a frightened, desperate expression on her face. As she began to talk, the situation at Tjizakuje’s house was revealed to be far worse than I had ever imagined. Her aunt had come to stay in her mother’s absence, and had apparently been beating the kids daily with a broomstick, especially Tjizakuje who unaccustomed to such treatment was fed up and had decided to walk the four hours through the bush to get to where her mother was. By the time Monica was telling me this story, Tjizakuje had been walking for three hours. My worry grew as Monica began to cry. I attempted to calm her down and went to tell the other teachers (who were all in the staff room having a laugh of course) just to find out that they already knew. When I asked what we could do about it, they gave me the usual confused stare, as if I had just asked whether I could borrow their space ship and fly to Mars for the weekend.

So with Monica and Naftaline’s help I tracked down a cell phone number and we were able to call Tjizakuje’s mother. Tjizakuje had arrived at the village just fine and would be returning that evening. But she told Monica on the phone that she had nowhere to sleep that night and couldn’t go home. Monica told this to me, and I asked Tjizkuje if she needed a place to stay. She lied to me saying she didn’t. I solved this predicament by making Tjizakuje promise me that she would come to my house first when she got back to Omatjete. In the meantime I borrowed a mattress from one of the teachers and spent the afternoon reading as I waited.

Around five o’clock, there came a knock at my door. There stood Tjizakuje, having returned with a donkey cart. She came inside and sat down, and finally I got her to tell me the whole story of what was really going on at home, and she admitted she wasn’t going to go back until her mother returned. Tears formed in her eyes as she talked but they stayed there, resisting the urge to stream down her cheeks. She’s a tough one—tough enough to brave the bush for four hours in the middle of the day without water. As Naftaline once told me, “Tjizakuje’s not afraid of anything.” Having seen evidence to this fact myself I knew her aunt must be pretty terrifying for her to refuse to go home.

So Tjizakuje stayed with me for four days until her mother came home. I made her macaroni, we watched some movies, and we talked. There was a lot of quiet. Language always somewhat of a barrier, even for us. One night, as I turned off the light, I could her hear deep breathing, meaning sleep had found her. She seemed like such a small child, curled up on my floor. I thought about my two families in Namibia, both of which will soon dissolve. One being the circle of American volunteers who understand both where I come from and what I’m going through because of where I come from. The other being a circle of students who have been my only friends at site. I have spent the last year of my life in the company of 12 year olds almost every day. The adults here have been far less inclusive than I would’ve thought, so any love I received or gave was in the context of my classes. When my grandmother passed away it was my sixth graders who gathered around my desk to ask what was wrong, to offer gentle arms and hands, hoping to show me I was not alone with my sorrow.

I don’t want to be sentimental or gloss over the reality of my time here simply because it is coming to an end. Many of the kids have helped only to make life stressful and frustrating. But there are a few, some I’ve written about, others I haven’t, that have been my garden, blooming right in the middle of all this dry, dead dirt.

Regrets

Last Sunday I went into Omaruru with Rachel to make sure she got a hike up north okay. It also happened to be the weekend commemorating the Herero Genocide that took place 100 years go when 80 percent of the population was wiped out by the Germans. White flag Hereros (and some green and red flags also) came from all over to participate. The flags signify a particular chief that was followed during the conflict. There are a large number of white flag Hereros in the Omaruru area. There was a large parade of women in their grand dresses and men in military uniforms. I followed the parade as it marched through the dusty Omaruru riverbed all the way to a cemetery on the outskirts of town where several Herero leaders who fought against the Germans are buried. Distant relatives of the German commander who gave the extermination order attended this year to pay their respects, and their faces dotted the landscape, looking out of place, pale, and terribly sorry for crimes committed long before they were born by men they never knew.

An older Herero leader gave a speech at the gravesite that was eloquent and lovely. I listened to the calm voice of the translator but watched the older man the whole time. He spoke of the past with a reverent sadness, but he also spoke of the future—the need to move on and build a more unified world for the new generations. He said working together was the only true way to honor the memory of those who had died. He even welcomed and thanked the few white people who were there, which made me feel a bit easier considering not so long ago people who looked like me killed thousands of people who liked him.

I recognized many of the faces from Omatjete in the crowd, some dressed up, others just watching. Some of the older men were crying which made me feel as if I did not understand the situation at all. After the speech, the cemetery began to slowly clear. Some of the people touched the graves lightly with their hands as they passed them. Then the crowd marched and drove their way into the Location where I did not feel safe enough to follow, not knowing my way around. So I went back to town, grocery shopped, had some tea and waited for a ride back to the village.

(Himbas heading into the Location)

Last week, my field director and the head of World Teach came to my site. I swear Omatjete is a magnet for bigwigs. Sam Nujoma, President Pohamba, and now Helen-Claire Seevers who is at the very top of the World Teach food chain. She was a nice, friendly woman in her fifties, who was very enthusiastic about seeing my school and taking pictures of me every step of the way. She had nothing but nice things to say to me and about the school, thrilled to not be dealing with the constant crises that are her lot as director. And she especially adored the uniforms that Matt and Ashli sent, so much so that she took pictures of me with them, claiming that the photos would be put up on the World Teach website when she returned to America. I was interested to hear about her time in the Marshall Islands where she ran a school for three years, marveling at the fact that someone could be so bright and optimistic after so much time when I feel exhausted and discouraged after only ten months.

While we were touring the classrooms, Ms. Kahaanga came by to meet the visitors. And she asked, Maggie, my field director, whether the school would be receiving a volunteer next year. That’s when Maggie hit her with the bad news. Only 13 volunteers are signed up for next year (there are 22 in my group), besides the fact that my region and World Teach have a pretty terrible relationship due to various incidences throughout the year. So no, Omatjete will not be getting a volunteer next year. I will be the third and last until further notice. Ms. Kahaanga took the news in stride, indeed she did not seem bothered by it all, which was a relief.

All in all the visit lasted about an hour. The busy pair had several other schools to get to. As they were climbing into the car, Ms. Severs paused and asked her first difficult question of the entire interview. “Was there ever time you regretted coming here?” She looked straight into my face as she asked this. I could tell she wanted the truth. And I could tell she meant real regret, not acute homesickness or simply a bad week. I smiled at her with a half sigh—the kind of sigh you sometimes get from politicians when they really don’t want to answer a question. But for the first time that afternoon I spoke without reservation, without softening the blow. “There was a weekend in June,” I said, “when I spent both days, all day, trying to figure out how to get out of this. I didn’t really want to go home, but I didn’t want to be a teacher anymore, I was so unhappy with it. But I couldn’t just leave without figuring out a way to get a replacement and without having something else to do. I spent two long days trying to come up with an answer and I couldn’t. So I stayed.” I paused for a moment, and then added hesitantly, “and I’m glad I did.” Ms. Severs stepped away from the car and gave me a hug.

After they drove off, I walked back to my house thinking about her question and my answer. Sometimes I think my year would have been better spent doing something I was better at, teaching clearly not one of my gifts. I think I could have done more good if I had picked a different field—not sure what though. As frustrated as I have felt however, I cannot call the emotion regret. Tjizakuje’s bright, glowing face. Funa’s crooked teeth. Jeneth’s quiet, familiar eyes. The sixth graders’ voices. Talks on my stoop. It’s downright difficult to regret details like that. And I know the closer it gets to December, the more impossible it will become.