Gonzaga-in-Zambezi

As a kid I can remember being terrified of hospitals. Though it was not that often, I can recall the uneasy feeling I would get whenever going to the hospital for a friend or family member. When I think about these trips the thing that I disliked the most was having to sit in the waiting room. Though my overall fear of hospitals has subsided since starting my clinical experiences through Gonzaga, I think that the waiting room will always be a place that will make me feel uneasy, due to the nature of a hospital waiting room. Making people sit in the discomfort of their situation. Whether it is the discomfort of physical or emotional pain, fear of the unknown, or the frustration of unanswered questions, the waiting room forces you to sit there and be uncomfortable.

We are just about to enter into our third week of being in Zambezi and after giving it some thought; I think that I am stuck in the waiting room. And how I got here did not take much effort. One night I simply asked myself, “What is my role here in Zambezi” and bam, I checked in, was told the doctor would be right with me and to please take a seat.

Before coming to Zambia I felt like this question had a clear-cut answer. Our goal was accompaniment—to work alongside the Zambezi community, making deep and real friendships through the process. This turned out to be a lot more complicated than I thought it was going to be. We often talk about how the days are long, but the weeks are short here and it is crazy to think that we only have a week left here in Zambezi. I started to feel like I was running out of time and this question that lingered was still yet to be fully answered. And from this one question even more complicated questions started to pop up. I wondered if, with this short of time, would I actually be able to accomplish the practice of accompaniment? Is our short time here doing more harm than good when children skip school to stand outside the convent gates, hoping that the chindeles will come out to play? Are we taking more than we are giving when the health team travels to rural communities outside of Zambezi and teach for an hour and in return receive food and gifts that are valuable resources for the village? How do we decide which girls will receive one of the limited period kits that we have to help them stay in school from those who will not? And now that I have experienced what I have experienced, what am I going to do when I get back home?

Sitting in unanswered questions for the passed couple of days lead me to become frustrated. Sitting in the discomfort of being celebrated wherever we go, receiving gifts and hospitality that felt undeserved, and feeling like a burden in the passed couple of days lead me to become frustrated. This experience has brought me back to a hospital waiting room where all I wanted was answers so that I could stop feeling uncomfortable. For a while this frustration made me think that it would have been best to never ask or think about these questions because the answers would never come. But one night as our group was talking about what questions we are asking and what was making us uncomfortable Morgan Green brought up a concept that I was not able to see because of my frustration. She said, “What if the whole point is to sit in the discomfort”. I had never considered that sitting in the discomfort would ever be the solution to my problem. But the more I thought about it the idea started to make feel a sense of release. I think that I had placed this pressure on myself to have everything figured out, to work hard to find the answers to these questions and to find a way to be comfortable with the things that were bringing me discomfort. But maybe I am coming to think that maybe part of this experience might be about learning it sit in the discomfort that comes with asking the hard questions.

The challenging part of learning to sit in the discomfort, except for the obvious, is finding peace while waiting. We have a book of prayers and blessings in the convent and I came upon this blessing the other day.

“Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still calm your heart”.

I am coming to see that many of the questions I have many not be answered by the time that I leave Zambezi and in fact might be ones that I am still sorting through weeks, months, or years from now. So I guess you could say that I am going to be in the waiting room for the long haul, sitting in the discomfort. But I am trying to be ok with that and focusing on what can bring me peace while I’m there. I find peace in that my fellow Zam Fam is here with me and all are in the waiting room to some capacity. Reflecting with them helps me to move closer to resolutions while also challenging me to ask even more questions. I find peace in the sewing classes the health team has, empowering women to make period kits of their own. I find peace in my friend Hendrix who has a passion to help his community to become a prosperous place to live. I find peace in the Sunday Mass choir who worship in both song and dance. I find peace in the walk our group takes every evening to watch the sunset over the river with what feels like a hundred Zambezi children.

And as my time here in Zambia starts to come to an end I know that the discomfort is far from over. I know that I will continue to ask questions and be put into situations that make me uncomfortable, but I am starting to be ok with that. I am trying to give myself some grace in this experience and search for where I can find peace instead of searching for immediate answers. I will let the doctor get back to me when the time is right. In the mean time I’ll learn to appreciate the process and continue to look for how Zambezi can calm, but also fill my heart.

Kisu Mwane

Caroline May (Class of 2018)

PS – Momma May and Dad thank you so much for everything. I love and miss you very much. Kim and Cait I wish that we guys could be here with me and I can’t wait to see you two in a couple of weeks. Love you always.

A single paved highway spans the 500 Kilometer distance from Solwezi, a town filled with hustle and bustle after a boom in the copper mining industry, to Zambezi, the town our Zags have called home for the past few weeks. After a quick trip to meet the Bishop of the Catholic Diocese, pick up some new travelers, and visit the local ShopRite, our motley crew is ready to go home. The drive is filled with road trip essentials like any other- fast food, the sweet sounds of John Mayer, and good company to pass the time. As I peer out the window, my eyes meet the steady flow of trees that cover the land on both sides of the road. Homes with thatched roofs, market places, and schools flicker into view and disappear from sight as our car makes its way home. Chindende, chindende. Slowly, slowly I think to myself as I adjust my legs and settle in to the leather seats of the Land Cruiser. This journey will be long, but bit-by-bit, we will make our way.

I first heard this Luvale phrase last year in Zambezi when I was talking with Precious and Maxine, two young women who I had nicknamed “The Lemon Ladies” because of the enormous lemon tree in their backyard, which they plucked fruits from daily, and sold on the road along the market. I had invited them to a party and they were running late saying, “Chindende, Chindende. We will make our way soon.” It was yet another reminder of what people describe as “Zambia Time” and what we have discussed on this trip regarding the African Concept of Time. In the Western World, time is love, time is money, and time is power. In Africa, time is the past and time is the present. There is no future time. Time is defined by events and not by certain hours in the day. The party won’t start at 15:30. The party will start when the party starts. Get it?

