Short Version

As you might guess from reading this, I’m still alive. I also remain happy.

Medium Version

March seems to have taken a long time, which is a good thing. My teaching has continued, and culminated in mid-term exams as the school closes for Easter. I’ve found myself steadily more busy, though I’m not sure why. I think it’s the social side; travelling to greet people, attending events and so on. I’ve also done a few odd-jobs, like helping to count the weekly collections at church, covering lessons for absent teachers and, in one case, reading a friend of a friend’s undergraduate philosophy dissertation (on Marcel’s relevance to Rwanda’s history and future, by a Rwandese).

It’s nice. I’ve started going fishing with Fr Jonathan, an American Jesuit here, and two Jesuits-in-training (novices) who stayed in Mwanza for the last month. It’s fair to say I’m not the world’s best fisherman, but I’m improving and know how to get the beers in. I made my Easter confession over a bottle of beer while fishing with Fr Jonathan in Lake Victoria - pretty cool. Lent is a big deal here, and I’m going to Mass every weekday morning. Whether this 6.00 wake-up will continue absolutely every day after Easter is hard to predict. My trips to the market, cooking, cleaning etc. still take a while, but I’m marginally more proficient. Though I seem busy, I never feel rushed.

Long Version

What would you give up everything for? Give up your money, your house, your job, your hope of another one, your security, your health and, maybe, your life?

As we were leaving for fishing on Friday 23rd, I found out. I heard a child crying in the house next to the Jesuit residence. An involuntary keening, so different in kind from a cry of want or of attention. Fr Jonathan said, “They are torturing that boy again.” The parents mercilessly beat this child, their child. It touched me to the core of my soul. I knew in that moment that I would have given anything, sacrificed anything for that nameless being. But I was utterly powerless. “That really pisses me off,” Fr Jonathan spat out, thumping the steering wheel in anger. He has tried everything. I could give up wealth, opportunity, my life, but how would that help the poor creature? Money and a Westerner can’t solve his problem. I felt so helpless, for one of the first times in my life. I couldn’t stop the beatings, I couldn’t save the child from it. I couldn’t do anything. All I could do is never forget the unknown boy, and pray for him. And what will that do?

I later was reminded of a chapter in Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov where Ivan appeals to the tears of an innocent child as reason enough to reject God. I didn’t by any means agree with the conclusion, but, with that boy’s pain ringing in my ears, I began to know what was being said.

Beating is standard here in school, and I’d love to say it is benign and mostly for show, but I can’t. It isn’t excessive, though, or cruel and above all the teachers don’t enjoy it one bit. I have had my imagination stretched coming up with alternative punishments. Telling a class of seven year olds that the last one to put their shoes on is smelly might be thought of as bullying. If a class of young ones has misbehaved, I’ll keep them inside for the P.E. lesson. I get them to close their eyes and give a relaxation meditation, the sort that you might use for prayer. It’s sweet that a third of them fall asleep. Arranging books and stationery on their slumbering heads to the amusement of the rest of the class is not so sweet, and I should probably stop it.

It was my birthday this month. I kept it quiet, though, as I was sure a big fuss would be made if the news got out. I had a great day; on the way back from Mass in the morning the sky looked like it had been painted by a Renaissance Master. Some of the kids managed to find out it was my birthday, so I got some cards, some inedible chewing gum, a pack of cards, a pen and some other gifts. My favourite was a little bunch of beautiful wild flowers collected by a girl of maybe four and a half.

My children also provide a good mirror, by laughing uproariously if my hair is particularly messy, or if I have food/toothpaste/whatever on my face. In fact, they laugh often anyway; at my Kiswahili, my silly faces, my walking into things, my falling over, my pretending to be a girl, my dancing, when I tickle them, chase them or try to eat them. It’s hard to walk around school, too, when you have weights disguised as miniature humans hanging off every limb and garment. Still, I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy it.

I’ll continue with my random collection of thoughts. One thing I find sad is the children’s perception of Europe and the U.S.. When I sit chatting with the older ones, they say things like, “They say we are baboons” and “Why do you (white people) hate us (black people)?” Listening to their answers to this latter was interesting. One boy, Fred, drew an analogy. “The father loves the baby, but the baby loves the mother first. We love them, but they don’t love us.” I wish I could honestly reassure them that there is no racism in the U.K., that they have nothing to fear. Of course, this would be a lie. These children, too, are the sons and daughters of lawyers, doctors, MPs and businessmen and women. They are well educated and will be leaders of the country. I can’t help wonder what their parents’ view is, and wonder why theirs has basis in fact.

