It probably won't surprise the reader to hear that being a college student in Africa is a strange experience. It is challenging to be in a place where poverty is so widespread. At every turn Ghana challenges me and shows me just how particular America is in relation to the rest of the world. After all, the Third-World poverty present here is the norm in most of the world. We in the West are lucky to say the least, and most of all college students.
It's going to be very hard for me to express what is going on in my mind right now, but here it goes. Everywhere I turn Ghana is there to remind me just how hard things are here. Everyday I am chased by food sellers, practically begging me to buy peanuts for 7 cents or water for 3 cents. Almost every day a person approaches me on the street, asking me for my contact information. They do so so they can have a friend in the United States, one who can hopefully get them a visa to get off this island called Africa. There are many other aspects that I've described in other blog posts, such as the starving children, and I see these facets all the time.
And it never stops. It doesn't care whether you're tired or homesick or don't understand a word. Like waves repeatedly crashing against a wall, slowly the college student in Africa has his or her own walls broken down. You question your very existence. For example, I am a college student studying history and anthropology. Most Columbians think I'm full of shit just for that, because I'm not pre-law, pre-med, etc. But no matter what one's major or career goals are, you come to Africa and realize just exactly how full of shit you really are. Doubtless some reading this are thinking, "Studying these things isn't bullshit, Paco. You're being too hard on yourself." Such a response is normal. I would do the same thing when I first got here too. It's natural for an individual to want to justify their existence.
But for the college student in Africa, slowly this Pavlovian response is broken down. It's broken down not by one's own consciousness. Again the tendency to defend yourself to, well, yourself is natural. The purpose of your very existence, indeed your very usefulness as a physical being in this world, is on the line. What breaks down the disconnect is the starvation, the desperation, the disillusionment, and the relentless of all of it. It takes awhile, months actually, but eventually a Westerner here in Africa is forced to confront the fact that their own unreality. I can think of the moment when I realized this. I saw a starving baby fall down and start crying, and her drunk mother just walked away ignoring her. The searing, raw realness you see here could break down the Great Wall of China. One simple college student is nothing, and I'm drawn to Colonel Kurtz famous words, "The horror! The horror." Joseph Conrad did indeed find the horror when he went to Africa over one hundred years ago. He did not find it in the African "savages," he found it in himself, and the Africans only revealed what he had been denying all his life. Here one is forced to confront their own deep demons, the darkest depths of the soul and "civilization."
There is another more contemporary character in popular culture that is emblematic of this heart of darkness, and that is Heath Ledger's portrayal of the Joker in the recent Batman movie. The fact that this psychopathic clown was so powerful and struck such raw never to so many Americans, especially young Americans, I believe points to the fact that deep down, people in America sense this inner insanity, this innate discontent. The horror is indeed real, and we repress it because we must. Like I said, our very existence seems to depend on it.
I've had this strange sensation once before, when I first left Oakland and moved to New York. I had grown up in an environment that was real as Africa is and exposed me to the horror, and then the incongruity of coming from a place like that and moving to Columbia had exposed me to the depths of psychological repression that our civilization is predicated on. Here in Africa, however, I am forced to implicate myself on a whole different level. History and anthropology is utterly meaningless here. Even my experiences in Oakland, while they always serve me well, in the end cannot protect me from the terribleness of it all.
I would not want the reader to think I am slipping into the depths of narcissism or that I am finally "losing it," so to speak. I am having a great time here, and I'm so glad I came. But I would be lying to the people reading this if I ignored this fundamental fact I've learned, that we in the West put layer after layer up to protect ourselves from the very realness that I am forced to confront here. The condition is created in America, and Africa only exposes it for what it is. What else could Africa do? So remember that, on the lower frequencies, I am also speaking for you.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Never Again
Cape Coast is a haunting place. You look at the beautiful beaches, the fresh seafood, and the relaxing atmosphere and you get comfortable. Way too comfortable. Then you visit the slave dungeons, and you can still hear the cries of terror and pain. Indeed, the only way I could describe Cape Coast is as if the Auschwitz concentration camps were located on a Hawaii beach. It's eerie how beautiful it is, and it's a testament to the evil that mankind is capable of.