At lunch today we hosted Francis, a Zambian social worker and founder of a newly launched NGO, and we learned about all the efforts that him and his team are putting in to their work to support vulnerable children throughout Zambia. Before he left, I asked Francis about how he finds time to relax and recharge in the midst of getting his organization up and running. I was surprised and curious when he shared that he doesn’t really find free time to do those things. He compared my own American culture where people have a mutual understanding to abide by strict timelines in order to create space for personal leisure time to the African workplace where work happens when it needs to happen. Time is present, not future. Francis acknowledged the difficulties in balancing his work with his personal well being and also emphasized the importance of completing tasks when they need to get done. No deadlines or timelines. Just completing the task at hand because it needs to be completed.(However, he did mention that after a long day of work, sharing a slice of pizza with friends and family usually fills him with energy).

Little by little. Bit by bit. Whatever it takes to carry this haystack across town.

I look up from my book and see Father Dominic staring out the back window. “Chindende Chindende,” I say, and he smiles in reply, “Chindende, chindende. Slowly slowly. Chizunda ambachile mbambi yenyi.” A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. I ponder this quietly for a while. Steps can’t be skipped, but all it takes is one at a time to make our way along. We will be home soon, but for now I will enjoy the rest of this car ride. Time is present, not future.

The journey back from Solwezi.

There is something to be said for the giddiness and excitement that comes when one returns home after a long journey. A sea of questions can plague our minds in anticipation of what is to come. Who or what will be waiting for me when I return? What new things am I bringing back to share with others? How will my home be different? How will I be different? I was overcome with these thoughts and was filled with eager anticipation upon our group’s arrival in Zambezi a few weeks ago. I struggled to embrace the beauty of being present in the journey through Dubai and Lusaka because my mind had already returned to yellow walls, sandy paths, nshima, and the many Zambians I had met the past summer. I wanted our group to finally get where we were trying to go, so I could get home to Zambezi. So we could get home. I was so focused on the destination that I lost track of the significance of each point in the journey.

Last semester as a part of my Sociology of Education class, I volunteered with the Walking School Bus program at two of Spokane’s public elementary schools. Three days a week, several Zags and I would pick up a group of students at their homes or a designated pick-up area and walk them to school. On our walks we played imaginary games, talked in funny accents, and I learned more about MineCraft than I bargained for. My relationship with students on the route was based upon our journey together on cold, rainy mornings. I didn’t look forward to dropping students off at school because it meant we had reached our destination and would have to part ways. With each step I thought to myself, “Chindende, chindende. Slowly, Slowly we can make our way.” Taking things slowly could be a good thing.

Zambezi is a home away from home, which makes it a place to journey to and from, and a journey within itself. Now that I am here again, I savor the days and want the moments to pass by slowly, slowly. These days are full and if I don’t stop to remind myself to slow down and enjoy, I miss wonderful opportunities. The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. As a group, we have taken quite a few of them so far, but we still have many more to go. Each footprint left behind, which traces our path in the sand, will serve as a reminder for the rest of our time to come. “Chindende, chindende. We can make our way.”

Kisu Mwane,

Elly Zykan (Class of 2018)

P.S. Thank you to all of those who follow along with our posts each day. Like our moments in Zambezi, we take in each word you have to say slowly and with intent. Much love.

Embracing each moment, including a sunset at the river.

“You HAVE to have both the light and the dark.” Says Lydia as she and I lay back watching our group partake in a late night activity.

Out of the many great conversations I have had with both my fellow Zags and members of the Zambezi community, this was one that resonated more than others. After trips like these, I have always wrestled with the question that will always get asked, the question being, “Well, how was it? What was it like?” Lydia and I talked about this and rested on the idea that no matter what you say, whether it be a lot or a little, detailed or broad, insightful or concrete, you HAVE to speak about both the light and the dark. One does not, and should not, exist without the other. Questioning the idea of light and dark and also being out in the unique situations that Zambezi provides has forced me to look inward into my own character and where the light and the dark play roles in my own life.

Say I had a mirror. And by looking into this mirror, it would show me my reflection. But not the reflection of my outside, but of my inside. The reflection of my inner self. If I looked now, what I would see would be practically unrecognizable compared to what I would have seen years ago. The inner me of the past would be small. He would be holding his hands in front of his chest and staring back with tearful eyes that said, “Please, don’t hurt me.” I used to be tormented by my own head. My days were full of worry. I worried about my mistakes, my flaws, and my awkwardness, and I feared what other people might think of me. My self esteem was practically nonexistent and I could only describe myself with one word: Inconsequential. I once thought that this was my light, but it took time to realize that it was my dark. Battling my own head with its bouts of depression and its intrusive thoughts of OCD tore me down to my core, a point where I eventually couldn’t take it anymore. You only change when you’re wise enough to know you want to or when you’ve been hurt enough that you have to. My circumstances finally decided for me that it was time to change, whether I wanted to or not.

Looking into the mirror now, I now see the reflection of that change. The inner me I see now, is tall. He stares down at me with eyes that don’t judge, but show empowerment and confidence. He stands like a soldier. After I changed my reflection, my life took on a new light. I felt confident and strong. I finally felt like I had some self worth, and a lot of it. Adversity still came, but I could handle it. Many people didn’t like this change. People had been too used to who I was to accept who I became. I lost a few friends in the process and my priorities changed, but on the path to self worth it was a price I had to pay. This, was my light.

