I met Martin three weeks ago. He was standing outside Shoprite (the South African grocery store chain) holding a thin stack of papers. As I was pulling out of the parking lot he approached my window and timidly said, “Excuse me I’m looking for a well-wisher.” I eyed him suspiciously and asked what he meant. He explained that he was looking for someone to pay his school fees. He had been accepted into a program at the Natural Resource College but had no one to pay his fees. His father is a farmer in the South, his mother died last year. He is one of 9 and has only one employed brother who is a primary school teacher. I told him to meet me at Bottom later in the week.
I thought about Martin occasionally during following days and decided without much debate that I would find a way to pay his fees. From our three minute conversation I had strong sense that he would excel if offered the opportunity. On Thursday afternoon Martin arrived at Bottom still carrying copies of his final grades, the results of the MSCE (the national test taken after high school), his acceptance letter from NRC, and a form listing the fees. We had planned to meet at 4:30, when the shift at Bottom ends, but on Thursday just after 4pm – as it often does – everything happened at once – hemorrhages, births, resuscitations so I walked out into the dark at 5:30 to find Martin waiting for me on the curb near my car.
We stopped by the bank and then I drove him home to the one bedroom house he shares with his brother, his brother’s wife and their three children. After a few minutes we all began to relax. Laston teased Martin and his wife, everyone laughed easily. Rosemary added to the conversation from the kitchen while cooking fish and nsima. Three year-old Roseby fell asleep on her dad’s lap before dinner. I left two hours later.
Saturday I returned to their house to check in with Martin about his first week and to give him the rest of the money for fees. He said it was a good start, he is getting used to the 7 kilometer bike ride he must make twice a day but it doesn’t leave him much time to visit the library and there are no books to take home. I promised that I would do everything possible to find funds for boarding next term (day classes are US$325/term while boarding is US$740/term).
I happened to have my computer in the car so we looked at pictures of the US and then Malawi, we all agreed that Malawi is a beautiful country. Martin and Laston have never been to the lake so we decided to make a trip in December. I laughed so much that my cheeks hurt (a rare feeling) and I left their house feeling light and happy. The kept telling me how grateful they are for my assistance to Martin but I feel equally blessed to have met them.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Suggestion for the EU
Bottom continues much as it has the whole time I have been here. Two weeks ago I had one day during which I attended 9 deliveries. That day we were particularly short-staffed - just two nurses - and there were a few hours during which I was alone with four students and 14 laboring women. In general, most development organizations are focused on capacity building and training; less on salaries/staffing/recruiting/retention of staff. With money spent in this way the few nurses and clinicians assigned to maternity (of course it is the same in all medical wards) rotate through one training program after another to improve their individual skill sets. There is a great deal of repetition among the topics but each organization teaches a slightly different protocol. As a result, I notice that people often revert to their own “non-standardized” techniques as soon as the trainings are completed. I do not believe training and capacity building are unnecessary, but with this as the primary approach the situation becomes almost comic. We can talk about monitoring labor and managing emergencies but when you walk into a labor ward and see two nurses with 14 patients, there is no feasible way all 14 women will receive good care, even if the nurses run frantically between the beds all day.
Last week while driving I heard a story on BBC Africa about the EU’s creation of Blue Cards. Apparently, with the aging of the European work force and the declining birth rates in many European countries it has been determined that Europe will need to attract skilled workers in order to support and build its economy. The Blue Card scheme (modeled after the US’s Green Card) will facilitate the entrance of skilled workers from Africa and Asia. While listening I was grateful that the interviewer shared my sentiment – WHAT ABOUT AFRICA AND ASIA?!!!!! - but despite his repeated attempts to engage the interviewee, that question passed unanswered.
How can we – the global community, especially the western world – consider ourselves proponents of human rights on one hand while with the other we skillfully divert the few resources (human in this case) away from the poorest of the world? How can we talk about improving access to health care and education via our development institutions and hope to be believed? In truth, what we are saying with these policies is that we will consider caring as long as it is not an inconvenience to us. Lucky for the wealthy, the poor are in general a silent group; unless you stand by their bedside you won’t hear their cries. Right now, in Malawi, we have a physician to population ratio of 1:6,500. Even with rocket boosters on their heels, the impact of training and capacity building will be limited.