The ironic fact is that both slave castles that I toured have quite interesting histories not related to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. Elmina ("The Mine" in Portuguese) Castle was originally a trade post for the Portuguese, who were the first Europeans to land on Africa in the 15th century or so. The original reason Europe became interested in Africa was to get to the source of the gold trade to finance its Crusades against the Islamic World. Elmina then was put under the rule of the Dutch, and it served as the slave trade post for the Netherlands. Cape Coast Castle, on the other hand, was originally built by the Swedes for trade, was also controlled by the Dutch until the English captured it. Cape Coast Castle served as the slave trade post for the English.
And the slave trade will be what these castles will forever be remembered for. Slavery existed in Africa and all over the world before and during the period of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, but the cruelty of this system, which simultaneously established a link between Europe, Africa, and America that exists to this day, is what sets it apart from the other forms of slavery that have existed throughout human history.
Men and women were separated into separate dungeons, where they were kept in pitch black rooms. The conditions of these dungeons were awful. The floor would be covered in fecies, urine, blood, and vomit. Each dungeon had one window for light, air, and rain, the latter being the only means of cleaning the hellish groundfloor. Many people died in these unsanitary dungeons from the conditions alone, and those who lived were forced to stay in overcrowded dungeons. The British (and also the Dutch at Elmina) served the slaves only enough food to live, but not enough to have the energy and strength to rebel against them.
The female dungeons are on a whole other level. In addition to the awful conditions of the dungeons during the period of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, the woman had to deal with particular issues in the slave castles. Slave women in the holding dungeons would be chosen like cattle by the sailors, soldiers, and colonial officials. The women would be taken from the dungeons to be raped, and then returned when the particular white man was finished. Each castle had its own method of executing this system, but it existed in all of them. If a slave was found to be pregnant in the dungeons, they would be removed and allowed to stay in the castle long enough to give birth. After this they would return to the dungeon and eventually be shipped to America as slaves while their children remained with the colonial officials to be raised Christian. Women found pregnant while at sea were treated the same as the slaves that were sick on the ship. They were tossed overboard, left to drown in the sea.
In the castle slaves were divided. Those considered very strong, such as the Mandingos, were kept in the dungeons to be sent to America. The weak were kept as slave hands in the castle. If slaves rebelled and fought (what Africans call "freedom fighters"), they were taken to a dark holding cell where they were given no food or water. The door would be shut, and they would suffocate to death. Those that made it to the Americas would find their destinies laboring under a similarly cruel system until well into the 19th century.
Finally, there is the "Door of No Return." Once a slave passed through this door they could never turn back. The door led to a beach where the ships would be waiting to transport them to America as "human cargo." In 1998 or so, the door was renamed on the outside "Door of Return," an event celebrating and welcoming the African-Americans who returned to Africa and the land of their ancestors.
What happened here in Cape Coast was a crime against humanity. Whatever one may feel about him, this past summer Barack Obama became the first president in American history to confront the abortion of justice and humanity that occured here. He and Michelle Obama have both left wreaths in the male and female dungeons at Cape Coast Castle. America and South Africa are the two global symbols of racism for apartheid in the latter and slavery and Jim Crow in the former, so the significance of Obama's visit to the slave dungeons is difficult to overstate. Indeed, if Obama deserves the Nobel Peace Prize for any single reason, it is probably his visit here.
There are plaques in both Elmina and Cape Coast Castles that acknowledges the ancestors who died as a result of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, as well as those who survived and return here to the land of their ancestors. The last few lines read "May humanity never again perpetrate such an injustice against humanity. We now live to uphold this oath." I will let the reader interpret this as they will.
