Somehow I'm sorry to be intermittent in writing and updating the blog, but continuity in things is not one of my strong points. I know I need to get inspiration to write, and inspiration is a tank: when you empty it of all the words and emotions, it requires some time before returning to fill up again. Some other times, instead, I feel I lose myself in the flow of things to the point of being unable to stop me, put aside and collect my thoughts. This is the risk of everyday life, or of routine. Lost time that won’t come back.
What I want to write about is again the story of Maman Flor, which has evolved in unpredictable ways.
A few days after our first intervention, two events have disrupted everything and we begin to realize that help is by no means simple as it seems at first sight.
Her landlord, Meda, after having seen us at her house, has given her a letter of immediate eviction if she would not paid the three months' rent arrears. With this letter she came to us and Alice, perhaps without considering well the consequences, has lent her some money.
A few days later, Flor has found Merveille, her first child who since a few months has been living on the street, and brought him back home. She wished that we knew him, hoping that we could help his recovery.
When they came to us, Merveille kept his eyes down all the time and answered in monosyllables. He was frightened, he was in front of me but it too far away at the same time. To establish a minimal contact for me was impossible. When I asked him why he left his family, he answered without hesitation: "because my father is gone." Suddenly, for a moment, he has been there, clear as pure water, but in front of his wound I was unable to say anything. Before they left, we managed to wring a promise that he would resume the school until June, and then we would find a way to pay his training as a carpenter, his stated desire, who knows how much to him and how much to his mother.
The next day, left alone at home by the owner to watch TV (and here the story does not sound clear at all), Merveille steals a video camera carried to Meda to be sold, and the money that his mother had saved to buy a new bag of foufou. From that moment, Merveille disappeared once again.
The owner of the camera claims his money, and the head of the neighbourhood has determined. like king Solomon did, that Flor and Meda must share the responsibility and the payment of damages. Now Flor doesn’t know what to do: she lost everything again and hope for our new help. What should we do?
In the last days, I have reached the idea that the root of these events is our presence, of mundelé that have the colour of money. We are the foreign element of a small universe of variables that is generating unexpected dynamics.
Meda, despite he works and has no economic problems, wants to beat the nail and claims his right to share the luckiness happened to maman Flor, who has the help of whites. I fear that lend more money to Flor is good for nothing, that new problems will arise and that the requests end up only increasing. We all have the idea that she is victim of what happened, but I do not feel to exclude at all that there is not even a minimal participation from her in the whole affair. We took a few days to decide what to do, but there is not much time for; in the meanwhile Flor can not work.
About Merveille, he has lost an opportunity that he was unable or unwilling to grasp. He will continue to seek his way on the road or, since his father has abandoned him, he prefers the street because the word “home” has lost meaning for him.
I know it's wrong and illogical in many ways but somewhere, inside me, I hope that with the money made with the theft Merveille has gone to Pointe Noire to find his father. Maybe he won’t find it, but it could help him to find himself.
About us, we are slowly learning how to move in this new world. And we don’t have to be disappointed if things follow unimaginable and misleading trajectories. I tell myself that the learning process can sometimes be a bit painful, like when we discover that things are not like the pictures we had of it and the alarm clock of reality breaks into a thousand pieces the world we were dreaming about. As every time when we realize that the world continues his tour, regardless of our small actions. Or worse, when we discover that our small actions can create more problems than the ones they would like to solve. These circumstances given, perhaps it was unavoidable that all this happened. It’s sad, but it helps us to show us where we are, what we are doing, in what ways we can help. And in what others ways we only risk to do harm.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Mission in the forest #1
For the first time I go on mission in the forest, in the small village of Likouala.
My journey does not begin with good omens: father Ruffino, the priest who will accompany and will host us at his mission in Zanaga (a town 25 km from the village) doesn’t want me to leave without my passport. The problem is that my passport is lying at the immigration office for a month, waiting for the visa renewal. I can not get out of Brazzaville without my passport, unless to pay all the cops who I’ll meet on the road. The solution is maman Odile, a policewoman who works at the airport and has good contacts to the immigration office. She can retrieve my passport in one day. I find that I risk of having to remain at home only the day before: my attempt becomes a race against time. The flight to Dolisie, frome where I will then reach Zanaga by jeep, is at 11.30. Early in the morning I reach Father Ruffino, but at 10 I’m still in front of maman Odile’s house waiting for her to go together to the immigration office. By coincidence, the President of Burundi is arriving for an official visit to Brazzaville. Every time President Sassou moves, the city gets stuck: military and police close the access to roads where the presidential procession will pass. For the visit of a foreign head of State is the same story. This case takes away my little hope of being able to get to the airport on time, and instead it will reveal to be my salvation.
I arrive at the office with maman Odile that's almost 11. The director, who must affix his signature on the visa, is still not there. While Odile exchanges pleasantries and jokes with her colleagues, I sit on a bench at the reception. This room on the ground floor, badly lit and rather dirty, reminds me vaguely of a betting agency on Monday afternoon. I look up to the window in front of me that faces the street and I see the big statue of Pierre Savorgnan de Brazza, the Franco-Italian missionary that founded the town. The office where I am is just opposite the memorial where are placed the ashes of the man who for some is the mythical founding father, while for others he’s just one of the many other unscrupulous settlers who plagued Africa. I notice a strange discrepancy in the monument, which is far from being a masterpiece: the head is too big in relation to the body. With a little self-pity I think that only one hundred years ago it was enough to arm yourself with courage and recklessness to explore the world. Today, the infernal machine of bureaucracy will not let me do my job, unless oiling the gears with a few thousand francs. To some too much and to some others nothing, I tell myself. This gives me frustration, and meanwhile time passes, Savorgnan is always there with his head too big and I start trying to get me one reason why I missed the plane. While these thoughts are crossing my mind, maman Odile remembers me and comes and sits on my right. She smiles kindly: her expression seems to say, “I'm sorry but here it works like that, but everything has its remedy.” This is what I read on her face at least, or just this is what I continue to think for an hour. I watch her better, I try to divert my thoughts: she is a big middle-aged woman vaguely insecure and mother-looking . She tells me she is sorry and she’s doing everything possible. Just to change subject, I tell her that we live in the same neighborhood, and she asks me what I do in Congo. I explain her briefly and in the meanwhile it comes to my mind that even to come to Congo though I seriously risked to lose my plane in Paris, because of a problem arosen at the last moment. Suddenly her eyes undress insecurity to explain me the origin of my troubles: all about my horoscope, no doubt.