I have another thought – perhaps a brilliant solution. I am just remembering another BBC story about training individuals with lower levels of education, skills that are normally provided by highly educated individuals. There are many examples of this in the health care sector in Africa, for example small shop owners in rural areas are taught how to diagnose common illnesses and to prescribe the correct medications. Ok, here’s the idea . . . why don’t we allow the unemployed unskilled people who are literally dying to get into Europe in, with these Blue Cards and train them to do these skilled jobs there. This way we are providing training, capacity building, and employment opportunities for many would remain unemployed in Africa and Asia, we are adding to the European work force, and we are not stealing doctors, nurses, or other “best and brightest” individuals away from their home countries where they are most needed.
Last week while driving I heard a story on BBC Africa about the EU’s creation of Blue Cards. Apparently, with the aging of the European work force and the declining birth rates in many European countries it has been determined that Europe will need to attract skilled workers in order to support and build its economy. The Blue Card scheme (modeled after the US’s Green Card) will facilitate the entrance of skilled workers from Africa and Asia. While listening I was grateful that the interviewer shared my sentiment – WHAT ABOUT AFRICA AND ASIA?!!!!! - but despite his repeated attempts to engage the interviewee, that question passed unanswered.
How can we – the global community, especially the western world – consider ourselves proponents of human rights on one hand while with the other we skillfully divert the few resources (human in this case) away from the poorest of the world? How can we talk about improving access to health care and education via our development institutions and hope to be believed? In truth, what we are saying with these policies is that we will consider caring as long as it is not an inconvenience to us. Lucky for the wealthy, the poor are in general a silent group; unless you stand by their bedside you won’t hear their cries. Right now, in Malawi, we have a physician to population ratio of 1:6,500. Even with rocket boosters on their heels, the impact of training and capacity building will be limited.
I have another thought – perhaps a brilliant solution. I am just remembering another BBC story about training individuals with lower levels of education, skills that are normally provided by highly educated individuals. There are many examples of this in the health care sector in Africa, for example small shop owners in rural areas are taught how to diagnose common illnesses and to prescribe the correct medications. Ok, here’s the idea . . . why don’t we allow the unemployed unskilled people who are literally dying to get into Europe in, with these Blue Cards and train them to do these skilled jobs there. This way we are providing training, capacity building, and employment opportunities for many would remain unemployed in Africa and Asia, we are adding to the European work force, and we are not stealing doctors, nurses, or other “best and brightest” individuals away from their home countries where they are most needed.
Personal Updates
Clement is now gone. He left for Ghana on August 16th and so we are already one month closer to our reunion. As for my prospects there, it seems that midwives are in great demand so I have already been told that it will be very easy for me to get a job in the hospital or even as a lecturer at the University, the only problem is that the salaries hover somewhere around $500/mo. We have received about half of Clement's tuition for this year, for which we are incredibly grateful, and our search for funding continues.
Clement started classes a couple weeks ago and has made a few friends. He says Kumasi is beautiful, green, hot, and busy. He is not such a big fan of the food but personally I’m excited about the spicy stews and fufu. We talk for a few minutes a couple times a week; it’s never enough. I’m eager for December and I am trying to remember that four months is not an eternity.
We have set the wedding date for December 29th, the middle of the rainy season. It will be held in the village where Clement’s paternal grandmother lives. My parents will come. Clement’s dad has promised to buy a cow. I could never visualize myself with the typical wedding but now this picture . . . drums, rain, mud, feasting, dancing, my parents, hundreds of villagers, friends, and my beloved, seems perfect.
After Clement left I got pneumonia. I never had a fever just a persistent worsening cough. I finally realized that I needed treatment when walking ten feet made my heart race and left me short of breath. It took me a couple weeks but I am now finally back to my usual routine with my usual energy/fatigue.
