Peace Love & Polygons: Questions and answers and questions.

Hello! I know that I haven’t blogged in awhile, so I apologize if you’re totally missing my literary voice (sorry Grandma!). The reason I haven’t been writing consistently is because life here just feels normal and nothing super duper exciting or thought-provoking or out of the ordinary has really happened. I’ve settled into a pretty solid routine of teaching, resting, watching Grey’s Anatomy with my roommate, exercising, walking Amêndoa and spending time with my Moz family. I feel good about this balance that I’ve found: it’s healthy. It’s stimulating but not overwhelming; the daily frustrations are manageable and joy continues to show up in even the most unlikely shapes and sizes.

Normal is a feeling I didn’t expect to have while living here. I am the definition of different from every other person in this community (except for my roommate): An educated white woman. But my life here has become normal. Sleeping under a mosquito net? Normal. Hand washing clothes? Normal. Boiling water with enough time to let it cool before filtering? Normal. Not being able to teach when it’s raining because the sound of the rain on the tin roof overpowers my voice? Normal. Saying hello to every. single. person. in the street—multiple times in the same minute? Normal.

Then one day last week, I was on my way home from school in the blistering heat and there were a group of bairro crianças (neighborhood kids) hanging out near and climbing a giant tree. This is pretty normal, especially because a lot of our immediate neighbors are still too young to start primary school—they make their own fun using whatever they can find (and boy are they creative). But on that day—likely because of the heat—three of the little boys didn’t have shirts on. And for the first time in gosh knows how long, I noticed their distended bellies, caused by malnutrition. And before I could catch myself I thought “whatever. normal.” and kept walking.

And then I shook my head and crunched up my eyebrows. Like—holy cow. These kiddos could be on those commercials where whoever it is is asking for $0.40 per day to feed starving children. And I just walked by, unaffected. And I have been walking by unaffected for over a year now. It was a shock that I didn’t expect to feel, a stinging slap in the face. Then other things started jumping out at me: The reed house with no windows and only half of a roof. The fact that our gardener’s one room house fits exactly two cots and a giant bag of pig food. People washing their clothes near the water pump every morning on my way to school because bringing clothes to water is much less heavy than bringing water to clothes. Passersby stopping at a nearby well to drink unfiltered water in the midday heat.

Please note: I’m not writing about these circumstances to evoke pity or guilt. I’m just using this platform to process through this experience called Peace Corps and sometimes that calls for some real talk.

Then I asked myself, “when did the incredibly-less-than-ideal living situations of my neighbors, friends and students become normal in my eyes?”. And my answer was another question: Did I ever consider it abnormal in the first place? I don’t really remember an initial shock, even when arriving to Namaacha and meeting my host family for the first time. Not once did I think “wow, this is legit poverty”. I don’t remember noticing in real life the broken windows or the holes in the pants that pictures taken a year ago captured. I don’t remember thinking it was weird that Lukenney didn’t have diapers even though he was a not yet potty trained two year old. When I went to open the refrigerator one time at my host house and it completely fell on top of me—the whole door off the hinges—I laughed and hurried to put it back in place before anyone saw…but I didn’t link the wonky fridge door to my family being poor. It was just a broken door and I should really be more careful next time.

So, as I’m processing through this—my lack of acknowledgement then or now that I’m living in what any American would consider desperate poverty—I wonder if it’s good or bad. Should I have felt worse about the situation of my host family? Should I feel worse about my neighbors who live without electricity or windows?

And my answer is that likely feeling sad about it isn’t going to change it. But using it as a learning opportunity might.

The reason why I didn’t think it was weird that Lukenney didn’t have diapers was because he didn’t seem to need them. He wasn’t a child spending days sitting in his own shit. On the contrary, he was immaculately clean, very expressive for his age, happy and given more attention than any other family member. He ate mangoes and danced. He learned what a barriga (belly) was from grandpa and proudly showed his to us at the dinner table. He wrapped a stuffed animal monkey on his back with a capulana and pretended to be like grandma. He liked sugary juice way more than water. The Mickey Mouse stickers I brought with me were the best thing since the toy car the last volunteer left at the house. Despite the lack of financial stability my host family had, Lukenney was a very rich kid. He had love and food and warm baths and toys. He had learning opportunities, two hard-working parents and two grandparents that spoiled him rotten as best they could with the income they made. So, is it true that diapers are a luxury that my host family really couldn’t afford? Yes. That’s true. But did I immediately recognize Lukenney’s lack of paper underwear as a sign of poverty? Nope. Not in the slightest. Because he truly had what every kid needs and contrary to popular belief, diapers don’t need to be on that list.

And so maybe that’s why it’s easier than expected to overlook the malnourished bellies and the clothes with holes and the houses without windows. The kids with big bellies have smiles on their faces and are running around with their handmade toy cars that use tin cans as wheels. The family without windows sits outside on their straw mat and eats dinner together after a long day. The ladies washing clothes by the water pump sing songs in their local language while they scrub. A camera captured my host father’s shirt with holes and stains, but my memory captured the pride he exuded when he told me that he works at the court. And his perfectly ironed, although a little too big in the booty, work pants. The broken refrigerator door isn’t nearly as big of a deal at the cold cup of sugar-juice Lukenney and I shared at lunch.

Is life here easy? Nope. Would it be so much more convenient to have air conditioning and running water and a washing machine? Absolutely. Do people here struggle in ways that we can’t even imagine? I believe yes. Would they love to have iphones and brand new clothes and sports cars? I mean, who wouldn’t really? Some people here experience hunger in a way that I can’t even fathom. And 90+% of the population poops in a hole in the ground. Life here isn’t rainbows and butterflies. But does what’s missing define these families? Hell no. What defines them is the support they give each other. The mentality that what I earn is ours, not just mine. That what we have is far more important than what we don’t have. Relationships have more value than things. Hard work is a way of life rather than something to be avoided or dreaded. Mozambique is a relatively young country and I hope it continues to develop in a way that makes life easier for its residents. But experiencing the type of unity and perseverance that is necessary to support a family’s basic needs in this environment is really, really beautiful.

So perhaps instead of asking myself “why am I not more sad about these circumstances”, I should ask “where can I get more of what they have?”.