Here in Zambia, there is a cultural practice called Makishi. On the surface, it is a large celebration filled with the dancing of several masked characters, each one representing some specific character. The celebration is often associated with the rights of passage that young boys and girls of Zambia take. Rights of passage are incredibly important in the Zambian culture and our wonderful Fr. Baraza spoke to us as a group regarding these traditions. He explained to us that rights of passage are universal experiences that all people face, and not only sometimes, but all the time. We are always walking a right of passage. We learned of the three sections of a right of passage: Separation, Testing, and Reintegration. While separation and reintegration and incredibly quick moments, the middle period of testing makes up the vast majority of any right of passage. I couldn’t help but feel that Zambezi was pushing the levels of testing in my passage. For Zambians, the most common right of passage is where the boy or the girl transitions into adulthood. The tradition used to have the kids sent away for months at a time, away from their homes, away from their friends, and away from their families. They’d live in a camp where they would symbolically die as children and return as adults. There were times where the boy or the girl would actually die during this long journey. Fr. explained to us that the testing period of any right of passage is one of near-death. At any point of testing in any right of passage, one could die.

During one of the many intimate conversations on this trip, I sat with Sooyoun and Jimmy and I was asked a question about my ideals of strength and empowerment. I was asked, “Do you think that that strength you talk about may be a defense mechanism? A way of not getting hurt?” The answer came to me before I could even react. Yes. Of course it was. What I once saw as strength, suddenly became weakness. I could see how my reflection had been changing over time. To look into that mirror again is to see the reality of the change I made. The man who stood tall is now on his knees. Panting, budding with sweat, and grinning wildly, he waits to be struck again by life, so he can prove his strength by getting up again. He thinks that this is strength. Being hit again and again and still getting up. It is admirable, but he won’t last forever. He will eventually break and may never be able to get up again. What was once my light became my dark once again.

Going to Zambia was easy for me. I prided myself on my ability to adapt to new situations and settings with ease. I prided my self on my resilience to adversity and my ability to continually persevere. But it is a strength and ability that I have developed for the sole  reason of keeping myself from being hurt again. Strength became synonymous with resisting discomfort and retaliating against pain. The man is beginning to look like the small boy who is only trying his hardest to not be hurt again. But despite the pain of the truth, that is the only way the boy will grow. I have voiced to the group my thoughts on the meaning of the Zambia trip. There are many different possibilities, all equally valid and all equally plausible. To me, the meaning of this trip is to hurt us, to confuse us, and to make us uncomfortable, either with the world or with ourselves. It took some time, but I finally felt some pain on this trip and that is where we grow. As I said before, sometimes the only way to change is by getting hurt so bad that we have to. While the two images I saw of myself are now both a part of my dark, they were both my light at one point. For me to find a light that will last, it’ll take more than retaliating against my adversity. It’ll take the strongest act of all, which is to let go of my barriers and my walls. To let the small boy in the big man’s body face the world head on.

The first time I changed, it was the end of a right of passage. The change was good and necessary, but I hadn’t noticed myself stepping directly into another right of passage. But I can feel my reintegration coming soon. Maybe Zambia will be the place where I allow myself to get hurt again. Just like the end of any Zambian right of passage, I will have to dance with the Makishi. And if that means dancing the night away with Death itself, I will gladly take its hand and see what it has to teach me.

Kisu Mwane,

– Chase Hoyt

Chiwala Katamuna

“We are here to love each other.”

Chiwala Katamuna is infinitely polite. When asked a question—any question—he responds with a “Yes, please,” before offering his measured, thoughtful response. For every question asked, he has two of his own, and he is intensely curious about the United States.

How do you marry? What do you do with your children? How do you build houses? What do you grow? And, most importantly, he wonders, would he find in the states pills to ease the ache in his sore hip, adding that he fell on slippery ground two weeks ago, and the pain is consuming.

At 83, Chiwala’s small, thin, stooped frame belies the energy he radiates in conversation. In his long life, he has traveled about his country, going to school, working in the mines, and, most devotedly, helping his beloved Zambia.

Chiwala’s father died when he was 4 or 5, he can’t quite recall, and his mom grew cassava root and groundnuts to support her three children. Chiwala herded cattle and “hooked” fish. His small village had no school, so at 20, he left for Chitokoloki where he learned English and later took classes on agriculture before being trained as a veterinary assistant. Like many jobs at the time, Chiwala says, the pay was poor, and he was unhappy.

In search of better wages, Chiwala headed for the copper mines where “life was very cheap” due to government stores. He began as a miner where he worked to know everything, he says. “Mine workers must be clever, especially when drilling. There is danger under the ground.” His fluency in English and his dedicated work ethic drew the attention of his Californian boss, and Chiwala became a supervisor.

After three years in the mines, Chiwala was appointed as a justice to the local court in Mize, a small village across the river from Zambezi, where he heard civil complaints. Most of the cases he decided involved financial or domestic disputes. For example, according to custom, if a wife dies, the husband must pay her family with cash or a cow. “She was working for the husband,” Chiwala says, and similar to a wife getting a pension from her husband’s employer should he die, the wife’s family is entitled to compensation.

Around this time, Chiwala’s interest in politics intensified. In the early 1960s, Chiwala was a freedom fighter for Zambian independence from Great Britain; he traveled throughout the area to convince villagers that Zambia’s time for self-rule had come. Later, he was elected to the town council in Zambezi, visiting villages in the surrounding Balavale District to hear their concerns. Some needed a borehole for water; others needed a school.

Even today, his interest in politics remains strong. He serves as district chairman for the liberal United National Development Party, which late last year lost a highly contested, razor-thin election to the Patriotic Front Party. Chiwala is no fan of the current president.

On this warm May day, Chiwala wears a shirt decorated with a giant eagle and the colors of the Zambian flag—red, green, black, and orange. “The eagle is a symbol of freedom, that we can fly and decide for ourselves what we want,” he says. “Even now, I am a freedom fighter.”

Chiwala and his wife have been married for 57 years and raised nine children. Aside from getting their educations, he says, he wanted his children to know that loving relationships should be life’s focus.

“We are here to share ideas. We are here to love each other,” he says. “Love is most important in life.

“You can’t have anything without love.”

As I sit down and reflect on my experiences in Zambezi, the moments in which I find comfort, purpose, and connection are through the shared laughter that I am experiencing so consistently during my time here. Yeah, yeah, I get it, I laugh a lot so clearly it doesn’t take much to get a giggle (or cackle) out of me. But bear with me here for a moment.