Tomorrow I head to the Eastern Region for a few days and then after the Volta Region, but the terrible things that I learned about here in Cape Coast will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have tried to describe the horrors that occurred on the beaches of Cape Coast to the best of my memory so everyone reading can understand. I write from a small town that witnessed a genocide, a crime against humanity that is too often forgotten in the very land that directly benefitted from these atrocities. All I can say is "Never again."
The ironic fact is that both slave castles that I toured have quite interesting histories not related to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. Elmina ("The Mine" in Portuguese) Castle was originally a trade post for the Portuguese, who were the first Europeans to land on Africa in the 15th century or so. The original reason Europe became interested in Africa was to get to the source of the gold trade to finance its Crusades against the Islamic World. Elmina then was put under the rule of the Dutch, and it served as the slave trade post for the Netherlands. Cape Coast Castle, on the other hand, was originally built by the Swedes for trade, was also controlled by the Dutch until the English captured it. Cape Coast Castle served as the slave trade post for the English.
And the slave trade will be what these castles will forever be remembered for. Slavery existed in Africa and all over the world before and during the period of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, but the cruelty of this system, which simultaneously established a link between Europe, Africa, and America that exists to this day, is what sets it apart from the other forms of slavery that have existed throughout human history.
Men and women were separated into separate dungeons, where they were kept in pitch black rooms. The conditions of these dungeons were awful. The floor would be covered in fecies, urine, blood, and vomit. Each dungeon had one window for light, air, and rain, the latter being the only means of cleaning the hellish groundfloor. Many people died in these unsanitary dungeons from the conditions alone, and those who lived were forced to stay in overcrowded dungeons. The British (and also the Dutch at Elmina) served the slaves only enough food to live, but not enough to have the energy and strength to rebel against them.
The female dungeons are on a whole other level. In addition to the awful conditions of the dungeons during the period of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, the woman had to deal with particular issues in the slave castles. Slave women in the holding dungeons would be chosen like cattle by the sailors, soldiers, and colonial officials. The women would be taken from the dungeons to be raped, and then returned when the particular white man was finished. Each castle had its own method of executing this system, but it existed in all of them. If a slave was found to be pregnant in the dungeons, they would be removed and allowed to stay in the castle long enough to give birth. After this they would return to the dungeon and eventually be shipped to America as slaves while their children remained with the colonial officials to be raised Christian. Women found pregnant while at sea were treated the same as the slaves that were sick on the ship. They were tossed overboard, left to drown in the sea.
In the castle slaves were divided. Those considered very strong, such as the Mandingos, were kept in the dungeons to be sent to America. The weak were kept as slave hands in the castle. If slaves rebelled and fought (what Africans call "freedom fighters"), they were taken to a dark holding cell where they were given no food or water. The door would be shut, and they would suffocate to death. Those that made it to the Americas would find their destinies laboring under a similarly cruel system until well into the 19th century.
Finally, there is the "Door of No Return." Once a slave passed through this door they could never turn back. The door led to a beach where the ships would be waiting to transport them to America as "human cargo." In 1998 or so, the door was renamed on the outside "Door of Return," an event celebrating and welcoming the African-Americans who returned to Africa and the land of their ancestors.
What happened here in Cape Coast was a crime against humanity. Whatever one may feel about him, this past summer Barack Obama became the first president in American history to confront the abortion of justice and humanity that occured here. He and Michelle Obama have both left wreaths in the male and female dungeons at Cape Coast Castle. America and South Africa are the two global symbols of racism for apartheid in the latter and slavery and Jim Crow in the former, so the significance of Obama's visit to the slave dungeons is difficult to overstate. Indeed, if Obama deserves the Nobel Peace Prize for any single reason, it is probably his visit here.
There are plaques in both Elmina and Cape Coast Castles that acknowledges the ancestors who died as a result of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, as well as those who survived and return here to the land of their ancestors. The last few lines read "May humanity never again perpetrate such an injustice against humanity. We now live to uphold this oath." I will let the reader interpret this as they will.