I stop for a moment. Then I say, not to disappoint her, yes it could be. After that, the conversation inevitably dies, indeed calling into question the stars is a blow to my already frustrated moral of this slow morning of early February. It's almost 11:30, I say that okay, I will join the others in Dolisie the next day with the first flight. Then, suddenly, an all dressed up boy occurs in the office, with a little pile of passports and yellow preprinted forms under his arm.
Maman Odile looks at me and her face opens on a big smile: she tells me that my passport has arrived, it’s enough just to put a stamp. At about the same moment, from the airport arrive some encouraging news: the flight is late and nobody know yet what time is scheduled for takeoff. The arrival of the President of Burundi knocked Mayamaya. Thank you, President.
After a race car (luckily without crossing any barrier of the police) I succeed to arrive on time and I also have to wait about an hour before boarding a 30-seat twin-engine, that to Laura looks like a toy, but that it worthy offer its service and that after 40 minutes of flight over the thick Congolese vegetation, lands in Dolisie, first step of this trip.
My journey does not begin with good omens: father Ruffino, the priest who will accompany and will host us at his mission in Zanaga (a town 25 km from the village) doesn’t want me to leave without my passport. The problem is that my passport is lying at the immigration office for a month, waiting for the visa renewal. I can not get out of Brazzaville without my passport, unless to pay all the cops who I’ll meet on the road. The solution is maman Odile, a policewoman who works at the airport and has good contacts to the immigration office. She can retrieve my passport in one day. I find that I risk of having to remain at home only the day before: my attempt becomes a race against time. The flight to Dolisie, frome where I will then reach Zanaga by jeep, is at 11.30. Early in the morning I reach Father Ruffino, but at 10 I’m still in front of maman Odile’s house waiting for her to go together to the immigration office. By coincidence, the President of Burundi is arriving for an official visit to Brazzaville. Every time President Sassou moves, the city gets stuck: military and police close the access to roads where the presidential procession will pass. For the visit of a foreign head of State is the same story. This case takes away my little hope of being able to get to the airport on time, and instead it will reveal to be my salvation.
I arrive at the office with maman Odile that's almost 11. The director, who must affix his signature on the visa, is still not there. While Odile exchanges pleasantries and jokes with her colleagues, I sit on a bench at the reception. This room on the ground floor, badly lit and rather dirty, reminds me vaguely of a betting agency on Monday afternoon. I look up to the window in front of me that faces the street and I see the big statue of Pierre Savorgnan de Brazza, the Franco-Italian missionary that founded the town. The office where I am is just opposite the memorial where are placed the ashes of the man who for some is the mythical founding father, while for others he’s just one of the many other unscrupulous settlers who plagued Africa. I notice a strange discrepancy in the monument, which is far from being a masterpiece: the head is too big in relation to the body. With a little self-pity I think that only one hundred years ago it was enough to arm yourself with courage and recklessness to explore the world. Today, the infernal machine of bureaucracy will not let me do my job, unless oiling the gears with a few thousand francs. To some too much and to some others nothing, I tell myself. This gives me frustration, and meanwhile time passes, Savorgnan is always there with his head too big and I start trying to get me one reason why I missed the plane. While these thoughts are crossing my mind, maman Odile remembers me and comes and sits on my right. She smiles kindly: her expression seems to say, “I'm sorry but here it works like that, but everything has its remedy.” This is what I read on her face at least, or just this is what I continue to think for an hour. I watch her better, I try to divert my thoughts: she is a big middle-aged woman vaguely insecure and mother-looking . She tells me she is sorry and she’s doing everything possible. Just to change subject, I tell her that we live in the same neighborhood, and she asks me what I do in Congo. I explain her briefly and in the meanwhile it comes to my mind that even to come to Congo though I seriously risked to lose my plane in Paris, because of a problem arosen at the last moment. Suddenly her eyes undress insecurity to explain me the origin of my troubles: all about my horoscope, no doubt.
I stop for a moment. Then I say, not to disappoint her, yes it could be. After that, the conversation inevitably dies, indeed calling into question the stars is a blow to my already frustrated moral of this slow morning of early February. It's almost 11:30, I say that okay, I will join the others in Dolisie the next day with the first flight. Then, suddenly, an all dressed up boy occurs in the office, with a little pile of passports and yellow preprinted forms under his arm.
Maman Odile looks at me and her face opens on a big smile: she tells me that my passport has arrived, it’s enough just to put a stamp. At about the same moment, from the airport arrive some encouraging news: the flight is late and nobody know yet what time is scheduled for takeoff. The arrival of the President of Burundi knocked Mayamaya. Thank you, President.
After a race car (luckily without crossing any barrier of the police) I succeed to arrive on time and I also have to wait about an hour before boarding a 30-seat twin-engine, that to Laura looks like a toy, but that it worthy offer its service and that after 40 minutes of flight over the thick Congolese vegetation, lands in Dolisie, first step of this trip.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Maman Flor
Last week maman Flor came to our office. She was at our gate with a baby in her arm and asked me some water. I let her come in, she sat in the veranda and I brought her the water. The child, 17-month old, is visibly sick, his eyes suffer from a very strong squint, he constantly rubs his eyes as if to return the irises in their natural position, but those are always seeking refuge and go and hide into to the nose cavity.
Flor explains that her child, Jefti, is sick since when he was born: for the first three months he has always kept his eyes closed. She led him to a doctor, probably too late, and he didn’t give her big hopes.
While I bring some milk and biscuits to Jefti, Flor starts to tell her story. She was born in a village near Pointe Noire, the economic capital of the country, and then she met her husband. From there he led her to Brazzaville. They had three children, then one day his husband disappeared, fled with a kinoise woman, from Kinshasa. Unfortunately, here it is fairly common the case of men who abandon their families for other women. Overnight, Flor found itself completely alone and with three children to attend to. She explained that she was selling to the market the foufou, a kind of raw bread obtained by mixing manioc flour and boiling water. Then the costs of treatment of Jefti did not allow her to re-invest the capital necessary to buy the manioc flour, and her trade stopped. For two months she’s not paying the rent, her house is a 16 squared meters room of masonry, in the rest of the house lives the owner, waiting impatiently for the balance of the debt. Flor doesn’t have a bed, and she sleeps with two of his three sons on the floor, where she stretch a blanket out, to avoid at least the direct contact with the cold surface. But the problems of Flor don’t end there. The older of his three sons, Merveil, is thirteen years old and for 8 months he has become a street child. He lives on the street, in the nearby of Marché Total, with a small gang of kids who spend their time to beg and commit small theft. She wants him to come home, she went and looked for him several times, once he came back home, but he even stole a few coins on a table, and returned to the street.
