Gonzaga-in-Zambezi

When someone passes away in Zambia, it is tradition for a group of women to gather and mourn together. This mourning is hallowed and haunting: it takes the form of loud, sharp cries sung together in one voice. I stumbled upon one of these gatherings when I walked past a church on the way to a tailor last week. Voices ripe with grief swelled to fill an empty church room. I was told the mourning can go on for days. As we leave Zambezi after nearly a month, I can feel my heart mourning the loss.

While we cleaned out our rooms and prepared a last breakfast, I was able to hold it together. I didn’t even cry when I squeezed mama Katendi for the last time. But as she walked out of the courtyard with a box of her belongings on her head, I felt a bit like I was moving out of a childhood home, like a part of me that has been cultivated here would always remain. The weight of these goodbyes found itself lodged in my already full backpack. Katendi’s wave happened to be a breaking point.

As we move on to the next part of our trip, I am mourning Zambezi. This summer and last, I have grown and learned from her, wandering her sandy paths and meeting people who have shaped many of my beliefs. More than anything, though, I am mourning the person I am in Zambia. Josephine, Katendi, Rachel, and many others have modeled for me the woman I am working to become—one whose love extends beyond familial and cultural boundaries, one whose strength is paired with softness, one whose fierce protection of the vulnerable is fueled by a tenderness toward the pain of others. I’m afraid that I will leave these goals for myself behind in Zambezi.

There’s an Aaron Ausland article called “Staying for Tea” that any good Zag has read at least 6 times before her senior year. Ausland outlines the principles of accompaniment that this Gonzaga-in-Zambezi program purports and holds so dearly. A phrase from this article that comes to mind in the midst of all these goodbyes is “it doesn’t depend on us.” Many of the previous bloggers have so eloquently communicated the ways that we feel we are learning much more than we could ever teach; we are gathering more than we could ever give away. Ausland intends this statement to be understood in the context of community development: he would say that the success and happiness and wellbeing of Zambezi doesn’t depend on us.

During my time in Zambezi this summer, I’ve begun to associate this idea with the examples of motherhood that I see both here and in the states. The love that mothers have for their children doesn’t depend on the behavior of the children. Mama Katendi lives with six of her seven children, as one of them moved away last year to live with his dad, a man who has hurt Katendi deeply. He has since cut all ties with his mother. When this son showed up at the convent to ask her for money, Katendi sent him away. She told me that she wouldn’t give him money but that all she wanted was for him to stay and talk. Katendi’s love for her son extends far beyond the limits of her own hurt.

My relationship with Zambezi has begun to feel like a relationship with a mother. The town as a whole and its individual people have loved and nurtured me even when I don’t deserve it. Zambezi doesn’t depend on us, but I think part of me will always depend on her. This relationship isn’t equal or reciprocal, but what kind of love is? My own mom doesn’t ever let me end a phone call with “I love you more,” as nothing could ever compare to the love I know she has for me. Zambezi will continue to nurture me into the kind of woman I want to be, a woman modeled by both my mama and my Zambian mamas. I am hopeful that I can carry the examples of these women with me.

While Katendi has greatly shaped my beliefs about empowerment, community development, cross-cultural interactions, strength, and family, I am one two-hundredth of Gonzaga-in-Zambezi to her. And primarily, Gonzaga-in-Zambezi means to her that she can continue to support her children as a single mother. In this way, Katendi can teach us all a lesson in humility. It has never depended on us.

As we trudge down the airstrip to meet the planes waiting to take us to Livingstone, I drag my feet reluctantly. Minutes ago, I had hugged Katendi goodbye. I had felt hot tears welling in my eyes in front of my fellow zags for what feels like the thousandth time. I had walked through our funny yellow home, its dusty shelves now empty of our collected belongings, taping up a note for the 2017 Zam Fam in the well-loved closet. Leaving Zambezi seems big–colossal, monumental, even. And it is for me. I have learned and grown here for two summers now, and I will not easily forget the sandy path from the convent to Jasper’s shop where I went nearly every day for a ginger beer. But the last lesson Zambezi offered me was one that reminded me how inconsequential I am here. Very appropriately, it came in the form of a little boy named Wisdom. As I took my last steps on Zambezi dirt for at least the foreseeable future, he stuck a sweaty hand in mine and asked, “what’s your name?”