Tomorrow I head to the Eastern Region for a few days and then after the Volta Region, but the terrible things that I learned about here in Cape Coast will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have tried to describe the horrors that occurred on the beaches of Cape Coast to the best of my memory so everyone reading can understand. I write from a small town that witnessed a genocide, a crime against humanity that is too often forgotten in the very land that directly benefitted from these atrocities. All I can say is "Never again."
Monday, October 19, 2009
An Other Ghana
Tamale is a city that could easily be a completely different country than Ghana, it is so different. Tamale is hotter than any place I've been to thus far in Ghana, which is saying something. I don't think I've mentioned the heat in this blog, but yes, Africa is fucking hot. In fact, I slept on the floor several nights ago so I could be closer to the air conditioning, though that has more to do with the weak air conditioner in my room.
Yet the temperature is not what makes the Northern Region so different, but rather the cultural and historical. The Asante is actually a federation of some forty-eight ethnic groups known as the Akan that is ruled by the Asante group in the Ashanti Region, but the Akan Federation never reached Tamale. Most of Ghana was conquered by the Akan, but not the North. In the 10th and 11th centuries what is now called the Ghana Empire connected trade and slaves from West Africa to the Arab world. After that empire fell, from the 12th to 14th centuries what is now northern Ghana was settled by the Mole-Dagbani groups, a collection of five major clans that would come to dominate the region (there is much more to this story but unfortunately I can't remember it off the top of my head and would have to consult my notes). These groups were never conquered by the Asante and retained their own identity, so to speak.
The Northern Region is unique in other ways. Here the religion predominantly Islam, in contrast to Christianity and traditional religions. I have not yet written about religion in Ghana, so here would a good time. My instructor Yemi told us at the beginning of the program that everything the African does is religious, and indeed he is right. Religion in West Africa is absolutely hegemonic. Never before had I had the strange feeling of guilt for having no religion until I came to Ghana. 70% of Ghana is Christian or Catholic, and are more or less the Asante-dominated areas. What is interesting is that Christianity in West Africa retained many traditional practices and beliefs, making it very different from European Christianity. In fact, the parallels and similarities between African Christian churches and African-American Christian churches are striking. There are more life, celebration, and dancing in both of these forms of Christianity than Europe's version. Whenever talking to a Ghanaian, the local inevitably asks if I am Christian, to which I guiltily respond that I have no religion. Here they either look a little disappointed and move on or they engage in a discussion with me against my will on why Jesus Christ is the Lord and Savior.
Again, the Northern Region is different in that it is mostly Muslim, which constitute about 22% of the country, with the rest being traditional religion mostly in the eastern regions. Here Christians defend Islam even as they disagree with it, and considering Islam reached West Africa centuries before Christianity that makes a lot of sense. Islam was probably the most resistant to colonialism because of its missionary nature, not to mention Islam had already brought education and didn't need Britain's civilization. Interestingly, I believe that one of the reasons Bush made the US so unpopular in West Africa was his treatment of the Muslim world, something I didn't realize until I got here. I think Obama has once again all but eradicated this, even though Iraq and Afghanistan remain occupied.
Another reason the northern part of Ghana is unique is that it is the poorest region in Ghana. 90% of people here live on less than a dollar per day, and here is where Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) are most heavily concentrated in Ghana. Here they probably provide more support than the government. I am strangely grateful I haven't seen that poverty up close and personal like I did in Naama. It was tough enough there, and seeing it in the most extreme form here probably would have been overwhelming.
My last post seemed to get a lot of positive feedback, so I thought it might be a good time to clarify why I'm writing this blog. I started it to record some of my experiences in Ghana and share them with my loved ones, both friends and family. Soon after getting to Kumasi, however, I realized this blog had changed in its character. It has retained that sharing-experiences aspect, but the real purpose of this blog is to establish a dialogue, however brief and flawed, between the West and Africa. People in Ghana have expressed to me frustration, anger, desperation, a sense of having no dignity because of their depraved condition, and a sense that no one cares outside Africa. This blog is no longer about me as much as it is about them. The reader sees things as I interpret them, but I try to disappear as much as possible to give the reader a glimpse of Ghana, raw and uncut. The goal of my blog is to give people a taste of the bitterness and beauty that is Ghana, since they eat our trash on a daily basis.
