Humbly humble

Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real – Thomas Merton

I never envied the lifestyle of celebrities. So often they are kept at such a distance from the public it can easily seem like they are not real and only magically surface on the big screen. Since living in Africa, I have sometimes compared my life to that of a celebrity, minus the salary: people gawking at you, shouting your name, random strangers wanting to take photos with you, being given the best seat forcing others to move or even stand for your sake, and people wanting to touch your skin and hair just to make sure it is real. Coming from a culture of individualism and personal space, sometimes this is hard for me to take gracefully and honestly, sometimes it is quite exhausting. There are many moments where I just want to be a nobody. I want to sit in the back unnoticed, walk down the street unbothered and untouched.

I have recently started attending the local church. I am doing this for two reasons: the first is to maintain a habitual element of my life in a environment and work of frequent chaos and also to establish a (spiritual) community outside of the compound where I work and live day in and day out. The first time I went was last week. There are some elements that you can count on always being the same no matter where you are that immediately allow you to step into something familiar and comfortable.

The most famous and still practiced custom of humility in the christian faith is that of washing feet in the service of communion. I have participated in this tradition in six countries : Tanzania, Madagascar, the Bahamas, Kenya, United States, and now DR Congo. Each country adds their own cultural flare but for the most part you know the order of things and how it will all take place regardless of the language being spoken. This weekend proved no different.

Fortunately this celebrity treatment is toned down slightly when I walk into this sacred space but it never is lost completely. Church is often the place where I wish the most that I could loose my white skin, blond hair, funny accent, and just become one of the rest. However, this was not going to happen this time especially because it was communion day. At first I was not going to participate in foot washing just because I knew what to expect and didn’t want to deal with it, not today. But like so many other times, I do things as a witness to others around me that I am a real person just like everyone else. The white people who have come before or who are seen on TV often misrepresent the white population as a whole and I find myself trying to reverse it for my own sake and perhaps for those who will come after me.

So in an effort to do this, I allowed myself to be led by a woman I had never met before but soon learned her name is Denise. We wandered behind the Church where the other women were gathered on small benches while others squatted at their feet participating in this universal ceremony. Many were quite shocked by my presence and soon the crowd grew attracting other women, children, and neighbors to witness this momentous event take place. When Denise reached for my foot the whole mass held their breath and once they were assured my foot wasn’t going to break or melt into her hand, they all started to laugh in excitement. It was even more of a circus when Denise and I traded places and now it was the white girl's turn to kneel on the ground and wash the foot of a stranger. Afterwards, Denise asked me to pray and insisted that it be in French; this being the first time I have ever prayed in French. Once retreating back to a seat inside the sanctuary, I thought I was safe but then only a few seconds later one of the ladies came back to ask me to take a photo with them. We returned to the now muddy foot washing site crammed on beaches made for 4 year old's, bodies pressing me on all sides, and my hair stroked by hands that were just seconds before washing the feet of those sitting beside me, all the while smiling for the camera man.

While going through these motions, I thought how ironic it was to be performing this religious act of humility while at the same time practicing a great deal of humility. Humility isn’t easy. It is many virtues rolled into one: patience, grace, joy, and selflessness – all of which in and of themselves are very challenging. But after this experience, I think Thomas Merton is right: "Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real." Despite how awkward these few moments might have been for me, I know I was humbled and I hope in effect made real to those around me.

The Magic of the African Drum

The African drum is nearly as iconic as every other symbol relating to this continent such as lions, bright colors, Victoria Falls, and rolling savannah's. Unlike the others, the drum is a symbol of community, expression, and worship.

Last night after an evening rain, the clouds settled low in the atmosphere but the moon still shinned through. It was one of those eery but mythical and beautiful nights with crisp, damp air indicating one should expect something to happen. Through the haze of it all came the very distinct, riveting sound - bum da dum bum, bum, which could only be one thing: the African drum. Seconds later melodic voices joined in. It is very captivating and one that gives a person pause, even goose-bumps.

I was immediately drawn to my window in hopes I could just catch a glimpse of Congolese culture at its finest. The Congolese are known all over Africa for creating the best music and being exceptional dancers. Unfortunately through the haze of the night, I was not able to see the gathering. I stood behind my window for many minutes coveting those who were fortunate to be in the midst of such beauty. There was a war going on inside of me: I didn't want to step outside of my comfort zone and join them but at the same time I felt like a prisoner trapping myself. I so badly wanted to be a participant and not just an auditory observer behind a window. I tried going to bed but the music was too compelling.

After restlessly bouncing between my bed and my window for over 20mins, I finally saw one of my colleagues and a guard making their way towards the music. I rushed to join them. Through the fog and the shadows of the moon we made our way towards a group of 30 teenagers dancing and singing. We timidly joined them in an effort to not disrupt or take their attention away from the very thing that was captivating us. We received a few questioning glaces of why these two white girls in their pajamas were inquisitively standing by but thankfully it didn't create too much of a disruption.

Their energy is so contagious you can't help but have the biggest smile on your face and get wrapped up in this special moment. Standing there in the middle of a random field with 30 people I don't even know clapping and dancing under the always beautiful African heavens, all I could think was how blessed I was. How was I lucky enough to be in this particular moment at this place in time? It was a euphoric moment when senses collided and joy was created and experienced in entirety.

All too soon we reluctantly turned to go knowing that we could never return back to that moment but at the same time hopeful it can be recreated again. By the time we reached the gate, silence settled and the chanting ceased. I can't help but wonder if the musicians and dancers were gracious enough to extend their performance allowing two worlds to collide into one for a few precious seconds, which only the African drum could facilitate.

Isiro

I made it through my first week in Isiro! I arrived here last Friday with three other colleagues. It was a nice first weekend including meeting the staff, finally unpacking my suitcases after 6 weeks in Bunia, making pizza in an old oil drum, star gazing and campfire, and not working on Monday because it was a national holiday.

We were a bit delayed leaving Bunia on Friday due to weather. The plane we took had no weather navigation system, which is a bit nerve racking for someone like me who seems to be developing a greater fear of flying every flight I take. This is highly un-conducive to my lifestyle and vocation, by the way. The weather, though, allowed for a spectacular flight. Due to the cloud cover, we had to fly quite low thus providing great views of the landscape below. Congo is a very large country and a majority of it is uninhabited. We flew between mountain peaks and hovered over the dense forest.

Isiro used to be an old colonized Belgian town with stark remnants still standing: train station and rusty rail lines, dilapidated mansions, broken street lights, and vacant buildings once booming businesses. The Medair base is on the outskirts of town surrounded by mud huts, smiling children, and noisy chickens provoking their way to the pot. We live in an area that was relatively untouched by the Belgians. Houses are assembled in their own sort of neighborhoods with dirt paths shaded by mango trees serenaded by birds and giggling children. It is quite idyllic aside from the immense poverty. One thing I really love are these wall-less structures that serve as kitchens and sanctuaries from the afternoon sun. Often you see groups of people huddled together underneath this grass roofed, wall-less huts laughing, eating, and sharing life together. Aside from the corruption and disparity, I often think Africans live a life and culture we were designed for: strong community ties, using and eating only what is needed, not distracted by busy-ness and technology, and a life filled with laughter and dancing.

Stayed tuned for the next post - Isiro's social event of the year and Congolese culture at its finest!