Clement started classes a couple weeks ago and has made a few friends. He says Kumasi is beautiful, green, hot, and busy. He is not such a big fan of the food but personally I’m excited about the spicy stews and fufu. We talk for a few minutes a couple times a week; it’s never enough. I’m eager for December and I am trying to remember that four months is not an eternity.
We have set the wedding date for December 29th, the middle of the rainy season. It will be held in the village where Clement’s paternal grandmother lives. My parents will come. Clement’s dad has promised to buy a cow. I could never visualize myself with the typical wedding but now this picture . . . drums, rain, mud, feasting, dancing, my parents, hundreds of villagers, friends, and my beloved, seems perfect.
After Clement left I got pneumonia. I never had a fever just a persistent worsening cough. I finally realized that I needed treatment when walking ten feet made my heart race and left me short of breath. It took me a couple weeks but I am now finally back to my usual routine with my usual energy/fatigue.
Manliness
Last weekend I visited a friend. When I saw her the previous week, she was recovering from malaria. This week as I got out of the car I noticed that her entire face was swollen. L is an extremely jovial person by nature despite the many tragedies that have scarred her life. Normally her eyes sparkle while she talks and punctuates her stories with laughter. Today when I asked her what happened she looked down and quietly said that her young brother beat her up. Her mother died some years ago and now both she and her brother live with their father. L is near 30 she was married and home raising her two children but after the death of her husband, she moved back with her father, and started school again. She is now one year away from her goal of finishing high school. Her 19-year-old brother dropped out of school after 6th grade, he is unemployed and according to L he passes time drinking and causing disturbances. Apparently their fight began when she put her body between his fists and her children.
While we were talking she pointed him out as one of two boys who stood talking a short distance in front of us. He was standing near my car and I asked her if she’d like me to run him over. She gave a weak smile and shook her head. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I watched him – still a child in appearance – approach a friend with a cocky swagger.
She said this was the second incident. The first time, he threw burning coals at her. I asked her if she wanted to call the police. In halting English she explained that it was very possible that the police would beat him to a state near death; this was a family matter; it was better that she just find another house and move. Of course that requires money which she doesn’t have. Her father won’t intervene because he considers her and her children a burden. Actually what she said with a shake of her head, when I asked if her father would help was, “He’s a man.” She used the same phrase when talking about her brother’s abusive behavior. I understand that L’s family is poor. I understand that her brother even with a high school education, would have minimal employment opportunities, and little hope of rising from the endemic poverty that defines his life. I understand that the system he was born into is structured to guarantee struggle rather than survival. I can understand that whether recognized consciously or experientially this social emasculation breeds anger. But, I cannot accept that this anger effects the concept of manliness such that the defining trait becomes physical strength and ability to force others into submission.
From L’s home I went to visit another girl whose baby I delivered two years ago. She is now 20 and over the past years has lived with three different relatives, all barely older than herself, all orphans with low levels of education, all with their own children to support, all finding her - at times - too much of a burden. That Saturday we met at her cousin E’s house. E is now 24, she has two children, no parents, and no high school diploma (I’m not sure if she has a junior high school certificate). M and I chatted and played with her son while waiting for E who also wanted to see me. Within 30 minutes E arrived wearing a strapless open-back shirt and glittering make-up in the company of three men who all drank beer out of opaque water bottles. E sat in a chair opposite me smiling warmly but looking visibly uncomfortable. The oldest of the three men engaged me in conversation; in a confident tone with polished English he told me about his job, his studies and his travel experiences in Europe. After a few minutes M abruptly stood and led me outside. She said she had not wanted to tell me because she didn’t think I would believe her, but she was glad that I could now see with my own eyes. M said she would not prostitute herself; she said when there is no food she doesn’t eat and her thin body corroborated her statement. E soon joined us outside; rushing to express bubbling emotions with her limited English she tripped over words for a few moments, then shrugged her shoulders sadly and said, “It’s a problem.” I just hugged her. Starvation is not a viable option.