PS Anyone watching international soccer will know this but Ghana won the Under-20 FIFA World Cup, something no African country had ever done before. They also beat Brazil, perenially the best soccer nation in the world. I can tell you that it was a helluva party all over Ghana.
Yet the temperature is not what makes the Northern Region so different, but rather the cultural and historical. The Asante is actually a federation of some forty-eight ethnic groups known as the Akan that is ruled by the Asante group in the Ashanti Region, but the Akan Federation never reached Tamale. Most of Ghana was conquered by the Akan, but not the North. In the 10th and 11th centuries what is now called the Ghana Empire connected trade and slaves from West Africa to the Arab world. After that empire fell, from the 12th to 14th centuries what is now northern Ghana was settled by the Mole-Dagbani groups, a collection of five major clans that would come to dominate the region (there is much more to this story but unfortunately I can't remember it off the top of my head and would have to consult my notes). These groups were never conquered by the Asante and retained their own identity, so to speak.
The Northern Region is unique in other ways. Here the religion predominantly Islam, in contrast to Christianity and traditional religions. I have not yet written about religion in Ghana, so here would a good time. My instructor Yemi told us at the beginning of the program that everything the African does is religious, and indeed he is right. Religion in West Africa is absolutely hegemonic. Never before had I had the strange feeling of guilt for having no religion until I came to Ghana. 70% of Ghana is Christian or Catholic, and are more or less the Asante-dominated areas. What is interesting is that Christianity in West Africa retained many traditional practices and beliefs, making it very different from European Christianity. In fact, the parallels and similarities between African Christian churches and African-American Christian churches are striking. There are more life, celebration, and dancing in both of these forms of Christianity than Europe's version. Whenever talking to a Ghanaian, the local inevitably asks if I am Christian, to which I guiltily respond that I have no religion. Here they either look a little disappointed and move on or they engage in a discussion with me against my will on why Jesus Christ is the Lord and Savior.
Again, the Northern Region is different in that it is mostly Muslim, which constitute about 22% of the country, with the rest being traditional religion mostly in the eastern regions. Here Christians defend Islam even as they disagree with it, and considering Islam reached West Africa centuries before Christianity that makes a lot of sense. Islam was probably the most resistant to colonialism because of its missionary nature, not to mention Islam had already brought education and didn't need Britain's civilization. Interestingly, I believe that one of the reasons Bush made the US so unpopular in West Africa was his treatment of the Muslim world, something I didn't realize until I got here. I think Obama has once again all but eradicated this, even though Iraq and Afghanistan remain occupied.
Another reason the northern part of Ghana is unique is that it is the poorest region in Ghana. 90% of people here live on less than a dollar per day, and here is where Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) are most heavily concentrated in Ghana. Here they probably provide more support than the government. I am strangely grateful I haven't seen that poverty up close and personal like I did in Naama. It was tough enough there, and seeing it in the most extreme form here probably would have been overwhelming.
My last post seemed to get a lot of positive feedback, so I thought it might be a good time to clarify why I'm writing this blog. I started it to record some of my experiences in Ghana and share them with my loved ones, both friends and family. Soon after getting to Kumasi, however, I realized this blog had changed in its character. It has retained that sharing-experiences aspect, but the real purpose of this blog is to establish a dialogue, however brief and flawed, between the West and Africa. People in Ghana have expressed to me frustration, anger, desperation, a sense of having no dignity because of their depraved condition, and a sense that no one cares outside Africa. This blog is no longer about me as much as it is about them. The reader sees things as I interpret them, but I try to disappear as much as possible to give the reader a glimpse of Ghana, raw and uncut. The goal of my blog is to give people a taste of the bitterness and beauty that is Ghana, since they eat our trash on a daily basis.
