“What will you leave me when you go?”
When I wake up every morning at the convent, there are a few things that I can always count on experiencing. I will have a moment of anxiety as I try to sit up and get caught in my mosquito net, I will hear the hushed laughter of students in the main room who have woken up before me, and I will silently curse the rooster reaching a piercingly high decibel right outside my window. The only other certainty is the children who roam outside of our gate, waiting to get their daily first glimpse at us, the chindeles.
The children of Zambezi have brought me frustration, laughter, and pride, but they have more importantly been a constant catalyst for self-reflection. From the moment that my bush plane landed on the dusty airstrip and we were greeted with song and dance, our group has transfixed the children. They will call our names, hold our hands, and write us letters, which are nothing short of heart-warming. However, to my dismay they often ask us for gifts. Or, let me rephrase that. They tell us to leave them gifts.
“When you go, you will leave me a water bottle.”
“When you go, you will gift me a touch phone.”
As I awkwardly stutter through some form of an apology for not being able to do so, I can’t help but notice a fraction of light fade from their smiles. How can we expect the children to understand our idea of accompaniment? To live and learn with a community, our group has determined that giving these gifts as handouts have overall negative consequences. For me, a nineteen-year-old male who is constantly aware and self-conscious about the way people view me, telling somebody no is hard. Maybe some of the adults in the community understand this, and maybe they don’t. But for the children, the lack of an immediate payoff in the form of a gift is not good enough.
Our time in Zambezi is flying by at a breakneck pace, and I am constantly trying to challenge myself to reflect on my experience and make goals for the upcoming days. During the quiet time between dinner and reflection, I often find myself scribbling away in my journal about the many interactions I had throughout the day. It was through an exchange with one of the children hanging around the convent named Deborah that those words sparked a thought. Maybe the children are on to something. What will I leave here when I go? And maybe more importantly, what will I take with me?
Chief Seattle of the Duwamish Native American tribe was once quoted as saying, “Take only memories, leave nothing but footprints.” This is a quote that I used to subscribe to. It helped me remember to take a step back and listen. For those who have known me for a long time, they will agree I have always tended to be the quiet observer in group conversations, not leaving a trace of my opinion and being present only enough to collect and process the thoughts of the group. Looking at this quote now, it almost seems silly in the context of this trip due to the passive nature of the quote. We are not passive members of this community. Every day we engage with the public both through our time spent in our individual teams as well as in our free time down at the market.
When I think about what I want to leave, I hope that it will be more than footprints. Being a part of the health team, we teach multiple lessons per week to different communities within Zambia. Just yesterday, we traveled to Kalendola and thanks to the translating efforts of Mama Love and Mama Josephine I was able to give a lengthy talk about first aid techniques to the people in the community. Of the questions that followed my lesson, one in particular stood out. An elderly man told me about a tradition in their community in which fresh cow dung is rubbed into open wounds in order to heal them faster, and he asked if I could validate this tradition. Along with this question, there have been many others that have sparked an emotional response within me. Why was I given the privilege to think the answers to these questions are basic? What may seem like common knowledge to someone who has grown up in a developed country is sometimes a foreign idea to these small villages. I pray that when I journey back to Spokane, that I leave an intellectual presence behind. If I fail to do so before getting on the plane, then what does that mean for the success of the health team? What does that say about my ability to make an impact?
I also want to leave behind the blind confidence I have in my own experiences being the whole truth. One of the most impactful lessons that I have learned during my time here in Zambia is the idea that a single story is incomplete and dangerous. A single story is never able to capture the beautiful complexity of any community. Much of my experience up to this point in my life was spent learning and memorizing facts that I am then able to regurgitate on an exam. I found myself trying to learn about the Zambezi community in this same way of memorization, and for the first few days I was frustrated with my lack of ability to grasp and understand the world around me. Leaving this mentality behind means understanding that my opinion and my view of a particular experience does not have to be shared by others. Yes, the life that I have lived so far is a truth. But it is my truth, and not necessarily the truth of others.
When I inevitably leave this community I have come to love, I will be taking the lessons I have learned from the people of this community with me. I have been taught to be humble and honest with the people around me. If I ask a fellow college student how they are doing, their answer will almost always be “Great!” or some other form of the word. In contrast, Zambians will tell you exactly how they are feeling. They are honest with their emotions, and this allows them to be transparent to their friends. Living in a convent with 17 other beautiful people can often be overwhelming for an introvert like myself, so I have spent many hours with my journal, recharging in solitude. Remembering to care for my whole self and spend time reflecting is something that I would like to continue. It doesn’t take a crazy day chasing and catching chickens with Mama Love (true story) to have something to reflect on.
The thought of leaving Zambezi turns my stomach in knots. When I go, I will leave behind more than my footprint, and I will give action to the memories that I take with me.
Kisu mwane, my friends,
Justin O’Farrell
Class of 2018