I leave Zambezi with puffy eyes and a heavy heart, but I also leave her with a promise to return. It’s a verbal commitment: I’ve told a quiet and thoughtful 12 year old named Junior that I will come back and see him when he isn’t so junior anymore. Maybe I’ll be back in five years, or maybe it’ll be fifty. I can definitely picture myself as a globetrotting grandma like the one who has inspired me. Abbey, one of our faculty members and another graceful woman I admire, has observed that Zambezi measures time in decades while we are used to measuring it in mere hours and minutes. Mama Josephine confirmed this foreign sense of time when someone asked about the progress of a drive back to the convent:

“Will we be home soon?”

“Yes, but it is very far.

Zambezi, I’m so grateful to hold you as one of my homes. It’s very far, but I’ll return to you soon. I hope we can pick up where we left off.

Kisu mwane,

Katie Polacheck

Class of 2017

Zam Fam 2015 & 2016

I plunged my hands into the 25-liter bucket of cold, sticky oochi mixed with honeycomb and scooped as much as I could into the filtration system (another 25-liter bucket with a corrugated base resting on top of a larger empty bucket.) With Jeff’s GoPro camera strapped to my head, I was ready for the action of filtering and purifying some fresh oochi-(Luvale for honey). The oochi was smooth and dripped off of my hands with each motion. A Zambian beekeeper, my guide in this process, was meticulously following my movements in case I dropped any of the honeycomb mixture, which I did… quite often. After several tries, I decided that maybe this very involved demonstration would be better left to the professionals. So instead I reached my hand back into the bucket and grabbed a clump of oochi and honeycomb and put it right in my mouth. I chewed the glob in delight and spit out the remaining wax as the sweet taste of oochi lingered on my taste buds.

Jeff and the Zambia Gold interns- Katie P, Katie B, and myself- had set out for Lwitadi, a small village just east of Zambezi, for an afternoon of visiting and interviewing beekeepers and also touring some of their beehives. We pulled over on the side of the paved road and parked the car only to walk a few feet and step through a sea of tall grass acting as a wall between the road and the beekeeper’s home.

The beekeepers (as we had collected more than a few, filling the entire land rover at one point) explained that the purification process normally takes a few hours. As more and more harvested honeycomb is piled into the corrugated bucket, gravity begins to do its job and the fresh honey seeps out of the holes at the base and flows into the new container, leaving solid chunks of wax and bee parts behind.

Deeper out in the bush, our group was able to witness a few beekeepers in action. The beekeeper suited up in his harvesting attire: two pairs of pants, one on top of the other, one thick button down, and a mask made of patches of burlap sack sewed together with a mosquito net webbing. I watched from the ground as the brave man scaled the tree with ease and tied a rope around a branch using a pulley system for the bucket he would use to collect the fresh honeycomb. It truly was a balancing act as the beekeeper stood on a thin branch while reaching into the log hive to scrape the honeycomb into the bucket.

Safely on the ground, Newton, another one of the beekeepers, began to pluck bees out of the honeycomb so he could have a taste of the new harvest. “These ones are strong and sharp” he said as he flicked one off his finger. A beekeeper’s job is usually carried out later at night when the bees are less active but these men graciously agreed to share their harvesting experience with us during the mid-afternoon, when the bees were less than happy to see us.

I have always felt a special connection with bees and honey, but my relationship didn’t start out so sweet. Ever since my sophomore year of high school when a swarm of 2,000 bees decided to land on the front hood of my car and start a new hive, I have wondered a couple things- Why did the bees land on my car conveniently during the lunch period for the whole student body to see? And the ultimate question: Out of all the 200 cars in this parking lot, why did all these bees land on MY car?

My mom used to tell me that the bees were looking for a sweet girl and that is why they landed on my car, but I had a hard time thinking positively about the flight patterns of bees when they were messing up my daily routine. During school, four months after I had gotten my license, a security guard called me out of class to inform me that all the bees in Colorado had swarmed my car. It could be seen from the building. My least favorite part of this whole extravaganza was the fact that after a beekeeper had finally come and loaded all of the bees into a box, he offered us a sample of his freshest honey from his bee farm back home. I tried the honey a few times and was not very pleased. For the most part, the honey sat on a shelf in my pantry as a reminder of one of the strangest phenomena in nature to ever occur in my lifetime.