PS Anyone watching international soccer will know this but Ghana won the Under-20 FIFA World Cup, something no African country had ever done before. They also beat Brazil, perenially the best soccer nation in the world. I can tell you that it was a helluva party all over Ghana.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Naama
Two weeks in an Asante village is like stopping time. The world kept moving the last 13 days but you could have fooled me. While Obama was winning the Nobel Prize (can someone explain to me why or was Bush just THAT bad?) I was meeting children and mothers living in a level of poverty that I have never seen with my own two eyes. I interviewed farmers for a paper I have to write and got an itemized breakdown of the expenses and income of farmers in a remote village in Ghana's Ashanti Region.
I must say that my experience in the village was a cut above anything I've seen thus far in Ghana. In fact, my brief career in Ghanaian film is far out of my mind already. What I saw wasn't pretty, and in fact a lot was quite ugly, but I know now that the things that have shaped me the most in my life have been on the ugly side. This was just another layer of skin put on me. It's probably not a coincidence that the past two weeks in the village led me to decide with another student in the village that we would come back this summer to build another school building.
My interviews with villagers led me to realize just how crippling the "free market" is for Ghanaian farmers. When rain season is bad, the farmer gets poor quality crops and low yield, and therefore (s)he gets less money. When rain season is good, the market gets flooded with cash crops and the price is so low that the farmer gets little anyway. Either way the farmer loses, but one way is just losing more slowly. In fact, the only time the market beneficial is during dry season when crop supply is low and prices are high. Of course, farming with no rain is much more difficult and time-consuming.
Yet this was just the only the aspect of rural poverty that I studied in depth. I can't ever hope to convey the devastation I felt when realizing how little the children in the village of Naama eat. In fact, the children are probably the most searing memory I hold of Naama. The adults speak little English, and most hoped for some sort of compensation for my presence in their village. The children in Africa, however, are its most heartwarming and heartbreaking feature at the same time. When you meet the children, you see the smart ones, the bullies, the shy and quiet ones, the sweet ones, the troublemakers, and every other typecast you can imagine. Then you realize your seeing your own childhood, and without even remembering the names of the people you went to school with you remember the personalities that are being resurrected from long-dead memories by these children. Then you realize, and then you understand, these children are you. Or rather, in the terms dictated by reality and not imagination, these children could be you. But your imagination, that part of the brain not bound by reality, believes these children are in fact you. And all that comes before you realize that they go to bed starving every night.
I saw the learning conditions of the primary school in Naama, and it was indeed beyond anything I've ever seen as well. There are five teachers (including the headmaster) for seven classes, and most days the teachers arrive to the remote village late. They practice corporal punishment, but that is the least of the problems of the schools (indeed I have no problem with it, and caned a few kids as I was teaching classes). The families are so poor they can barely afford uniforms, pencils, and notebooks, and many families don't send their children to school precisely because they can't afford those things. The parents barely speak any English and in most cases no English, but their children must learn the language in a village far away from any cosmopolitan area. The children are hungry yet are expected to learn, and the teachers are exhausted, overworked, and underpaid. And there only four classrooms, including the one outdoors. Some parents send their children to go to school in the next village, and that prevents the government from sending the teachers needed since the school can't meet the minimum number of pupils for a grade, which is 20.
It is indeed a vicious cycle of poverty and poor education facing Naama, and the children, parents, and teachers have led me to the resolution that I will return to Naama this summer to build another school building. Soon I will have to begin raising the money with my colleague, and our minimun is $20,000. We're also considering taking a camera to film a documentary. It may seem an impossible number, but I know it isn't. Naama taught me what impossible really looks like. So any donations or suggestions from the world where time moves forward are greatly appreciated.
