Politics

(Jeneth, Naftaline, Tjizakuje)

Sorry for my brief hiatus from weekly emails. Not only have I been off of my school schedule with the Easter break and enjoying a visit from home, I was also sick last week. No real worries—just a bug from the water, which up until now I have miraculously avoided. The “running stomach” as they call it here (I’ll let you use your imagination) was considerate enough to strike when someone was here to take care of me. So I feel pretty lucky.

It has been a busy couple of weeks as you will see from the pictures I am sending out. My ceiling was torn apart and repaired within the span of a day in order to rid the roof of a family of bats that have been using my room as a toilet, and the former president and “founding father” of Namibia, Sam Nujoma, visited Omatjete for the first time in his seventy years.

All of these events have been a lesson in the politics of village life: what gets done, who does it, how when the government is only reliable on occasion people will grasp for any hand within reach. Take the bat situation—I reported the problem to both my field director and my principal. My field director suggested writing a letter to the Ministry of Education asking them to exterminate the bats and fix my roof. Having twiddled my thumbs for two months in the hope of a simple wardrobe, I suppressed a sigh as I agreed to do this. My principal, Ms. Kaahanga’s, sigh was much more audible, “No-no,” she shook her head exasperated. “You’ll be waiting for the whole year.”

Conveniently, I fell sick the next day, and convinced it was because of the bats, Queen Kaahanga found someone qualified to take care of it the day after. She also brought in three of my students to help clean the walls of my house, mop and polish the floor, and wash the windows! Ken and I attempted to pitch in, but mostly all we could do is stare in awe as these tasks were actually accomplished. Even the principal lent a hand, shaking her head in astonishment at the mounds of bat waste littering my floor as the ceiling was torn apart.

Halfway through our progress, a soft-spoken, thoughtful ninth grade boy named Benson, who we’d met at the hike point the week before, showed up to say hello. Before long he’d taken the broom from one of the girls and joined right in. It felt like a community affair with people poking their heads in randomly to see how everything was going. More people passed through my house that afternoon than any other time since my arrival. And it paid off-- the man started working at 10:30am and by 5:30 pm my house was a spotless bat-free work of art. Take that Ministry of Education.

(Benson and me)

I was still marveling over such expedience when Sam Nujoma showed up in Omatjete two days later. Namibia has several political parties but its main one, garnering 70% of the vote in the last presidential election, is called SWAPO. The party is primarily made up of leaders who were part of the liberation movement and fight against South Africa during the apartheid era. Seventeen years ago, they were swept to power in a wave of overwhelming gratitude for what had been gained and an equal surge of blinding idealism for what the future might contain. The reality, of course, has been much more difficult to maintain. In Omatjete, an area dominated by the Hereros, gratitude has worn especially thin for the Ovambo (the majority tribe in Namibia) controlled parliament. Independence is not enough anymore.

Still people did turn up to see the Ovambo man many speak of with reverence in their voices. “The father,” they call him. He met with the “traditional leaders” of the community first, meaning old Herero men who have lived here longer than most. Ms. Kaahanga, head of the women’s council and in charge of the only school in the town, was not included. When I asked Tjino—a man who is on the town council—what they were talking about, he said it was confidential but that they were discussing problems in the Omatjete area. “Good,” I said. “Are they going to fix the water then?” Tjino laughed uncomfortably and excused himself before he even attempted to answer my question.

Then came the procession of red, blue, and green (SWAPO colors) out of the community center and the upbeat SWAPO song as Sam Nujoma walked through the crowd to a seat under a tent with

his entourage. He looked kindly and old with a white beard and a round belly. He smiled almost continuously, and his bright white teeth seemed to disclose the politician in him. Speeches followed—Sam Nujoma spoke English, which was followed by a translation in Otjiherero and one in Damara (a click language spoken in my region but not at all in Omatjete).

By the end of the speeches, I understood why SWAPO had come—it was to celebrate and fundraise the construction of a SWAPO office next to the community center. Sam Nujoma even held the shovel for the groundbreaking. For good measure, the group also brought along a sizeable donation of pumpkins and corn for the students living at the school. Much time was spent on photo-ops with my principal as she and Sam shook hands amongst the vegetables, her SWAPO scarf draped around her shoulders even in the hot sun.

Long after Sam Nujoma and friends had departed in their shiny SUVs, I thought about how a SWAPO office was probably the last thing Omatjete needed. It would not harm the village in any way, but it wouldn’t help. And to waste money on a building that will stand and offer little but its own presence seemed damage enough. The water would continue to run two hours every other day, the road would remain unpaved, the only houses not made of mud would continue to be owned by the government alone. At least for a week or so, the hostel students would have more to eat than porridge.

(Ms. Kahaanga and Sam Nujoma)

SWAPO has done a lot for Namibia—the country is politically stable; there is a functioning democracy; and even amidst chronic corruption development is sputtering out across each region. But the eyes of most see beyond this point now; they see more. Simply being alive is not sufficient. Freedom, once gained and solidified, demands the tangible fruits of liberty, and here such a harvest, beyond the occasional pumpkin or donated ear of corn, has yet to be realized.

So instead of calling the Ministry for help, the community continues to knock at Ms. Kaahanga’s door. And we are lucky—she is generous—she gives what she can. The thing is, one garden can only feed so many mouths. The rest simply go hungry.