After Flor told us her story, my colleagues and I decide to help her. This is never an easy decision: our NGO works on four projects, and the available funds can not be diverted elsewhere. To help those who come to seek help, then, is to do by our pocket. It is never question of a lot of money, but the problem we face is different: here the voices turn very fast, and if the rumor is spread, that we help with money or buy the necessary materials to someone that we have never seen and who came simply to ask, we risk to be overwhelmed by requests of any kind in a short time. With the result that it becomes impossible to continue our work here peacefully. In less than two months, already at least a dozen people came to ask for money. Unfortunately we have no other available information if not listening to their stories and follow our confidence, that we can just perceive, with no other rational means: this is the only compass we can use. We self regulated, deciding to never give money, that they could spend wherever, and after a few days the problem would reoccur again. For maman Flor then we decided to buy a sack of manioc flour, and we arranged to meet her to go and buy it together. So we also met her second son, Emmanuel, a handsome 4 years old child, with a smart face and a curious glance. Emmanuel is already a little man: he helps his mother obediently and he can get away with himself, as for most of the day he is with his friends near the house.
What strikes me most of Flor is her dignity and the ability to carry his cross without any discouragement. She is 32, but the vicissitudes through which she passed gave some year more o her body, giving in exchange a rare force of spirit and temperament.
***
On the day of to buy the sack of flour, we leave from the house of Flor, who brings on her shoulders Jefti, and we go to the market of Makelekele to buy the goods. The markets here are a melting pot of smells, colours and people. The stalls are small, stacked together; the mass of people, things and smells makes the air heavy. Sometimes you have to walk in little gimcanas between stalls and pools of water to avoid walking in mud.
After a long negotiation, we agree with the seller the price of the bag: it costs 20 thousand francs, about 30 euros, and weighs around twenty kilos. Hence we have to carry it to the mill to refine this still raw flour. One of the many carriers that run on the markets with their wheelbarrow takes the bag without pleasantries. He goes so fast that gives us no time to agree on a price, and when we get him, after two or three hundred meters, Flor says she will pay 500 francs that transport, which is the usual cost. The problem, however, is me and Alice, or rather, our skin colour. The carrier begins a rant saying that he demand a thousand francs, because the distance is long and the bag very heavy. Flor does not bend, and within few minutes we are all surrounded by a crowd of people who were just passing by, all of them have their say, some agree with us, others with the carrier. It’s a chaos of voices, a competition to see who has the louder voice; the carrier is adamant in his claims but Flor doesn’t want to yield to such an act of dishonesty. Suddenly, from the gate in front of which we are standing, a man comes out, takes the bag of flour and beckons us to join him. We are now in a little courtyard, 2 meters large for 20 meters of length, in the shadow of the house wall. In a few also his wife comes and asks us what's happening. We explain him the situation and he immediately offers to pay for transport up to that point, and then to drive Flor and us home. We would not want him to pay but he insists, then we thank him and we let him do. He tells us that this is a shame, that Europeans should not be treated like that and that he feels ashamed even to himself. I try to sketch something, I would say that does not matter that we are white, that nobody should ever behave like the carrier, but the agitation of the moment doesn’t helps me to express my thoughts.
A quarter of an hour later we are already on his jeep. Alice and I think back to what happened, I tell her that the carrier has behaved that way because we are white, and this kind gentleman is doing so for the very same reason. Here we are primarily white, for better or for worse. On certain occasions, the skin colour is a unperforable screen, a distance of codes, uses and possibilities that can’t be bridged. Probably it couldn’t be otherwise, that’s not our fault but the economic abyss that exists between the rich and the poor world.
Flor explains that her child, Jefti, is sick since when he was born: for the first three months he has always kept his eyes closed. She led him to a doctor, probably too late, and he didn’t give her big hopes.
While I bring some milk and biscuits to Jefti, Flor starts to tell her story. She was born in a village near Pointe Noire, the economic capital of the country, and then she met her husband. From there he led her to Brazzaville. They had three children, then one day his husband disappeared, fled with a kinoise woman, from Kinshasa. Unfortunately, here it is fairly common the case of men who abandon their families for other women. Overnight, Flor found itself completely alone and with three children to attend to. She explained that she was selling to the market the foufou, a kind of raw bread obtained by mixing manioc flour and boiling water. Then the costs of treatment of Jefti did not allow her to re-invest the capital necessary to buy the manioc flour, and her trade stopped. For two months she’s not paying the rent, her house is a 16 squared meters room of masonry, in the rest of the house lives the owner, waiting impatiently for the balance of the debt. Flor doesn’t have a bed, and she sleeps with two of his three sons on the floor, where she stretch a blanket out, to avoid at least the direct contact with the cold surface. But the problems of Flor don’t end there. The older of his three sons, Merveil, is thirteen years old and for 8 months he has become a street child. He lives on the street, in the nearby of Marché Total, with a small gang of kids who spend their time to beg and commit small theft. She wants him to come home, she went and looked for him several times, once he came back home, but he even stole a few coins on a table, and returned to the street.
After Flor told us her story, my colleagues and I decide to help her. This is never an easy decision: our NGO works on four projects, and the available funds can not be diverted elsewhere. To help those who come to seek help, then, is to do by our pocket. It is never question of a lot of money, but the problem we face is different: here the voices turn very fast, and if the rumor is spread, that we help with money or buy the necessary materials to someone that we have never seen and who came simply to ask, we risk to be overwhelmed by requests of any kind in a short time. With the result that it becomes impossible to continue our work here peacefully. In less than two months, already at least a dozen people came to ask for money. Unfortunately we have no other available information if not listening to their stories and follow our confidence, that we can just perceive, with no other rational means: this is the only compass we can use. We self regulated, deciding to never give money, that they could spend wherever, and after a few days the problem would reoccur again. For maman Flor then we decided to buy a sack of manioc flour, and we arranged to meet her to go and buy it together. So we also met her second son, Emmanuel, a handsome 4 years old child, with a smart face and a curious glance. Emmanuel is already a little man: he helps his mother obediently and he can get away with himself, as for most of the day he is with his friends near the house.
