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.