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.