What strikes me most of Flor is her dignity and the ability to carry his cross without any discouragement. She is 32, but the vicissitudes through which she passed gave some year more o her body, giving in exchange a rare force of spirit and temperament.
***
On the day of to buy the sack of flour, we leave from the house of Flor, who brings on her shoulders Jefti, and we go to the market of Makelekele to buy the goods. The markets here are a melting pot of smells, colours and people. The stalls are small, stacked together; the mass of people, things and smells makes the air heavy. Sometimes you have to walk in little gimcanas between stalls and pools of water to avoid walking in mud.
After a long negotiation, we agree with the seller the price of the bag: it costs 20 thousand francs, about 30 euros, and weighs around twenty kilos. Hence we have to carry it to the mill to refine this still raw flour. One of the many carriers that run on the markets with their wheelbarrow takes the bag without pleasantries. He goes so fast that gives us no time to agree on a price, and when we get him, after two or three hundred meters, Flor says she will pay 500 francs that transport, which is the usual cost. The problem, however, is me and Alice, or rather, our skin colour. The carrier begins a rant saying that he demand a thousand francs, because the distance is long and the bag very heavy. Flor does not bend, and within few minutes we are all surrounded by a crowd of people who were just passing by, all of them have their say, some agree with us, others with the carrier. It’s a chaos of voices, a competition to see who has the louder voice; the carrier is adamant in his claims but Flor doesn’t want to yield to such an act of dishonesty. Suddenly, from the gate in front of which we are standing, a man comes out, takes the bag of flour and beckons us to join him. We are now in a little courtyard, 2 meters large for 20 meters of length, in the shadow of the house wall. In a few also his wife comes and asks us what's happening. We explain him the situation and he immediately offers to pay for transport up to that point, and then to drive Flor and us home. We would not want him to pay but he insists, then we thank him and we let him do. He tells us that this is a shame, that Europeans should not be treated like that and that he feels ashamed even to himself. I try to sketch something, I would say that does not matter that we are white, that nobody should ever behave like the carrier, but the agitation of the moment doesn’t helps me to express my thoughts.
A quarter of an hour later we are already on his jeep. Alice and I think back to what happened, I tell her that the carrier has behaved that way because we are white, and this kind gentleman is doing so for the very same reason. Here we are primarily white, for better or for worse. On certain occasions, the skin colour is a unperforable screen, a distance of codes, uses and possibilities that can’t be bridged. Probably it couldn’t be otherwise, that’s not our fault but the economic abyss that exists between the rich and the poor world.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Jacques Loubelo
Jacques Loubelo is one of the fathers of Congolese music. He is a celebrity here: I listened to him live during a festival at the French Cultural Centre, and the day after I met him in person to dinner at an Italian friend’s house.
Jacques is a spry and wise 70 years old man. The lines that furrow his face, his sparse white hair, his slender body form his shape. His large hands shaped on the guitar buttons, his white and squared nails, his small and quick eyes that scan rather than observe who is in front of them, perhaps in search of a sign or a signal, the clean voice that in the songs becomes subtle, almost faint, to reach the deepest chords, all this reveals his soul, show his artistic vein.
Jacques composed songs that everyone here knows, perhaps the most famous is "Congo," that has become a sort of popular hymn. "Congo" indicates a path: it calls for solidarity, work for one another, love and mutual respect. Jacques sings using local languages and therefore occasionally interrupts the songs to explain what they mean. He can not put aside his disappointment at the current state of things, yet he still seems to hope that things can change. Jacques has gone through a lot of things and probably has seen even more: one of his songs, he explains, was used for a film by Walt Disney. Then he starts talking about politics, and his posture changes. He sets the guitar on the table, he begins to gesticulate, he is trying to tell with body language, with rapid movements of his arms, neck and legs, what words don’t arrive to say, perhaps for self-censorship, or perhaps because certain things of the Congo are not understandable by foreigners. He confide us that often he has the feeling that people do not really listen to him. They go to see his concerts, but he wonders if his message really gets the goal. The feeling that once you leave the hall, once the show is over, in the minds of those who have heard nothing remains. Common feeling among artists, loneliness due to the inability of ordinary people to provide real understanding. Fear of being misunderstood or to result incomprehensible to their audience. Probably a fear that is part of the trade.
Then he tells us about that time when he received by the former President of the Republic of Congo. He had prepared a question to ask him, but the emotion of the moment made him forget. Spurred by the President to ask him a question, Jacques asked him instinctively and without any specific reason what he would have liked to do after his term. The answer, upset and dry, was that certainly he was not going to leave his charge before time. The day after, Jacques was subjected to interrogation by police, who wanted to know how he could afford to ask such a question to the President, and of whom he was acting as spokesperson. Jacques shows his frustration and disappointment, adding that foreigners may not understand certain dynamics and certain events that happen in Congo; the best we can do is give them an interpretation. I feel the same feeling thinking about my country. Perhaps, at least in this, Italy and Congo are not so different.
Jacques is a spry and wise 70 years old man. The lines that furrow his face, his sparse white hair, his slender body form his shape. His large hands shaped on the guitar buttons, his white and squared nails, his small and quick eyes that scan rather than observe who is in front of them, perhaps in search of a sign or a signal, the clean voice that in the songs becomes subtle, almost faint, to reach the deepest chords, all this reveals his soul, show his artistic vein.