Today, Tuesday May 30^th, marks the two-week point in our trip- we are halfway through. During these short weeks we have been some busy bodies. The Zags have seen the Burj Khalifa and toured the over-the-top city that is Dubai. We have successfully traveled from Lusaka to Zambezi in six person bush planes that reminded me of the size of a Honda Civic, to be embraced so hospitably by the Zambezi community. I am not sure I will ever feel more welcomed in a place that is so foreign to me. We have been given the opportunity to witness and learn from the strength the Mamas here uphold with such poise and pride. We have been given the role of teachers in various classrooms in order to learn more about this community and about ourselves and how we communicate. We have ventured on very low riding boats across the Zambezi River (very fearful of falling into waters which may or may not contain crocodiles). We have taken an ox-cart “shortcut” road to Dipalata, which took a major toll on our three cars as well as our bodies. We have partaken in circumcision celebrations, and attending a “Welcome Home From the Hospital” celebration for mother and child, which included baby powder being dumped on our heads. We have been confused and frustrated and we have been shown authenticity and genuine love.

Mwamba, her two children Natalie and Emmanuel, and her niece Given who welcomed me for a homestay.

I am not much of a journal-er, maybe due to laziness or maybe due to just wanting to take in the moment instead of feeling obligated to document it. But I have been working to be intentional about writing about my experience here as this is something I will want to remember. I want to remember not necessarily the specific day-to-day events but how I was feeling and the questions I was struggling with. Will teaching storytelling to these seventh graders be relevant in their lives? What am I getting out of this and what are these community members? Could I have been more present in that moment? I want to remember where I was taken aback or where I was reforming my thought processes or my beliefs. I have been flipping through my journal to look for words to express how I am feeling, and reading notes I have been given by some of the children here as well as reading though student work from my grade seven class at Chilenga. And I am sitting here smiling and laughing at the moments I have had and how much I look forward to the many more outbreaks of laughter there are to come. There are countless moments I could share now, but here are some that come to mind:

• Feeling as if we were sinking into the Zambezi River with an overloaded boat as the man rowing us along had beads of sweat dripping down his face

Even with the risk of falling, look at that sunset

• Morgan Green’s bloodcurdling scream in the backseat of our Land Cruiser after Fr. Baraza was inches away from hitting us in the beat down Suzuki (it’s funny now… I promise)
• The narration of animal planet as we analyze the enormous bugs on our ceiling each night
• Dishwashing dance parties to Peanut Butter Jelly
• Lydia’s sailor’s mouth coming alive as she trips on the not-so-stable metal suspension bridge at Chinyingi
• Taylor’s incredible, ridiculous laugh as she falls once again in an attempt to dance and learn the Charleston
• Asking the question What is your favorite place? and reading a student’s written journal answer as “a little bitch” when his verbal response was “at the beach” (We are still working on spelling…)

I had hold in some laughter as I read this over his shoulder 🙂

I am constantly overwhelmed with thankfulness for the people around me who make me laugh and who laugh alongside me. These days can take a toll on you if you choose to sit in the discomfort and the feeling of privilege instead of asking questions, listening for answers (which may not always come), having a laugh, and moving forward. That is where I have found the most growth.

This experience is one of the best decisions I have made while it has also not been the easiest one. As I boarded the 14 hour plane ride from Seattle to Dubai I felt doubtful of myself and my abilities and wondered if it would have been better to just return home to Minnesota instead of such an unfamiliar place. Yet that doubt has slowly been fading through the shared laughs alongside Zags and the Zambezi community. I do find it difficult to contextualize my experience because I have never been a part of a community such as this. I am not finding all the answers at this moment, but I am learning that it is not as simple as finding an answer. I am questioning and I am struggling, but I am laughing along the way.

Kisu Mwane,

Anna Yeung (Class of 2019)

Mom I made some new friends.

Before starting the long journey to Zambezi, I had a small flutter of fear cross my mind about how completely unprepared I felt. Thirteen days later I know that no matter what I did to prepare, I still would have felt this way, but I’ve learned there really is nothing that will prepare you for the people you meet, the emotions you feel, and the things you learn. For me this journey has been a long process in the making, a process that has taken almost two years.

When we finally landed in Zambezi, the last bush plane to touch the sandy runway, I was overwhelmed with emotion, but the only words running through my head were that I had finally made it. All of my fears about being unprepared disappeared right then and there. I was told landing in Zambezi could be quite emotional. Crowds of shouting children run to you to hold your hand and grab onto you, and the beautiful school choir begins to sing. As I looked around I could feel my throat get tight, and my eyes start to water; I was on the verge of a full crying breakdown. Tears of joy are just as normal as tears of sadness for me, but for some reason, I wouldn’t let myself have this emotional release. I continued to smile at the children and the beautiful voices that must have rang all the way across the river. I was so happy, but I wouldn’t let myself commit fully to the emotion.

Nearly two weeks in, I still haven’t let myself cry. In many ways this past year I have grown, but I have also taken several steps backward. In some ways, I am more honest, stronger, and vulnerable, but I also fear letting myself feel emotions to the fullest, both happiness and sadness. This emotional block is something I hope to work on and move past.

In the business and leadership classes, we are teaching the concept of authentic leadership and how important it is to be authentic in everything you do. However, a small part of me wonders if I’m truly being my authentic self with the people of Zambezi.

I’ve discovered that Zambezi is a place of religion and faith. Everyday before breakfast, lunch, dinner, and before every class, we say a prayer. I’ve drawn the sign of the cross along my body and said amen, and I’ve even been to mass twice now. (The longest at 2 ½ hours, so far). Growing up, my family never did such things. I never went to church on Sundays and never considered myself religious or really even spiritual. I’ve questioned whether I am being respectful or inauthentic when I draw the cross or fold my hands in my lap and bow my head down.

