The End

“Till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once – somewhere – far away – in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace.”

A Case for Peace Corps

I believe in Peace Corps and what it stands for at its core: a medium of cultural exchange and teaching. These are, I believe, essential and the most effective methods of development. Considering my opinions of aid, and it’s often negative impact on development, Peace Corps stands out as an ideal model. Its core is structured around teaching, based on the wisdom of teaching a man to fish, wisdom that the entire aid industry seems to have forgotten. Volunteers get paid a local salary and are expected to work with what they have. That means using local resources and as little money as possible to create development. This requires the community to work together, be creative, and create development with their own skills and materials. Ideally, all a volunteer does is pass on knowledge. And it’s highly effective in an isolated environment.

Unfortunately, the environments are not isolated; Malawi is a very crowded aid market, each NGO trying to outdo/out give the other. As a result, they get in their Land Cruisers and drive into the rural villages, where volunteers are, make large promises of buildings, money, materials, and leave to the nearest luxury tourist lodge. They may or may not come back with all these things. If they do, they drop them and leave, never to be heard from again except for a mandatory check-in so they can close out the project. This hurts the work of PCVs, who are actually trying to build an independent and strong community. It discounts our work and hurts Malawi in the long run. If a man is offering free fish and another teaching how to fish, which would you take if you were in poverty? In fact, you might even go up to the teacher and ask: why aren’t you offering free fish? This is the dilemma PCVs face.

This is the long and negative impact of aid. But Peace Corps still perseveres; its aims are much more long-term than all these NGOs. If you look at many politicians in Malawi today, they were, in their youth, taught by a Peace Corps volunteer at their school. Little by little, Peace Corps strives to demonstrate that developing skills in math, English, science, and using local resources and local skills are the ideal mix for sustainable and independent development. Malawi doesn’t need money, it needs exports and industries. And such things will never develop without proper education, which it severely lacks (plenty of UN and NGO built schools, but no good teachers).

After being in Peace Corps, I’m proud to have worked with an organization that holds such ideals. Granted they have their own issues and problems, but overall, I know I didn’t spend two years with an organization that perpetuates and exasperates the problems of Malawi under the guise of saving Malawi. Malawi’s need, and development in general, boils down to teachers and doctors. Not money and not resources or politics. If the population is educated, they can access more information, make educated choices, and independently improve their communities, thus improving the nation. If there are more doctors, then the population can be healthier, have higher life expectancy, and actually invest in their future as opposed to seeing life as a short-term endeavor.

The Fisherman

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/atlarge/2010/10/11/101011crat_atlarge_gourevitch

A bit extreme, but the article generally summarizes my own thoughts about aid and development work based on serving in Malawi.

Death and a Farewell

It was Wednesday morning. Crane walked back to the house after 7, I thought she forgot something for school. I was washing my backpack, in preparation for leaving Mwazisi on Friday. She came in to the kitchen and said evenly: Benedicto's wife died. It didn't register. I thanked her, she left and I kept brushing the bag. Slowly the matter spawned in my mind, growing, until my hands stopped brushing and I couldn't move. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, not cleaning this bag, not moving my arms. I just stopped. I eventually forced myself to move the bag to the storage room and put the brush away. In the distance, a faint wailing drew closer. Louder and louder, the cry was screeching passing on the road. The students at the school all stopped and watched. I approached the window and saw Salome crying uncontrollably as her friends escorted her home. Another girl passed soon after, also wailing, on her way to Benedicto's home.

I put on some decent clothes and walked out to the porch. Simone was passing by, dressed all in white. I stopped him and he told me about the death and then took off in the direction of Benedicto's home. I locked the door and followed. By the time I reached the road a crowd of people were already making their way to pay their respect and give their condolences. Some others were still gathering in the distance. It was like a great migration, shop keepers, barbers, teachers, students, famers, everyone left what they were doing and immediately began the journey to the house upon hearing the news. In the crowd, some women were crying, as if echoing a much deeper sadness sounding from the house in the distance. Karkarara's house. There is no other way to describe this loud, penetrating cry, other than utter and raw sadness. It dwells in your mind and wells in your eyes.

I haven't been to a funeral in a year and a half. I don't usually go because I don't know any of those people. I also thought I had grown hard or cold, worried that my voice turned indifferent and my feelings incapable, that such events could affect me no more. But today it came rushing back. By the time we reached the house, many had already gathered. The men stood outside, in front of the house, and the women were inside, with the body. I joined the men and stood, and watched, and listened. The sound was reverberating and powerful. The cries came from everywhere, down every path, through every field, around every stalk of maize. They collided at the house where, from inside, the deep sadness echoed about the brick walls and emanated from the windows and doors. I could see the people around me, but my mind was absent, as if it was observing the scene from somewhere out of this world. It was clouded in darkness, lost on a singular thought. I chanted the gyathri mantra under my breath in hopes of preserving sanity.