Jacques composed songs that everyone here knows, perhaps the most famous is "Congo," that has become a sort of popular hymn. "Congo" indicates a path: it calls for solidarity, work for one another, love and mutual respect. Jacques sings using local languages and therefore occasionally interrupts the songs to explain what they mean. He can not put aside his disappointment at the current state of things, yet he still seems to hope that things can change. Jacques has gone through a lot of things and probably has seen even more: one of his songs, he explains, was used for a film by Walt Disney. Then he starts talking about politics, and his posture changes. He sets the guitar on the table, he begins to gesticulate, he is trying to tell with body language, with rapid movements of his arms, neck and legs, what words don’t arrive to say, perhaps for self-censorship, or perhaps because certain things of the Congo are not understandable by foreigners. He confide us that often he has the feeling that people do not really listen to him. They go to see his concerts, but he wonders if his message really gets the goal. The feeling that once you leave the hall, once the show is over, in the minds of those who have heard nothing remains. Common feeling among artists, loneliness due to the inability of ordinary people to provide real understanding. Fear of being misunderstood or to result incomprehensible to their audience. Probably a fear that is part of the trade.
Then he tells us about that time when he received by the former President of the Republic of Congo. He had prepared a question to ask him, but the emotion of the moment made him forget. Spurred by the President to ask him a question, Jacques asked him instinctively and without any specific reason what he would have liked to do after his term. The answer, upset and dry, was that certainly he was not going to leave his charge before time. The day after, Jacques was subjected to interrogation by police, who wanted to know how he could afford to ask such a question to the President, and of whom he was acting as spokesperson. Jacques shows his frustration and disappointment, adding that foreigners may not understand certain dynamics and certain events that happen in Congo; the best we can do is give them an interpretation. I feel the same feeling thinking about my country. Perhaps, at least in this, Italy and Congo are not so different.
Suspension of judgment
Here I realized soon that the way I can judge things is relative, conditioned by the wellbeing which I am used to, the availability of money, the normality of what is superfluous which inevitably leads to unnecessary wastage whose I can be aware more easily here, as I have rationed water and electricity. Nevertheless, I see many things that I do not understand, so many dynamics that my being refuses and that my rationality brings me to consider wrong, things that if happened in Italy I would condemn with no doubts. Here, however, doubts remain, an they are big and strong.
The cultural chasm that separates me from these people shows itself in the most unexpected moments. The elements that make up this difference are numerous: the social sense of shame was one of the first things that struck me. Here, walking down the street, you will never see a boy and a girl holding hands. What for us is a common gesture of affection, here becomes a sign of friendship. Keeping the hand is in fact common among friends, no matter if boys or girls.
A kiss in public is provocative stuff. I soon noticed that the division between boys and girls is quite clear; promiscuous friendships are rare.
Looking at certain forms of social deference, I think of some stories of my grandfather about his youth, and I end up having the feeling that maybe some dynamics that occur here now should not be much different from those of '30s or '40s in Italy.
All the comments that I allow myself to make should not be read as making value judgments about things or persons: the judgments are always unpleasant things, but here I understand that white people, perhaps to avoid losing their certainties, need to spit judgments on everything they see and that they can not understand. I found myself having to listen to discussions of anthropological, sociological, political-economic subjects brought on by people who may not even suspect that Levi-Strauss is not only a brand of jeans. I realize how the need to classify everything into known categories comes from a human limit, and therefore the Congolese people are the way they are because they didn’t get an education, they are underdeveloped and need to grow, they lack of initiative or have too initiative in relation to the situation of the country. Often these judgments contain an insidious racism that continues to perpetuate itself, as if the tragedy of European colonization was a drop of little significance. Everyone speak about everything. All licensed experts, all who try to convince you of their certainties. And some show you the stars of their years of experience to give depth to their analysis. When this kind of talks starts, I have no desire to answer back because, when you answer back someone who has the truth in his pocket, you’re moving a personal insult to him: well, then I just go out to smoke a cigarette.
The cultural chasm that separates me from these people shows itself in the most unexpected moments. The elements that make up this difference are numerous: the social sense of shame was one of the first things that struck me. Here, walking down the street, you will never see a boy and a girl holding hands. What for us is a common gesture of affection, here becomes a sign of friendship. Keeping the hand is in fact common among friends, no matter if boys or girls.
A kiss in public is provocative stuff. I soon noticed that the division between boys and girls is quite clear; promiscuous friendships are rare.
Looking at certain forms of social deference, I think of some stories of my grandfather about his youth, and I end up having the feeling that maybe some dynamics that occur here now should not be much different from those of '30s or '40s in Italy.
All the comments that I allow myself to make should not be read as making value judgments about things or persons: the judgments are always unpleasant things, but here I understand that white people, perhaps to avoid losing their certainties, need to spit judgments on everything they see and that they can not understand. I found myself having to listen to discussions of anthropological, sociological, political-economic subjects brought on by people who may not even suspect that Levi-Strauss is not only a brand of jeans. I realize how the need to classify everything into known categories comes from a human limit, and therefore the Congolese people are the way they are because they didn’t get an education, they are underdeveloped and need to grow, they lack of initiative or have too initiative in relation to the situation of the country. Often these judgments contain an insidious racism that continues to perpetuate itself, as if the tragedy of European colonization was a drop of little significance. Everyone speak about everything. All licensed experts, all who try to convince you of their certainties. And some show you the stars of their years of experience to give depth to their analysis. When this kind of talks starts, I have no desire to answer back because, when you answer back someone who has the truth in his pocket, you’re moving a personal insult to him: well, then I just go out to smoke a cigarette.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Children
Being orphans is one of those things that makes you doubt of the existence of a logic, of a greater power greater that is incomprehensible and that can decide everything. Being orphans is probably one of the toughest conditions for a human being. Being an African orphan involves even greater complications.
Children who I’ve known have hard and sometimes troubled stories, even despite their short life. Actually, not all children living in orphanages are orphans, only a few, in fact, have lost one or both parents, in most cases, during one of the civil wars that have battered the Congo and in particular Brazzaville between 1993 and 2003. Others have been abandoned by their parents, and the reasons of abandonment may be several. The most common is the inability of parents to keep their children because of extreme poverty, especially during the early years, when the costs for care and education are high and children are still too little to work. It happens also that the children are abandoned when a marriage ends or if the father dies, the relatives of the dead can take over his properties and leave to their fate the widow and children: in such cases, ending up in an orphanage can be considered a lucky event.
The break of family and solidarity ties, typical of African cultures, the social wreckage left by a decade of fighting among Congolese people, has generated total indifference to the poverty of others. It 's a hard thing to behold, and no one would expect to find here in Africa.