The first time I began to try and understand what faith and spirituality meant to me was when my mom was sick, and I felt like I needed something to hold me steady. When I told people she was sick, many of my friends in the Gonzaga community shared they would pray for her. Looking back, I realize that what kept me (glued) together were the people who told me they would pray and the support within these prayers.

Faith is one of the most challenging concepts to understand–abstract and beautiful. It is a mystery to me, and talking about why people have faith and spirituality always leads to some of my favorite discussions.

Zambezi has refreshed and renewed the beliefs and values I do hold and has reminded me of the power people can have. I believe in people. I believe in the goodness that others do for each other every day. I’m thankful for the days we have created here together, and the way that somehow, and in someway, I was meant to be here today. I know that I was happy, singing and dancing even in the two-and-a- half hour mass in Dipalata because I could hear the raw power and emotion behind the words I did not understand. The people packed into the pews and the open spaces believed in something. Every Sunday people came together and praised God. I’m refreshed by seeing people stand up together and sing with loud voices and full hearts. I may not understand whom they are singing to, or the power behind their belief, but I am captivated.

This spring I studied in Florence, Italy, and visited countless cities and countries. Each place I visited projected a different energy and a different feeling. Some felt more welcoming than others, but no place compares to the complexity of emotion I have felt in Zambezi. I have experienced the energy from standing in the church and on the tarmac, listening to people sing with their whole being. Zambezi has a different light like any other place, and I’m thankful for the opportunity to have stood in it, even if for a short time. Zambezi has shown me the power of community and that it takes time to ask questions and time to know someone. It will probably take me time to share that maybe God isn’t a part of my life, but community is, and someday soon I will learn to sing that loudly.

I stood in the church in Dipalata on Sunday morning directly behind the chorus. the men dressed in their fine, white button downs that quickly became pockets of heat, trapping sweat from all of the dancing and singing we did. One man from the chorus stood in the same row with Val, Morgan and I. His bright yellow pants matched his demeanor, and you couldn’t help but watch him sing in his deep voice the church songs the choir had prepared. I stood when he stood, and attempted to dance the same moves he danced. While I couldn’t sing the songs or even get the footwork quite right, I couldn’t help but smile. To see such a hospitable, kind group of people welcome us into their church and be with them was a blessing and a moment I will never forget.

I still have yet to tell anyone who lives in Zambezi I am not religious, and maybe that day will come soon. I needed to write these things out. I don’t know how to name the fear that has held me back for so long, and the fear that has kept me from crying, and maybe the fear of feeling too deeply. The people in Zambezi are not afraid to share if you ask them. The people in church are not afraid to sing fully and loudly. Ask the right questions, and you will end up hearing the most interesting stories.

I like asking the questions, but I never know how to answer them myself. Sometimes I think the questions are even more important than the answers. I don’t feel incomplete or like I am missing any part of me because I am not spiritual. Maybe someday, I will find that faith, and my heart and mind will grow even bigger. For now, I am happy to hear the singing on church Sundays and be thankful for everything we say we are in our blessings. So I’m giving myself patience and grace.

Peace be with you, and Kisu Mwane (blessings)

Grace Underdahl

how do all of these P.S.S.? or P.P.S.S work??

P.S. 1. My Portland family I am sending you so much love and big hugs, I can’t wait to see you. Mom and Dad, Grace has turned to be out a perfect easy to pronounce name here in Zambezi and I have met many other wonderful people named Grace, so thanks.

P.S. 2.. To my Gonzaga and my GIF fam, I love and miss you and think of you all often.

P.S.3..  Zam fam of 2016. The relationships you’ve created here are clear as day, and I can even picture you all walking outside the convent and roaming around the market. I’m so happy to be able to share this experience with you in this new way.

This past weekend sure was an adventure; I think I could almost write a short story on all the events of Saturday. Although I really only wanted to write a short summary of our adventure, anything less than the full story simply wouldn’t do it justice.

It all started Saturday morning around 10:30 when we left for Dipalata. We loaded up into three cars, two trusty old land cruisers and a rickety Suzuki SUV that already looked like its days were numbered. Despite the condition of our cars, we were determined to make it to Dipalata so that we could teach a few classes to the locals and enjoy a Sunday mass at a church this program has supported.

On the way to Dipalata, we made a side trip to Chinyingi to see the famous suspension bridge that spans nearly 1000 feet across the mighty Zambezi River. The bridge, constructed in the 1970s by a Capuchin priest with no formal training, gives access to the Chinyingi mission and hospital that serves the people living throughout the nearby bush. It is a critical structure for all who live nearby. The bridge towering above the river sways and dips with every step you take. It is certainly not for the faint of heart. I think I speak for many of us in the group when I say that I surely wouldn’t have crossed the bridge on my own. But together with people who I have grown to love and cherish, the fear and impossibility of conquering my fear of heights vanished and was replaced with a sense of security and belonging. Together we made it across the bridge and back again after having a look at the village and mission.

After our journey across the bridge, we loaded back up and headed for Dipalata along a primitive “road” that was supposedly a short cut to our destination. We would later find out that the “road” was actually a seldom-used ox cart path, and, although it was a shortcut, it certainly wasn’t made for motor vehicles. It wasn’t long before we hit our first major obstacle, a large mud pit probably 50 feet across. After a short search for another route that turned up empty, we decided to attempt a crossing. To reduce our vehicle’s weights, we all exited and watched with crossed fingers as Josh piloted the first land cruiser through the pit. It was a success! The mighty land cruiser made it through with ease, as did the second land cruiser, piloted by Kris. We weren’t out of the woods yet though as we still had to get the dilapidated Suzuki across. Despite Father Baraza’s best efforts, the Suzuki didn’t have the muscle to get through the pit. Despite this set back morale was still high, and we decided to leave Father Baraza and Mama Katendi with the Suzuki, a bag of water, and the promise that we would come back with a tow rope and men from Dipalata to drag the Suzuki out of the pit. This turned out to be easier said than done.

