Outside, at the principal’s house right now, a lamb is tied to a stake in the ground. He has been bleating non-stop for three days. I keep wondering when they are going to kill him. Last term, just before Easter, Funa knocked on my door one morning. “Come Miss Barrow. I want to show you. Bring your picture.” What he meant by bring my picture was actually bring my camera. I walked outside and he pointed with a high-pitched giggle, “Look! Take the picture. The picture.” There in Ms. Kahaanga’s yard lay a recently slain goat sprawled out limply on the clotted red earth. I gasped at first because the sight was so unexpected, like the time I’d climbed into the back of a truck for a ride home and had come face to face with a severed cow head. Then I watched as a man began to skin the dead animal. His easy, swift movements somehow mesmerizing. “Are you going to take the picture?” Funa asked again. I shook my head. “Why?” he demanded playfully. I narrowed my eyes at him, “You know why.” But he didn’t.
Winter has finally arrived in Omatjete. I was actually cold last night, even tucked inside my sleeping bag. A wonderful, long-forgotten feeling. I don’t know how long this weather is going to last—I just want to enjoy it while it does. The days are still pretty warm— 70-75 degrees, sometimes a bit cooler. I watch the learners huddle together in the chilly morning air before the bell rings. Some don knitted caps and gloves (usually they will split a pair with a friend); some slip socks onto their freezing fingers having found this works almost as well. They continue to wear these garments throughout the day, making me laugh. I think of my first frigid winter at Sarah Lawrence. Perhaps all of my professors were looking at me the way I now look at my students: with a bewildered amusement.
Classes are going fine. Mostly, this term is much like the last one. Except that I know my students much better. I know what routines make this life, with all of its loneliness and frustration, a little bit easier. And in general I know what to expect: who will misbehave, who will follow the rules, who will steal, who will struggle, who will not, who will try hard despite the struggle.
And I have learned to take comfort in the moments or the people that offer a sense of purpose, however fleeting. Like Jeneth, a skinny, slightly awkward girl with large dark eyes and a kind smile, who wants to be a journalist. She listens so intently in class that I find myself utterly grateful for her presence: at least I know the lesson isn’t wasted entirely. She also has an empathy that I am constantly impressed by. Whether I am telling stories of endangered species, AIDS patients, or Namibia’s own scarred history, I can see it in her face, she feels it. She cares deeply about people she has never even met. And she has no idea that this fact, this part of herself, makes my day better.
And Tjizakuje with her calm, serene features. Her unabashed happiness with life, the light that never seems to leave her face. All of it has a soothing effect, like a warm voice that promises everything will be all right. She also contains a quality of absolute determination that I can’t help but marvel at. Last week I began teaching adverbs—a part of speech not easy to grasp, especially when learning English as a second language. The whole class had a hard time. Tjizakuje brought me her notebook to look over her work, and I realized immediately that most of it was wrong. I explained this gently to her, trying to point out what she needed to do, trying to think of another way to make her see. A frown fixed sturdily on her face as she listened, unaccustomed to this new feeling of not understanding. I told her it was typical to have difficulty at first, and she nodded politely. Yet her frown remained, and I could tell that she was disappointed with herself.
The teacher assigned to teach the next period was absent so I told the class they could go outside and play until it was time for math. They jumped up before I had barely finished my sentence. But as her friends ran down the steps, out to freedom, Tjizakuje approached me, “Teacher, I don’t want to go. Please, I want to stay here and work on my English.” It was a genuine plea—as if she was terrified of being denied the chance to do more work. I nodded, “Of course you can stay.” I sat at my desk and she at her’s for the next forty minutes. I waited for her to ask for help, but she stayed where she was, concentrating hard, not looking up until the period was over. She brought me her notebook then, and I held my breath as I looked over her corrections. Then I grinned up at her, and she knew. She knew things were back to normal. She broke into a relieved smile, and sat down, immediately getting out her math, ready to start again.
Like the lamb outside, awaiting its fate, Tjizakuje keeps bleating. I suppose, in some form or another, all of my students do. Some bleating to be left alone; some bleating for attention; some because they are afraid; some because they enjoy the sound of their own voices. And some, because they are that determined not to be someone else’s dinner.
It wasn’t because of the blood that I refused to take the slaughtered goat’s picture. Or the guts. Or because of the cold, vacant expression in the goat’s wide eyes. The truth is I just didn’t think I could capture the sight correctly with a mere image. All people would see was a dead animal. They wouldn’t hear the final moans as life left its body. They wouldn’t watch the families scrounge and save for days on end to just to witness the fruits of their work disappear in a swift jerk of a knife. They wouldn’t observe the skill with which the body was taken apart, or smell the glorious feast that Sunday, or hear the excitement in the children’s voices at the taste of meat. It’s just a fact—that whether in school or out—there is perpetually more to see, more to understand.
In that way, my time here will never be finished. In that way, I will hear them always.
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