Among children of the orphanage there is one that is 11 years old; he was a child soldier until he was 5. Just to write a sentence like this upsets my stomach: try to imagine what it might mean for a preschool child to participate in actions of support to scenarios of war or guerrilla. Ask yourself what scenes his eyes may have seen, what sounds his ears may have listened to, what smells his nostrils may have been impregnated by.
The plight of abandoned children does not end here. Especially in villages, in fact, there are animist cults that occasionally mix with the Catholic religion, that here has deeply impressed its white intrusive footprint. According to these cults, some children are evil presences, sorcerers whose presence will damage and even destroy the village if they are not sacrificed. I met a boy who was accused of witchcraft when he was a child: here it’s a mark that it is not possible to take away. In fact, often these accusations made against children are an issue for community life: for example, if a widow remarries, the children of first marriage are in the best case abandoned, in the worst ones accused of witchcraft and killed.
The orphanage is a better fate that may lie to those who come from such stories. In the orphanage they have an education, eat regularly and are under constant medical surveillance. The alternative is the street: street children phenomenon, children who have nowhere to go, do not have to eat and live on alms and glue is growing.
There is no support from the State, the orphanages are activities operated by private individuals, in some cases connected with the Church. They live of donation and support that come from the rich Western world. There are also cases where unscrupulous people bring up an orphanage just because they have identified as an asset that could allow easy money: just resell at least part of the aid coming from the groups which support them, if they do not guarantee continuous monitoring within the orphanages.
Children who I’ve known have hard and sometimes troubled stories, even despite their short life. Actually, not all children living in orphanages are orphans, only a few, in fact, have lost one or both parents, in most cases, during one of the civil wars that have battered the Congo and in particular Brazzaville between 1993 and 2003. Others have been abandoned by their parents, and the reasons of abandonment may be several. The most common is the inability of parents to keep their children because of extreme poverty, especially during the early years, when the costs for care and education are high and children are still too little to work. It happens also that the children are abandoned when a marriage ends or if the father dies, the relatives of the dead can take over his properties and leave to their fate the widow and children: in such cases, ending up in an orphanage can be considered a lucky event.
The break of family and solidarity ties, typical of African cultures, the social wreckage left by a decade of fighting among Congolese people, has generated total indifference to the poverty of others. It 's a hard thing to behold, and no one would expect to find here in Africa.
Among children of the orphanage there is one that is 11 years old; he was a child soldier until he was 5. Just to write a sentence like this upsets my stomach: try to imagine what it might mean for a preschool child to participate in actions of support to scenarios of war or guerrilla. Ask yourself what scenes his eyes may have seen, what sounds his ears may have listened to, what smells his nostrils may have been impregnated by.
The plight of abandoned children does not end here. Especially in villages, in fact, there are animist cults that occasionally mix with the Catholic religion, that here has deeply impressed its white intrusive footprint. According to these cults, some children are evil presences, sorcerers whose presence will damage and even destroy the village if they are not sacrificed. I met a boy who was accused of witchcraft when he was a child: here it’s a mark that it is not possible to take away. In fact, often these accusations made against children are an issue for community life: for example, if a widow remarries, the children of first marriage are in the best case abandoned, in the worst ones accused of witchcraft and killed.
The orphanage is a better fate that may lie to those who come from such stories. In the orphanage they have an education, eat regularly and are under constant medical surveillance. The alternative is the street: street children phenomenon, children who have nowhere to go, do not have to eat and live on alms and glue is growing.
There is no support from the State, the orphanages are activities operated by private individuals, in some cases connected with the Church. They live of donation and support that come from the rich Western world. There are also cases where unscrupulous people bring up an orphanage just because they have identified as an asset that could allow easy money: just resell at least part of the aid coming from the groups which support them, if they do not guarantee continuous monitoring within the orphanages.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Projects
Just ended holidays have been hectic. So much to do and time running out too quickly. I could not even stand behind the blog, also because of the rationing of electricity, whose it’s available mostly at night.
Since I started to tell my experience, however, I have never written about why I came here: to work for a year as a volunteer in civil service. My NGO is working on four projects, two of childcare and two of development. In particular, my colleagues and I work with two orphanages here in Brazzaville, supporting children education with repeater teachers, providing them with regular visits by a nurse, and medications. Furthermore, we organize animations to offer children moments of leisure. In total, the children under our care are 34.
The second project of childcare is a project of long-distance support: practically, Italian families pay education or vocational training and livelihood of about 30 children in Brazzaville.
With regard to development projects, the first is a microcredit project born last year and therefore still in experimental stage. Because of some errors of approach, however, the project is having some problems, and therefore it needs to be rethought and restructured. The last project involves the development aid of a village of 500 people in the forest, Likouala, which requires two days of travel to be achieved from here. In the last years, in collaboration with other local NGOs, my NGO has helped to restructure the village school, which was in a state of neglect, moreover it has furnished teaching and training of two people who can now teach literacy to others. The future perspective is to finish this stage of literacy and help residents to start small businesses of production and / or business, in order to satisfy the basic needs of the population.
In these projects, I will take the responsibility and management of microcredit and Likouala; moreover I will also keep the books of our bureau. In addition, I will also give a hand in the activities organized in the orphanages.
It’s a month and a half since I arrived here, and probably the experience with children has been so far the most extraordinary one. The joy with which we have been welcomed when we visited them the first time and the joyful tumult which overwhelms us every time we come back, eyes, smiles, the continuous wish to be caught in arms once more, the cheerful chaos reigning when we propose to draw or to sing, and a storm of energy that shake our bodies and charge our mood: there is nothing more necessary, when we are in daily contact with tough life situations, when we listen to stories or participate as witnesses to the suffering of people that, despite everything, never lose their dignity, because that is priceless and can not be measured in coins.
This experience so far is exciting, and I am aware to arrive to tell only a small part. Words are not allmighty, some things you have to see, certain odors you have to smell, certain items and certain kinds of music you have to heard. I'm still trying to make as many people as possible part of what I live, because I’ve also come here to touch and to witness what happens in this part of the world.
Since I started to tell my experience, however, I have never written about why I came here: to work for a year as a volunteer in civil service. My NGO is working on four projects, two of childcare and two of development. In particular, my colleagues and I work with two orphanages here in Brazzaville, supporting children education with repeater teachers, providing them with regular visits by a nurse, and medications. Furthermore, we organize animations to offer children moments of leisure. In total, the children under our care are 34.