Not long after we left Father Baraza and the Suzuki ,we ran into our next problem. The land cruiser being piloted by Josh suddenly died and would not start again. I think at this point we all collectively thought to ourselves “Oh boy, what next?” However, through some translating from Mama Violet, we learned that Dipalata was nearby. With one land cruiser still operational, Josh and Kris loaded it with as many people as it could hold and started down the trail again. The remaining members of our group decided to walk to a nearby church to wait while Grant, Mama Violet and I volunteered to stay behind with the broken down land cruiser. After some time, the locals living near and along the “road” came to see if we needed any help, and one young man, probably around the age of 17 kindly offered us fresh Tangerines from his family’s nearby orchard. Grant and I were blown away by this young man’s generosity, as we were just strangers to him, and communication with him was difficult due to his limited knowledge of English and our nearly nonexistent knowledge of Luvale (Local Dialect). I found myself wondering how many people would do the same back home.

After waiting in the truck for nearly two hours, Josh finally returned, and we decided to try and fire up the other land cruiser, hoping that it had merely been flooded. Our prayers were answered when we turned the key and the truck miraculously fired up! Josh handed the Cruiser off to Kris, who loaded the vehicle with the others who had been waiting at the church and headed toward Dipalata. With everyone else either already in Dipalata or headed there, Josh, Grant and I hopped into the other Land Cruiser to work our way back toward Father Baraza, so we could tow out the ole Suzuki. To our dismay the truck would not start. Fearing a dead battery, Grant and I started back down the road toward the Suzuki to check on Father and Mama Katendi and grab the battery, so we could jump-start the Cruiser. After walking about 500 feet down the road, our jaws dropped as none other than Father Baraza and Mama Katendi came chugging down the road in the Suzuki. They had enlisted the help of several young men living nearby and spent approximately two hours digging out the car. But the Suzuki was battered and beat down from the rough road. We ran back to the stranded Cruiser and tried jump-starting it to no avail. Seeing no other option, with the help of some locals, we got the battery out of the car and with my trusty leatherman cleaned the terminals of the battery as best we could in the hope that maybe that was the problem. It worked! The Land Cruiser fired up, and we started back down the road. Once again the Zambians had proved just how caring and willing to help they were.

Now you might think the story ends here, but unfortunately it doesn’t. We had about another three or four hard miles to cover and given that it was nearly 5, we only had about an hour and a half of light left. The trusty land cruiser had no trouble crossing the remaining creek, but we dared not attempt a crossing in the Suzuki. Already not running smoothly before we left, the “road” had taken a toll on the little car, and it was on the brink of over heating. Rather than risk getting the Suzuki stuck in the muddy creek, we decided to build a build a bridge across the ditch. Luckily there was already a narrow footbridge across the ditch. With the help of about 10 men who had came from surrounding homes, we cut several small trees and limbs, laid them across the gap, pilled some sod on top of it and within 20 minutes we had a bridge wide enough to drive the Suzuki across. With a sigh of relief, we piled into the cars, drove the remaining mile or two and made it to Dipalata around 6 o’clock. After hours of bad luck, muddy vehicles and many prayers, we had all made it to Dipalata safe and sound.

At Dipalata we were greeted by what seemed to be the entire village. We were welcomed with warm food, good music and a large bonfire. As we sat enjoying the warm fire and beautiful music I knew that this was truly a day none of us would ever forget.

Someone once told me that nothing worth having in life comes easy, and I guess that applies to our adventure Saturday. Through all of our struggles to make it to Dipalata, I learned one of the most important lessons of my life. Life can be hard, scary and downright awful at times, but when we walk with others we gain strength and anything becomes possible.

Kisu Mwane,

Joseph Hale

P.S. To Mom and Dad, I cant thank you enough for all you have done for me. I love you both and miss you lots. I’m doing great and loving my time here in Zambezi. Dad, I couldn’t help but compare this adventure to a few times you and I got stuck in some sticky situations, remember that time we got stuck in that storm outside Loreto? We need to plan another adventure soon. Mom, try not to worry about me, I’m staying healthy and haven’t forgotten my malaria meds once. Tell Zoe I said hi. Hannah, I miss you lots and I hope you got a little time off after school finished, tell Aaron I said hello!

P.P.S. I tried to upload some pictures but the internet is too slow and I’m too tired to keep trying

We are off to Dipalata, a rural village community with a long history of partnership with Gonzaga — so no new blog posting.  However, we are starting a new blog series, Humans of Zambezi, where we introduce you to some of the living saints making a difference in Zambia.

Mama Josephine

“Politics was in me.”

As a young woman in Lusaka, Zambia, in the early 1960s, Mama Josephine (Kakuhu Josephine Lipako) worked as a freedom fighter, running messages between leaders involved in the nation’s fight for independence from Great Britain. Working-class people were not allowed to congregate, so Josephine helped them organize.

After Zambia gained independence in 1964, the government offered to pay for Josephine’s training, and she chose secretarial school. She returned to her home in Zambezi and married. Her husband discouraged her political ambitions, but she persevered. “I was doing it even if he was against it,” she says. She worked as a secretary for the government and lobbied on issues such as immigration and women’s rights.

Few women were involved in politics, but that didn’t deter Josephine. “Whatever a man can do, I can do as a woman,” she says, her steely resolve undiminished at 69. It is not hard to see why Zambia’s first president, Kenneth Kuanda, once called Josephine the “small Iron Lady.”

“I am very frank,” she said. “I stood for what I know is right.”

In 1987, she and her husband separated, largely because she wouldn’t give up her political work. She dedicated herself to organizing and leading women’s groups and raising her nine children.

These days, she tells young women to go to school. “When you are educated, you can do anything,” she says. “You must not confine yourself to just being in the kitchen.”

“I just want women to be self reliant. As women, we have to be self reliant. Time will come when you lose a husband. This is what I am encouraging as a woman.”