When the power goes out in the Jesuit house after dark and before bed, the community comes to find Fr Ray and sits together, chatting. I’ve only been there twice when it’s happened, but it turns an annoyance into a pleasure. In these chats, lots of interesting stuff is spouted. One thing I want to pick out is the importance of company here, of which these gathering are a good example. It seems characteristic of Tanzanians that they will travel huge distances, endure discomfort and spend proportionately vast sums of money just to go say hi to a friend or relative. Tanzanians don’t seem to come in ones. There is almost a fear of being alone, and people will happily sit together saying little for hours. When people who you’ve just met invite you to their home, they really mean it. And they will be delighted if you turn up unannounced at their door. The Jesuits found it extraordinary that if you went to your neighbour’s house, she might ask, “What can I do for you?” after exchanging hellos. Why wouldn’t you be invited in for tea, food and conversation automatically? Another feature of this is that if one meets a friend in the street, the chances are he will accompany you where you are going, even if it is a long way and in the opposite direction. In fact, it isn’t unusual to see a woman coming home from the market turn round and go right back when she sees a neighbour going. It’s rather nice to feel that one’s presence is cherished whenever one visits someone, so far from the English idea that going for dinner is an imposition.

I’m still surprised by some things. The man who tears open your bag of rubbish when you drop it at the dump, looking for anything of value. The deformed beggars. The condemnation of homosexuality in the press and in public. The animals and insects and plants. The loudness and (to my misfocussed eye) aggressiveness of disagreements, which are in fact friendly discussions. (I’m told Tanzanians find Nigerians so aggressive in discussion they think they are having a fight). The lengthiness of meetings. The respect for the elderly. The proximity of death.

On the 5th, the day before my birthday, teacher Victor’s only child died. She was three, and died suddenly of malaria. In the same week, one of the school’s neighbours, one of the sister’s mothers and one of the children’s parents also died. Victor is a tall, thin, self-effacing young man. He thanks God every time we meet or talk, and has a magical broad, white smile. Strangely enough, my first worry when I heard of his child’s death was what would happen to that smile. Apart from the obvious grief, a few things stood out. Firstly, although my fellow teachers were clearly upset and sympathetic, they were not surprised by the unexpected death. Secondly, the procedure for funerals and burials is very specific, and I won’t bore you with the details. But for a week people come and visit the house to just be with the bereaved; their house is more full of people that week than any other in their lives. When I went, Victor said, “Despite what has happened here, we still say, ‘You are warmly welcome’ ”. Lastly, neighbours play a vital role in the formalised proceedings. In Victor’s case because he had absented himself from some meetings of the street and so on, the neighbourhood community demanded financial reparation before doing their jobs. This must sound like a spectacularly cruel way to treat a couple who’ve just lost their child. But if Victor had not contributed money to a neighbour’s wedding (which is mandatory - I’ll explain some other time) or helped out financially in other situations, it is more understandable. There was a codified whip-round at school for a condolence payment towards the cost of the funeral, and friends and family will likewise have paid. The mistake Victor made, according to the other teachers, was to be heavily involved in a church which was outside the local streets, planning to make his duties to the local community good later on. It still struck me as shocking that he was treated like this, and it shows the coercive aspect of these street committees and communities that are so important, close-knit and usually generous to each other. It was one of the few occasions I felt a culture jolt rather than a steady push.

Victor was back in school on Monday, exactly one week since his little girl had died. His eyes were hooded, and grief dwelt there. But at our morning meeting, he said a few words. He thanked God for us, for our help, and prayed that God strengthen us to help others too when they needed it. I was quite astonished. I would have thought this a reason to reject God or His existence, or at least to rail at him. I wasn’t quite expecting a crisis of faith, but certainly wasn’t thinking the first words out of Victor’s mouth would be a prayer of thanksgiving. I was so humbled by his faith. And I realized that in his grief, terror and torment, for Victor God was not cruel, but comforting. God was not punisher but victim. How easy it is for us to cite suffering as sufficient reason to disbelieve in God. But look at those who are suffering. Do they believe? And if you reject their belief as simple-minded or a crutch then, well, I guess I’ll take my leave of you.

... The challenge to be with the marginalized is staring me in the face for the first time; what a challenge it is. What would you do?

The report might suggest that this month was a sad one. It’s not supposed to. I enjoyed March and looking back I see mostly happiness. But the day-to-day pleasure of being here throws the pain I’ve seen into greater relief. And to deal with these experiences and respond to them I must pray, “Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Because God knows I sorely need all three.

The rest of Martin’s report continues to be available on the Jesuit Missions website — see www.jesuitmissions.org.uk/xvp/reports/Reports.htm