My relationship with bees is much sweeter now. I am a part of an intern team for Zambia Gold- a student run organization on Gonzaga’s campus that supports education and economic development projects in the Zambezi community through the sale of honey harvested in and around Zambezi. Each Monday night throughout this past semester our interns would take shifts at a booth in front of our dining hall and promote the mission of Zambia Gold and encourage friends and fellow Zags to support us by purchasing a pouch of our Zambia Gold honey. All of this time I never thought twice about the time it took to produce a single pouch and all of the hands involved in the process. A hive of bees flies about 55,000 miles to produce a pound of honey. That’s more than five times the distance from here to Spokane. And the average worker bee makes only a twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in its lifetime. That means (if I’ve done the math correctly) that over 93,600 bees contributed to making the 1,300 ounces of honey we sold just last semester.

Our weeks in Zambezi have come to a close and tomorrow is the day that we set out for Livingstone for the last week of our adventure. My mind is fully packed with the experiences that we have had in the Zambezi community and my heart is overflowing with love and gratitude for this place and these people, both Zags and Zambians.

Like a big bucket of harvested honeycomb, there is a lot to sort through. Final celebrations and hard goodbyes have filled our past few days and there has not been much time to let the great experiences seep out into the forefront of our memory. But just as the purification process for a bucket of oochi takes some time, so will sorting through the mixed emotions that come with leaving the place we have called home for the past few weeks. My looming fear is that I won’t be able to keep up with the balancing act of being present this week in Livingstone while also desperately trying to cling on to the memories I have made back in Zambezi. The beekeeper’s steady feet on the high branches of the tree he climbed to get to his beehive give me hope: it may be risky to have my heart pulled in so many different directions but I know that, by being present and relying on my community, I will be able to stay balanced.

Come tomorrow, I will take a big bite of a gooey honeycomb glob in Livingstone and start to load all of my emotions in the filter bucket and wait. With the support and encouragement of my fellow Zags, I look forward to reflecting on my experiences and piling on memories as the insights slowly drip out like some sweet, sticky oochi.

Kisu Mwane,

Elly Zykan

Class of 2018

PS:

Taylor (our fellow Oochi mama) we are thinking about you often. Oh what I would give to see your face when you taste this stuff. (Hopefully it’s better than Katie’s when she was surrounded by bees) It’s really good, I promise. Even without the stale pretzels.

PPS (from Katie P.): Mom, I used the new lens to take the tree photos safely from the ground. It was GORGE-ous. Elly and I are laughing so hard right now. Love you.

PPPS: Elly’s mom, Elly and I (still Katie P.) have been awake for over an hour adding photos and doing all that bee math. She says, “I’ve never felt so alive.” She loves you.

Walking down an unfamiliar road, two of the Katie’s and I follow anxiously behind Mrs. Phiri, our homestay mom, as she welcomes us into her family’s home. She shows us to the sitting room and invites us to take a seat on the couch while she prepares our dinner. Our eyes curiously wander the walls of the room as we try to take in as much as we can in this new environment. I notice several posters of Jesus coupled with bible verses and shift in my seat until my eyes lock on a particular poster that reads: “NO JESUS NO LIFE.” I try to hide the confusion on my face as I mentally prepare to answer yes to being a Catholic in order to avoid any awkward conversations. Surprisingly, our religious affiliations did not come up in during the meal, but the image of the poster stayed ingrained in my mind.

Upon coming to Zambia, I knew I would struggle and grow in many ways including the inevitable focus in Zambian culture: faith. Growing up, religion was not a big part of my life. Though we would attend mass most Sundays, religion was never a topic of discussion in our house. I went to a Catholic Jesuit high school, Seattle Prep, but my experience there did not push me to grow in my faith. If anything, the opposite. I was constantly behind and confused in my scripture classes because of my lack of understanding. Faith also has a big presence at Gonzaga, but even there I do not feel as though it is enhancing my faith life. In reality, the only mass I attend while at Gonzaga is the Spanish mass at St. Joseph’s, but that is purely to practice my Spanish learning,

Here in Zambezi I have been confronted face-to-face with my faith on a daily basis. We begin every meal with a prayer, attend Sunday mass, and casually talk about our faith in many conversations. In the computer class we teach, almost every student writes about their relationship with God and recite like a broken record, “I know I am good because I have the LORD.” I try to find the words to inquire and learn more about this strong religious mentality, but am overtaken by discomfort and fear that I won’t be able to understand.