Henry Nouwen beautifully wrote, “Our life is a short time in expectation, a time in which sadness and joy kiss each other at every moment. There is a quality of sadness that pervades all the moments of our life. It seems that there is no such thing as clear-cut pure joy, but that, even in the most happy moments of our existence, we sense a tinge of sadness…behind every smile, there is a tear. In every embrace, there is loneliness. In every friendship, distance. And in all forms of light, there is the knowledge of surrounding darkness.”

These words perfectly embody the way I perceive the human experience of living life. And these words also hold true for the way my heart feels here in Zambezi. This place makes my spirit sing and dance in ways I have never felt before. But there is a heaviness that lingers. It tip-toes around my heart. Yet with every step, a sharp pang fills my chest, and for a moment, I lose my breath.

“Suuuuuunn-y.” Mischel’s sing-song voice fills my ears every time he calls my name.

“Yeeeees?”

“Can I ask you something?” His mischievous smile is so big that it crinkles the corners of his twinkly eyes.

“Anything.” I give my best cheesy wink. He laughs, but after a moment, he intently looks at me, and whispers into my ear.

“Will you remember me?”

When those words escape his lips, I feel my heart lift upward in an indescribable way. There is a certain immeasurable warmth that inches its way from my head to my toes—it makes me feel as if I am almost floating. As I look deeply into his beautiful brown eyes, I am overcome with a sense of longing to understand him. Truly understand him. But in that moment, I see in Mischel’s eyes the same fervent longing I feel inside of me. A longing to be understood. A longing to be remembered in the same way I hope to be remembered.

My fears have chased me to Africa. I am consistently filled with doubts and insecurities that have plagued me long before I got onto the plane. And because I know that my worry that I am never quite ‘enough’ has seemingly found a way to creep into every aspect of my life, I have also come to truly understand that the greatest obstacle to love is the hidden fear of being unworthy of such love. There is a fear that all humans experience that amidst our most difficult nights, we may never amount to more than our suffering. I find that this fear, a valid fear and one that we may all continue to face, is extinguished when we recognize that love—true love—lifts us up out of what we think we deserve and recognizes the intrinsic value in ourselves—that we are worthy of love independent of everything we do.

During my time here, I have seen and heard a battered community that still struggles to breathe because of what was taken from them centuries ago. And this numbing reality will never become easier to process. How could anyone possibly dare to take away the breath of a people that God so lovingly breathed life into?

Father Baraza told us that when the missionaries first arrived in Africa, the missionaries had the bible, and the people had the land. After the missionaries prayed over them, the people opened their eyes. The missionaries had the land, and the people had nothing but the bible. Stories like this make me fear religion and feel such anger that I can hardly speak about how ashamed I feel. But within a few days, Zambezi has gently pushed me to take my focus off of the circumstances that have been imposed upon its people and instead fixated on a different idea—the life-giving spirit of Zambezi. I have struggled all my life with not letting my suffering define me. And so I refuse to let Zambezi become defined by the suffering that happens within the community. To make the hardships of a people become their single story is to rob them of their colorful, fruitful, beautiful identity. If I could dare to describe the spirit of Zambezi through a single image, it would be of the moon. And if I were to have a conversation with this spirit, I would imagine it would go somewhat like this:

Watch me shine, the moon says. Amidst the darkness, the fear and the pain that the night holds—that by its very nature is powerful and consumptive—lies the most effervescent light, in peaceful kinship with millions of stars that are bursting with passion at its edges—allowing them to shimmer and glow like never seen before. I am resilient. I am strong. I am beautiful. I am light.

I am not here because of myself. I am here because thousands of intersections have intertwined the fabric of my life with the lives of others. In the words of a wonderful human being I know, “Our lives have been braided with love. Infused in our breaths is connection.” To be quite honest, I have not really done anything in Zambezi. I’ve quickly realized that I’m as useful as a rock when it comes to doing just about anything. And I’ve come to see that if one asks me about my accomplishments on this trip, I won’t be able to give an answer. Ahh, accomplishments…so often, they may make us feel enough, but could it be that we are not defined by what we have done? And this is the belief I desire to hold onto in everything I do—the notion that our worth lies not within the things that we do and accomplish but simply within our very being.

So I will do the only thing I am unmistakably compelled to do—the only thing I imagine may make a small difference. I will strive with all of my heart and my soul to gratefully devote myself to the lifelong vocation of love…a love so effervescent, it inspires us deep within, breathing passion and life into our lungs, touching the untouchable parts of ourselves, burning our heart with the fire of a thousand suns, bringing us endless hopes, and never letting go of the dream that the day will come when every single person can carry this kind of love within their souls. It speaks, “I love you not because of anything you have done, but simply because of who you are.”

At times, I feel like a zebra walking in a pack of lions. Sweet, joyful, hospitable lions. J But regardless, I find myself consistently trying to be myself within a community where I feel like I could not possibly stand out any more than I do—and then I just get lost within the vast differences that lie between us. But in the words of Nouwen, “Every human being has a great, yet often unknown, gift to care, to be compassionate, to become present to the other, to listen, to hear, and to receive. If that gift would be set free and made available, miracles could take place.” It is ubundu, the essence of being human (an essence so evident in the Zambezi community)—to be kind, compassionate, and loving, because we understand that we are a people who belong to each other. Here in Zambezi, every single afternoon, a relentlessly jubilant crowd of children call us to watch the sun fall. We hold hands, and we run towards the sunset, our breaths taken away by the beauty of the sun, yet ready to embrace the night with open arms.

Hafiz:

Admit something.

Everyone you see you say to them,

“Love me.”

Of course you do not do this out loud,

Otherwise

Someone would call the cops.

Still though, think about this,

The great pull in us to connect

Why not become the one

Who lives with a full moon in each eye

That is always saying

With that sweet moon language

What every other eye in this world

is dying to hear

I love you. Take my hand. Let us run towards the sun, the moon, and the stars together.

the sunset over the zambezi river
thanks josh 🙂

Kisu Mwane,

Sooyoun Park, Class of 2018

To Mom and Dad, I am doing well. You don’t have to worry about a single thing. I am thinking about you everyday, and I love you so much. Stay healthy.

