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.