The second project of childcare is a project of long-distance support: practically, Italian families pay education or vocational training and livelihood of about 30 children in Brazzaville.
With regard to development projects, the first is a microcredit project born last year and therefore still in experimental stage. Because of some errors of approach, however, the project is having some problems, and therefore it needs to be rethought and restructured. The last project involves the development aid of a village of 500 people in the forest, Likouala, which requires two days of travel to be achieved from here. In the last years, in collaboration with other local NGOs, my NGO has helped to restructure the village school, which was in a state of neglect, moreover it has furnished teaching and training of two people who can now teach literacy to others. The future perspective is to finish this stage of literacy and help residents to start small businesses of production and / or business, in order to satisfy the basic needs of the population.
In these projects, I will take the responsibility and management of microcredit and Likouala; moreover I will also keep the books of our bureau. In addition, I will also give a hand in the activities organized in the orphanages.
It’s a month and a half since I arrived here, and probably the experience with children has been so far the most extraordinary one. The joy with which we have been welcomed when we visited them the first time and the joyful tumult which overwhelms us every time we come back, eyes, smiles, the continuous wish to be caught in arms once more, the cheerful chaos reigning when we propose to draw or to sing, and a storm of energy that shake our bodies and charge our mood: there is nothing more necessary, when we are in daily contact with tough life situations, when we listen to stories or participate as witnesses to the suffering of people that, despite everything, never lose their dignity, because that is priceless and can not be measured in coins.
This experience so far is exciting, and I am aware to arrive to tell only a small part. Words are not allmighty, some things you have to see, certain odors you have to smell, certain items and certain kinds of music you have to heard. I'm still trying to make as many people as possible part of what I live, because I’ve also come here to touch and to witness what happens in this part of the world.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Christmas check-points
I wondered where I was last year during the Christmas holidays, and I realized just how far from me, just one year ago, the perception and the idea of spending this Christmas in a place like Brazzaville was. Here I perceive few the arriving Christmas. I could also say that the only source of awareness is the calendar because, to my western eyes, all the typical signs that characterize it in my town, here are virtually absent, except that here, these two-week holiday, use other symbols to be recognized. In the streets lights and decorations are rare. Fake firs around are few and tiny, what’s more. The most plentiful is Asia, a big shop managed by Chinese people, who are colonizing Brazzaville, like the Congo, like the rest of Africa. The only place where I saw an unusual crowd and queues is Casino, a French supermarket of the homonym chain, the only European supermarket in town, with prices that reach even to be five times higher than in Europe. Then, the hot humid climate of equatorial Africa has none of the western symbolism of cold Christmas, whitened by snow. Next to the items missing, however, there are others that exist only here, and they can probably help a bit in understanding this country, or maybe even more than it seems. From mid-December, in fact, in many areas of the town, police checkpoints spring up like mushrooms. I asked the cause of this to different categories of people: whites, Congolese, the taxi drivers who carry me here and there in my trips in town. The funny thing is that I have collected at least five or six different versions, some quite fanciful, others appear to be off-the-record, another one I could define official (and came out directly from the mouth of a policeman, the least credible one) and yet others simply dictated by common sense. Without batting an eye, a taxi driver who seemed knowledgeable (but seemed only) explained to me that the problem would be created by the removal of the chief of police after a dodgy affaire that he would have had with a minister. Such removal would create a power vacuum, and the policemen do what they want until they can. Yes, because the controls are not aimed to nothing, but often end in a request for a small sum of money (if all goes well, a thousand francs, just over a euro and a half) to let it pass. And with the coming holidays, an extra salary is good. Another interesting version is the one according to which the checkpoint are in place because the Ninja rebel group, which is located in the South of the country, might have evil intentions in this period, and then it would be necessary to have strict monitoring. The official version, linked to it, is the most obvious, and not worth telling.
The question is ultimately quite simple: a simple policeman earns 40 thousand francs a month (less than 70 euros) and around Christmas is exploiting its minimum power, with the clear approval of his superiors, to supplement their income and afford a little celebration. One consequence is that taxi drivers try to avoid areas where they know there are check-points and another one is the unending queues and traffic jams. To go around in town these days, therefore, is not the simplest thing. But beyond these considerations, I find it humanly difficult to blame the cops, who commit abuse but they are part of a system in which certain definitions are quite slippery and in any case contain a sharp boundary between theory and practice. Also because then I discovered that most of the taxis in town (and you should consider they represent 80% of the chaotic traffic in the capital) are property of senior police officers in high levels, and, paradoxically, for this reason they licensed to drive (crazily) as they wish during the rest of the year (who would want to stop the taxi of his boss?). To want to look cynically, in the end the superiors give their subordinates a supplement of salary ahead of the celebrations, a bit to defuse tension, a little to boost the mood, a little because at Christmas we are all better people. But go and explain to taxi drivers.
The question is ultimately quite simple: a simple policeman earns 40 thousand francs a month (less than 70 euros) and around Christmas is exploiting its minimum power, with the clear approval of his superiors, to supplement their income and afford a little celebration. One consequence is that taxi drivers try to avoid areas where they know there are check-points and another one is the unending queues and traffic jams. To go around in town these days, therefore, is not the simplest thing. But beyond these considerations, I find it humanly difficult to blame the cops, who commit abuse but they are part of a system in which certain definitions are quite slippery and in any case contain a sharp boundary between theory and practice. Also because then I discovered that most of the taxis in town (and you should consider they represent 80% of the chaotic traffic in the capital) are property of senior police officers in high levels, and, paradoxically, for this reason they licensed to drive (crazily) as they wish during the rest of the year (who would want to stop the taxi of his boss?). To want to look cynically, in the end the superiors give their subordinates a supplement of salary ahead of the celebrations, a bit to defuse tension, a little to boost the mood, a little because at Christmas we are all better people. But go and explain to taxi drivers.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Mundélé
The first word I learned of Lingala, one of the main Congolese languages, is Mundélé. The mundélé are the whites, who are always noticed at the first moment and studied, squared, analyzed in the gestures, clothing, in the way of talking, laughing and moving.