Juju, I am so excited for you to graduate, my dear. I am praying for you and thinking about you. Embrace these last few days and get ready to spread your wings and fly. I am so proud of you—know that I am always with you.

Birdie, in a couple of hours, it’ll be your birthday, and I’ll be doing a midnight celebratory dance here in Zambia underneath the stars. The moon here is the loveliest, and I think of you every time I see this breathtaking night sky.

To all my dear friends and Zags—wherever you are, I am thinking about you and missing you deeply. Remember that we are always looking at the same moon, no matter where we are. And in the same way, if we all hold hands, we can all run towards the same sun.

P.S. Sunny, or Sun has become my name amongst the children here, and strangely…I am immensely grateful for it <3

The education team with our friend Joshua who walks home with us from school each day.

The [Wo]man in the Arena

“It is not the critic who counts; not the [wo]man who points out how the strong [wo]man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the [wo]man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends [her]self in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if [s]he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that [her] place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

-Theodore Roosevelt

This last year of my life leading up to Zambezi felt like a boxing match, me vs. me, where I was ready to pronounce myself KO’d on multiple occasions. Broken, marred, and bloody, I somehow managed to lift myself back to my feet each time I fell and sometimes I couldn’t even get my hands up in front of my face before I was hit with the next punch of failure or shortcoming, sending me to the floor again. Somewhere amongst the self-loathing, pockets of depression, self doubt, numbness, and loneliness I lost pieces of myself that once seemed so innate. Relationships became distant. Apathy kicked in. I left my senior year feeling mediocre about my year and the direction I was headed. I was relieved to depart for Zambezi, to get out of the boxing arena, and give myself an adventure filled with new growth.

We are now 11 days into our journey, and I’ve been unable to escape the boxing arena. How naïve of me to think it would be that easy. Each morning as I finish my final bites of breakfast, the all-to-familiar fear and anxiety settle in as Anna, Lydia, Ethan and I prepare for our drive to Chilena Basic School where our grade 6 and 7 students await our storytelling lesson for the day. My chest clenches; hot tears swell deep behind my eyes in the place that I have learned to store them so well. My body feels out of sorts as I begin frantically running the lesson plan through my head. Start with the song. Then hand out journals. Then read the book. Wait…are we reading the book before or after we hand out journals?? You don’t even know what you’re doing. Why am I teaching? I don’t want to do this. I’ve never been one to enjoy running, but I’m convinced that my mind could beat Usain Bolt in a 100m sprint.

I just finished student teaching last semester and am now graduated with a B.A. in Mathematics and a teaching certificate, but I don’t know if I will ever be “ready” to teach. It still does not seem real to me that I could have my own classroom and be trusted with the lives of 150 students on a daily basis. I am hyper aware of my lack of experience, and if you ask any wise teacher, the limit of growth as a teacher does not exist. There is always new research, new methods, new theories to keep up on. I am left wondering how I will ever feel good enough in the profession or as though I am providing my students with the education they deserve.

“Who is important in your life?” I ask the grade 6 students as their eyes intently focus on Lydia and I in front of the dusty chalkboard at the front of the classroom. We received an array of responses–mother, father, grandmother, doctor, teacher–amongst a list of answers you would expect to hear. I walk to the second row on the right of the room full of creaky wooden desks and point at Edgar who is squeezed between two of his classmates on a shared bench. “What about Edgar? Why is Edgar important?” My question was met by a sea of perplexed looks on the faces of the other 45-plus students as they were caught off guard by my question. The moment of silence and no response was all too familiar from my student teaching days. But this time, I didn’t cringe. I stood tall in the discomfort.

Seated at the desk just behind Edgar, a girl slowly lifted her hand into the air as the corners of her mouth simultaneously lifted slowly into a soft smile. “To play with,” she answered softly. The class agreed with affirming nods, and I thanked her for her answer. I continued to scan the classroom to find another hand up in the front row, confident and firm. The kind of hand raise so full of eagerness that the student might burst if not called upon promptly. I point at the enthusiastic young boy just in time to relieve his anticipation and he answered with conviction, “Because Edgar is a person.” Wow. There was a prolonged pause as I scrambled to get on this student’s level. “YES,” I said as I grasped onto his profound answer. I pointed to 3 or 4 other students in the crowd one by one asking, “Is he important? Is she important?” with each prompt being answered with a firm and resounding “Yes!” from the class. We concluded together that all people are important, simply because they are people.

I have held this small, yet impactful moment in my heart and will cling to it as I step in front of the class tomorrow morning with the lovely Miss Lydia by my side remembering that our students, Lydia, and I are all important people just by being who we are. Again I will lift myself to my feet, eat my breakfast, hop in the back of the Land Cruiser, and step into the arena as Ms. Green.

All my love,

Morgan Green

Thank you to everyone who has left comments on posts! They keep us going and keep the tears flowing. Your words and love are so valuable.

P.S. Maddie, KP, Leigha, Moogs, Linds- Thank you for helping me get back in the arena again and again. I could not have done this year on my own. I miss and love you all dearly. I think of you all daily. I am guessing this first bit of post grad hasn’t been easy. Did you hear what the grade 6ers said? You are important. Stay green as you each start your new adventures.

P.P.S. Mom, Dad, P-man, and Bailey- Holding a special place in my heart for you all at Great Grandpa’s funeral today. Thanks for hanging in there on graduation/move out weekend. Thank you for all the things I never say thank you for. Bailey, I bet you are kicking butt at work. Can’t wait to hear about all of the things you are learning. Payton, finish 7th grade strong bud! Much love.

P.P.P.S. To any Ferris students who may read this, I miss you all! You too Charlie and Chad. You have brought so much joy into my life. I am so thankful for the time I got to spend with you! Enjoy the last month of school and I wish you all restful and adventurous summers.