I had just seen her, days earlier. Dorothy Kumwenda, was a strong woman; muscular, intelligent, and one of the hardest working people I have met in Malawi. She participated in every project in Mwazisi with enthusiasm and dedication, even ones that didn’t succeed. She, Benedicto, and their kids, including Salome, were the perfect Mwazisi family. They didn't fall to politics or jealousy; they lived, worked hard, and welcomed new ideas with an open mind. They were never selfish and always took care of others. Mrs. Kumwenda ran several small businesses in Mwazisi and was a wonderful person. You could see it in her eyes, glowing with happiness and she always greeted with a smile. How could a life just be taken? One that was so strong and lively? It's such a fragile thing and we forget how fragile. I couldn't stop thinking about Benedicto and his children. To not have his wife, to not have their mother, what would they do? Salome is the oldest, what will happen to her schooling? I thought of my family and how much I wanted to be home.

I was relieved when Mr. Zyambo walked out of the house. He had helped carry the body from the health center. He saw me and walked over. I felt as if a heavy burden was lifted off, having someone I consider family stand by. He explained that she had had an itching sensation inside the lower part of her leg. The itch slowly moved up her whole leg and turned into a sharp pain, pulsing from inside. She had difficulty walking. Benedicto went to Eva Demaya to get medicines, as the local health center had none, but they did not help. The HSA, and everyone, thought it was a minor thing that would pass. These kinds of ailments occur often and people don't worry much. Yesterday the pain moved up her whole body to her head. They took her to the health center and the HSA put her in a bed. The medical assistant couldn’t diagnose it, so they called the district hospital. A car wouldn't come until the next day. She died in the morning.

Just like that, she was gone. No medicines in the health center, no doctors other than the few in major cities, no help. We were all asked to pull some logs and sit. I took a spot next to Mr. Zyambo. We all sat, silently listening to the cries. Salome and her sisters came from the fields crying, screeching, and walked into the house. Benedicto walked out, his face had vanished. The life was taken out of his eyes and in its place sadness resided. He was looking but not seeing and a relative helped him walk to the other house. I had never seen him like this. I wanted to grab someone, anyone, and just hold them, even if just their arm, to pass the sadness, to share it. My head leaned to the side and I wanted the sadness out. I sat holding it in and hoped that Mr. Zyambo would not leave. The HSA came and sat next to me. He explained the elders were gathering to talk about the origins of Mrs. Kumwenda, so that we all know her life, where she was from, what she has done.

As the cries continued, the local preacher walked out of the wailing house. He held out his hands and spoke in Tumbuka. She has gone he said. She has arrived in the arms of God, she has finished her journey in this world, this journey we are all on. We are all renting our bodies, renting our lives from Jesus, living in this world, and someday we will have to leave. I was never a supporter of Christianity, not the faith but the organized religion, considering its bloody past and cultural damage it has caused, especially in Malawi. I believe in the faith, in the core values and ideals espoused by Jesus Christ. Today, when I heard the preacher talk, though I couldn’t understand all of it, I felt a light shine through the creeping darkness inside. His words, his manner of speaking, his faith, uplifted the dwelling sorrow. I don't know why or how, but I felt something, something countering the penetrating cries from the house.

My mind cleared and I saw people gathered around the home. Benedicto was sitting on the front steps with his head in his hands. Mr. Zyambo said that we should leave soon so they can make the funeral arrangements. I nodded. Slowly people began to leave. Women came out of the house, men walked out through the fields. They were returning to their daily tasks until the burial. We all had gathered to give our condolences and support, to show Benedicto and his children that we were here for them, the whole village. Everyone will be here. We got up and made our way back. It was a silent walk until Mr. Zyambo spoke. He said life here these days is very unpredictable: no medicines, no healthcare workers. I nodded my head and branched off to Crane's house. He said he would come get me at the time for burial.

The burial didn’t happen until mid-morning, the next day, Thursday, as the rest of the family had to arrive from all over Malawi. It was hot that day. The sun was scorching, skin burned if it dared to peak from a sleeve. The wails grew louder, but now mixed with the singing church choir. She was laid in a beautiful coffin, adorned with yellow and orange flowers. After the burial and fiery speeches from the preacher, everyone dispersed in the afternoon. I walked home and packed my things. The next morning, this morning, I got up early, walked with Crane to the trading center, boarded the Mbezuma and left Mwazisi for the last time.