Women of Omatjete

It’s six am. The sun is just beginning to peak over the thin blue horizon. I am in the back of a large open truck called a lorry—packed in tight—kids squeezing together, wrapped in blankets as the wind whips around us. It is cold, but I am relishing my goose bumps. The lorry barrels down the desert road—swaying this way and that to avoid dips and larger rocks. The driver is calm and exceptionally skilled. Above the loud hum of the engine are the voices of the children, sweet and clear. They sing songs I cannot understand but have fallen in love with anyway.

(school bus)

Thus began my Saturday. The rest of the day was less charmed but still nice. Traveling forty miles took an hour and a half. We arrived at the village of Tubusis which was small and similar to Omatjete. The purpose of our gathering was a regional athletic competition. Five other primary schools attended. The meet had all the features of American sports and field trips—obnoxious parents arguing with each other and officials over race results, team rivalries, bag lunches. And of course the inevitable differences—the track lanes carved into the dirt with sticks all the way around, bare feet, no PowerAde. There was one large water jug for my school, and the students were supposed to bring their own containers to fill from the jug. Most did not, so they simply found discarded cans or bottles on the ground in order to have something to drink from.

(track field)

As I walked around the field, watching other school groups, shaking off stares, I saw that it was mostly women who were managing the event. I wasn’t surprised. In my village, the men drive the cars, and they own the cattle, but whether the community of Omatjete moves or not lies squarely on the broad shoulders of its women.

All of the teachers at the school, except one, are women. The principal is like the village queen. With a car and more money than most, she has someone who cleans for her, a shower, continuous projects going on at her house, visitors constantly, and numerous plants (greenery is an immediate sign of wealth here—you have water to spare). Her husband does not work. Neither does her twenty-seven year old son. Though this is not to say that they aren’t trying. The Namibian unemployment rate is over 30 percent.

Families are primarily made up of women and children. The greater majority of my students have no paternal figure in their house, and the lucky ones see their fathers once or twice a year. These women—be they mothers, grandmothers, aunts, or teachers work, clean, launder, cook, sweep, shop, organize, and care for all of the village kids. It is a shared load.

(the art of sharing a chair)

The women don’t drink. And most seem wary of it—well aware of the changes alcohol sparks in their men. They run the church, the literacy program (teaching adults to read in the afternoons), and coach sports. It’s strange then to hear those who say that women cannot lead because here they are the very best leaders—never expecting recognition for their services. Leading simply as a matter of course, because it must be done.

I am not trying to say that all Namibian men are worthless drunks. On the contrary I have met many capable, kind, intelligent men here. The chief of police who gave me a free (!!) ride to Omaruru, and together we talked about American politics. He also gushed about his family and told me if I ever had any security concerns to come straight to him. The young male teacher at my school who has both energy and a genuine affection for his students. And perhaps my closest friend here—a twenty-seven year old man named Patti who lives two doors down from me. He was studying to be an engineer until a car accident in 2002 left him paralyzed from the neck down. Slowly, over the last five years, movement has returned to parts of his upper body, but he still cannot walk. He loves the Beach Boys, the Eagles, and Rod Stewart. He speaks superb English, and there is a camaraderie between us that extends beyond language—as if we are on the same side somehow. Maybe this is because neither of us fits in completely. Yes, he is Herero, but his disability sets him apart, and I am white and foreign and temporary. We understand the feeling of being on the outside, looking in.

(Patti)

So there are good men here. Good men who try hard. But on the whole, the hands that are muddy and scarred, the hands that have the greatest stake in the successes and failures of those around them, are feminine hands. It’s those hands that suffer the most when there is no rain, no water, no food, and violence swells.

Omatjete did well at the meet—many of our girls won their races and some of our boys did too. We had no team uniforms, but plenty of spirit and very fast legs. On our way home, the sun was setting. I watched the earth fall asleep around me. The air turned cold again. The children were still singing. And I breathed this first real sigh of contentment in two months.

(the team)