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm very grateful that I was born in the United States. I know it goes against all my political beliefs, but I know a privilege when I see one. Being an American is a privilege, albeit one built on the backs of poor laborers both at home and abroad. On a stranger note, in Naama I also slaughtered a chicken. I cut its neck, or rather cut half of it. The blade was dull, so my friend Kwame finished the job, but I did indeed feel the life leave the chicken beneath my feet. Tomorrow we head to Tamale, in the Northern Region on the southern edge of the Sahara, so rest assured my next post will have something new once more.
I must say that my experience in the village was a cut above anything I've seen thus far in Ghana. In fact, my brief career in Ghanaian film is far out of my mind already. What I saw wasn't pretty, and in fact a lot was quite ugly, but I know now that the things that have shaped me the most in my life have been on the ugly side. This was just another layer of skin put on me. It's probably not a coincidence that the past two weeks in the village led me to decide with another student in the village that we would come back this summer to build another school building.
My interviews with villagers led me to realize just how crippling the "free market" is for Ghanaian farmers. When rain season is bad, the farmer gets poor quality crops and low yield, and therefore (s)he gets less money. When rain season is good, the market gets flooded with cash crops and the price is so low that the farmer gets little anyway. Either way the farmer loses, but one way is just losing more slowly. In fact, the only time the market beneficial is during dry season when crop supply is low and prices are high. Of course, farming with no rain is much more difficult and time-consuming.
Yet this was just the only the aspect of rural poverty that I studied in depth. I can't ever hope to convey the devastation I felt when realizing how little the children in the village of Naama eat. In fact, the children are probably the most searing memory I hold of Naama. The adults speak little English, and most hoped for some sort of compensation for my presence in their village. The children in Africa, however, are its most heartwarming and heartbreaking feature at the same time. When you meet the children, you see the smart ones, the bullies, the shy and quiet ones, the sweet ones, the troublemakers, and every other typecast you can imagine. Then you realize your seeing your own childhood, and without even remembering the names of the people you went to school with you remember the personalities that are being resurrected from long-dead memories by these children. Then you realize, and then you understand, these children are you. Or rather, in the terms dictated by reality and not imagination, these children could be you. But your imagination, that part of the brain not bound by reality, believes these children are in fact you. And all that comes before you realize that they go to bed starving every night.
I saw the learning conditions of the primary school in Naama, and it was indeed beyond anything I've ever seen as well. There are five teachers (including the headmaster) for seven classes, and most days the teachers arrive to the remote village late. They practice corporal punishment, but that is the least of the problems of the schools (indeed I have no problem with it, and caned a few kids as I was teaching classes). The families are so poor they can barely afford uniforms, pencils, and notebooks, and many families don't send their children to school precisely because they can't afford those things. The parents barely speak any English and in most cases no English, but their children must learn the language in a village far away from any cosmopolitan area. The children are hungry yet are expected to learn, and the teachers are exhausted, overworked, and underpaid. And there only four classrooms, including the one outdoors. Some parents send their children to go to school in the next village, and that prevents the government from sending the teachers needed since the school can't meet the minimum number of pupils for a grade, which is 20.
It is indeed a vicious cycle of poverty and poor education facing Naama, and the children, parents, and teachers have led me to the resolution that I will return to Naama this summer to build another school building. Soon I will have to begin raising the money with my colleague, and our minimun is $20,000. We're also considering taking a camera to film a documentary. It may seem an impossible number, but I know it isn't. Naama taught me what impossible really looks like. So any donations or suggestions from the world where time moves forward are greatly appreciated.
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm very grateful that I was born in the United States. I know it goes against all my political beliefs, but I know a privilege when I see one. Being an American is a privilege, albeit one built on the backs of poor laborers both at home and abroad. On a stranger note, in Naama I also slaughtered a chicken. I cut its neck, or rather cut half of it. The blade was dull, so my friend Kwame finished the job, but I did indeed feel the life leave the chicken beneath my feet. Tomorrow we head to Tamale, in the Northern Region on the southern edge of the Sahara, so rest assured my next post will have something new once more.
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