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.