The mundélé living in Brazzaville (generally staff working for embassies or international organizations) are seen mainly downtown, where the city apparently tries to give the maximum offering a few stores and night clubs of european mould. In the rest of the city instead, popular quarters, markets, on the minibus that for 150 francs (a bit less than 25 euro cent) will take you everywhere, the mundélé never show up except on rare occasions. The white people I met here in Brazzaville, and of whom I have been host, have houses often surrounded by 4 meters walls, which don’t lack any comfort: generator, air conditioning, TV, european food products (here typically they cost three or four times more). I realize that while my choice was the result of a desire nurtured and rocked for years, in their case it was primarily a series of combinations to have brought them here. The will (or need) to continue to live as they lived in their country prevails in them, with the consequence that they suffer much the loneliness and the detachment from their country.
For the work that I do with my colleagues, I live the everyday life of Brazzaville and I often go into the slums, in the poorest areas of the city, where running water, electricity and sewerage system are abstract and distant concepts. In my daily tours I often feel to be the focus of an unjustified attention. The glances that I notice (and I imagine that they are only a small part) are curious, sometimes seem to be intimidated, others open suddenly into big smiles. What I feel more often, however (and who knows how close or far from reality my impression is) is a strange mix of curiosity, admiration, perhaps even envy for the model and even the world that at their eyes represent a mundélé. Before coming here I have been warned that a white person here is actually green: he has the colour of the dollar (rightly or wrongly) with everything that goes with it in various situations that can occur daily. When it is the case that a group of people is noting me, it is almost unavoidable to raise a small chorus of "mundélé-mundélé-mundélé”. I have been told that there is nothing wrong with that, and indeed the presence of a white is often the source of amusement and surprise. I think, using my cultural code, that if I said "black-black-black" every time I see one in Italy, it would not be exactly the same thing.
The first time I took the minibus, among the other passengers an animated and amused discussion in Lingala has raised about the presence of my colleagues and me, and who knows what else. Even the other minibuses and taxis that we flanked participated in the opinions exchange, and from the windows they threw incomprehensible comments and amused faces. Although my participation was passive because of the language, the surprise and the good-natured laughter aroused by my presence amused me and began to show me a small part of the character and heart of the Congolese people, the simplicity and spontaneity devoid of a superstructure and of those mental blocks so common in my country when people have to confront others with a different culture and customs.
The mundélé living in Brazzaville (generally staff working for embassies or international organizations) are seen mainly downtown, where the city apparently tries to give the maximum offering a few stores and night clubs of european mould. In the rest of the city instead, popular quarters, markets, on the minibus that for 150 francs (a bit less than 25 euro cent) will take you everywhere, the mundélé never show up except on rare occasions. The white people I met here in Brazzaville, and of whom I have been host, have houses often surrounded by 4 meters walls, which don’t lack any comfort: generator, air conditioning, TV, european food products (here typically they cost three or four times more). I realize that while my choice was the result of a desire nurtured and rocked for years, in their case it was primarily a series of combinations to have brought them here. The will (or need) to continue to live as they lived in their country prevails in them, with the consequence that they suffer much the loneliness and the detachment from their country.
For the work that I do with my colleagues, I live the everyday life of Brazzaville and I often go into the slums, in the poorest areas of the city, where running water, electricity and sewerage system are abstract and distant concepts. In my daily tours I often feel to be the focus of an unjustified attention. The glances that I notice (and I imagine that they are only a small part) are curious, sometimes seem to be intimidated, others open suddenly into big smiles. What I feel more often, however (and who knows how close or far from reality my impression is) is a strange mix of curiosity, admiration, perhaps even envy for the model and even the world that at their eyes represent a mundélé. Before coming here I have been warned that a white person here is actually green: he has the colour of the dollar (rightly or wrongly) with everything that goes with it in various situations that can occur daily. When it is the case that a group of people is noting me, it is almost unavoidable to raise a small chorus of "mundélé-mundélé-mundélé”. I have been told that there is nothing wrong with that, and indeed the presence of a white is often the source of amusement and surprise. I think, using my cultural code, that if I said "black-black-black" every time I see one in Italy, it would not be exactly the same thing.
The first time I took the minibus, among the other passengers an animated and amused discussion in Lingala has raised about the presence of my colleagues and me, and who knows what else. Even the other minibuses and taxis that we flanked participated in the opinions exchange, and from the windows they threw incomprehensible comments and amused faces. Although my participation was passive because of the language, the surprise and the good-natured laughter aroused by my presence amused me and began to show me a small part of the character and heart of the Congolese people, the simplicity and spontaneity devoid of a superstructure and of those mental blocks so common in my country when people have to confront others with a different culture and customs.
My arrival
I arrived in Congo Brazzaville yesterday. About eight hours from
When the aircraft prepares itself to land, outside is already deep dark. My curiosity is rekindled my curiosity, I catch a glimpse the lights of
The runway is dimly lit, but apparently it’s enlightened enough to make a landing without any problems. I try to scan the world beyond the window, but with the little light even the rain makes the vision blurred. When I’m out on the ladder, the sweater that sheltered me from the air conditioning of the plane sticks on my skin.
In the hall of the airport, a large room lit by bare neon, a policeman makes me fill out a form where I have to declare that I have no H1N1 symptoms. After a punctilious passport control, I go to get my bags and I am overwhelmed by the chaos and Congolese guys of all ages who offer me their help to bring out my two heavy suitcases. Some people enter, get out, come back, take bags and bags, push carts talking and shouting. I find the way out; in the meanwhile, a policeman is creating trouble to my two colleagues, Alice and Claudia: he would extort something, but that’s not his lucky attempt. At the exit Laura, the volunteer who awaits us and that we find in the chaos that reigns supreme even in the parking outside the airport, manages the situation perfectly and the policeman has to leave his purpose. In me confusion prevails over any other sensation, too many new stimuli, too cheerful and perhaps nervous confusion, and then the rain that continues to fall, dark and dim lights that don’t help me to focus on the place where I am.
A taxi takes us to what will be my house for the year to come. Even from the back seat I can see little, for a moment I think of De Niro in Taxi driver and all the water that flows on his windshield and the deformed and liquid lights in
Once home, I have dinner with my new colleagues. We talk about everything and nothing, because I know that the advice and guidance, yet useful, remain theoretical until I will be in concrete situations whom those advice would like to answer even before a question is asked.
I wish to start. And I wish the day to come and finally light will be; I have a great desire to begin to focus on this new world.
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