After leaving I drove to Foodsworths to buy some bread and eggs. Foodsworths is a small grocery that carries many items which are otherwise difficult to find in Malawi (e.g.cake mix, oreos, sushi wrap) as well as common items. By western standards the grocery is quite basic, but on that Saturday morning it struck me as flagrantly extravagant. Expatriate families wandered the four aisles casually chatting and filling grocery carts with a sampling from the shelves. I bought a dozen eggs, flowers, and a loaf of bread. For hours afterwards I felt guilty about the dozen roses for which I paid $3. I felt exhausted, struggling in the middle, so aware of my privilege, my inadequacies, my fears, my desires to cling to comfort, my longing for joy not just for myself but also for L and M and E.
A few days later M called to tell me that E wants to start a small business but she has no capital and only an idea of what she might do. Tomorrow I will meet with a Malawian woman who used to run a vocational training center for former prostitutes.
While we were talking she pointed him out as one of two boys who stood talking a short distance in front of us. He was standing near my car and I asked her if she’d like me to run him over. She gave a weak smile and shook her head. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I watched him – still a child in appearance – approach a friend with a cocky swagger.
She said this was the second incident. The first time, he threw burning coals at her. I asked her if she wanted to call the police. In halting English she explained that it was very possible that the police would beat him to a state near death; this was a family matter; it was better that she just find another house and move. Of course that requires money which she doesn’t have. Her father won’t intervene because he considers her and her children a burden. Actually what she said with a shake of her head, when I asked if her father would help was, “He’s a man.” She used the same phrase when talking about her brother’s abusive behavior. I understand that L’s family is poor. I understand that her brother even with a high school education, would have minimal employment opportunities, and little hope of rising from the endemic poverty that defines his life. I understand that the system he was born into is structured to guarantee struggle rather than survival. I can understand that whether recognized consciously or experientially this social emasculation breeds anger. But, I cannot accept that this anger effects the concept of manliness such that the defining trait becomes physical strength and ability to force others into submission.
From L’s home I went to visit another girl whose baby I delivered two years ago. She is now 20 and over the past years has lived with three different relatives, all barely older than herself, all orphans with low levels of education, all with their own children to support, all finding her - at times - too much of a burden. That Saturday we met at her cousin E’s house. E is now 24, she has two children, no parents, and no high school diploma (I’m not sure if she has a junior high school certificate). M and I chatted and played with her son while waiting for E who also wanted to see me. Within 30 minutes E arrived wearing a strapless open-back shirt and glittering make-up in the company of three men who all drank beer out of opaque water bottles. E sat in a chair opposite me smiling warmly but looking visibly uncomfortable. The oldest of the three men engaged me in conversation; in a confident tone with polished English he told me about his job, his studies and his travel experiences in Europe. After a few minutes M abruptly stood and led me outside. She said she had not wanted to tell me because she didn’t think I would believe her, but she was glad that I could now see with my own eyes. M said she would not prostitute herself; she said when there is no food she doesn’t eat and her thin body corroborated her statement. E soon joined us outside; rushing to express bubbling emotions with her limited English she tripped over words for a few moments, then shrugged her shoulders sadly and said, “It’s a problem.” I just hugged her. Starvation is not a viable option.
After leaving I drove to Foodsworths to buy some bread and eggs. Foodsworths is a small grocery that carries many items which are otherwise difficult to find in Malawi (e.g.cake mix, oreos, sushi wrap) as well as common items. By western standards the grocery is quite basic, but on that Saturday morning it struck me as flagrantly extravagant. Expatriate families wandered the four aisles casually chatting and filling grocery carts with a sampling from the shelves. I bought a dozen eggs, flowers, and a loaf of bread. For hours afterwards I felt guilty about the dozen roses for which I paid $3. I felt exhausted, struggling in the middle, so aware of my privilege, my inadequacies, my fears, my desires to cling to comfort, my longing for joy not just for myself but also for L and M and E.
A few days later M called to tell me that E wants to start a small business but she has no capital and only an idea of what she might do. Tomorrow I will meet with a Malawian woman who used to run a vocational training center for former prostitutes.
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