Though I am curious about the faith of those around me, I have been discouraged from developing my faith in many ways over the past few weeks, especially our recent visit to an orphanage an hour outside of Zambezi. When we arrived at the orphanage, there was an eerie silence and absence of children. The director met us on the empty concrete patio and ushered us into a room where we sat and talked with him for a long time about the orphanage. We talked a lot about the founder and the history of the place, but surprisingly little about the orphans. Later, as we toured the property we began to see how the orphans played a small role in the organization. There were not enough rooms or beds to shelter the children, nor was there apparent evidence that too many children were actually living there, despite the director telling us that 100 children are currently being cared for. I began to be very frustrated with this place and began to question the leadership and direction behind the orphanage. Upon asking the director what his plans were for future improving and sustaining, he replied that they have faith in the Lord and they leave the future in God’s hands. I immediately cringed on the inside when I heard these words. Being someone who takes interest in and studies social structures, I was frustrated with the lack of planning behind this organization that I feared was being negligent in its care for the children. The other part of me that currently struggles with my faith became frustrated with the reliance on their faith to solve their problems. I have seen this pattern among many people I have encountered here, people who rely on their faith to get them from day to day. I have a constant internal battle because I feel an urge to enlighten these people that they need a plan outside of faith, but also feeling like I have no credibility to intervene because maybe I am the one who is unenlightened by the glory of God.

Another thing I struggle with is how central the church is in this community and the implications that come with it. Sitting in mass last Sunday, the priest began to tell a story of a woman who was struggling financially, which was causing other parts of her life to suffer. She turned to the church and was encouraged to give money to the church in return for God’s Grace. This had proven to work because down the road, the woman’s struggles seemed to take a turn for the better, emphasizing the miraculous ways that God’s Grace works through us when we donate to the church. This story was followed with the ritual assembly line to the donation box, where everyone is expected to come up and donate an amount of Kwacha to the church fund.

This structure of the church being the center of the community implies social expectations of their financial contribution. I question how the people in this community allow the church to have such a strong power, but I am beginning to understand that this is the only way they know. Since the colonial era and the presence of missionaries, this community has had very tight ties to a variety of Christian denominations, and religion has shaped Zambezi into the place it is today and has formed a rich culture.

Aside from the institutional aspect, this culture is spiritually alive and so full of life. Beyond the walls of the church and the bureaucracy that comes with it, the Zambians live a joyful life. You can’t walk down the street without running into a familiar face that turns into a drawn out conversation about how our days have been and how our families are doing. Though this is often lost in translation, the intentionality is always there and accompanied with a big smile. The constant laughing that fills these dusty streets, and the singing and dancing that fills the homes of this place is indescribable. I can’t help but think about how this communal energy would still be without the institutional churches as centerpieces of the community. I believe that the love and zeal found in many Zambians would be present with the same enthusiasm even in the absence of such a powerful church presence.

I strive to carry over this incredible spirituality into my own life, as I continue to grow in my faith. I have found peace in this struggle by allowing myself to experience the spiritual part of religion that allows true kinship in a community, rather than dwelling on the problems that arise in a church on an institutional level. Just as the Zambians have the historical context behind their faith, I recognize that my own background has helped shape my views and questions, but also wonder how my life would be different if I grew up in a faith-based community like Zambezi.

I am so grateful for the opportunity to experience a culture that is so alive. I am so grateful for the friendships I have made here and I am so grateful for the ways I have learned when pushed outside my comfort zone. I have been challenged to discover the role of faith in my life as I grow into a person who is more consciously spiritually alive.

Tunasakwilila mwane Zambezi,

Dakota Peterson

Class of 2018

SNAP!! SNAP!! The children yell once they realize what the black box hanging off my shoulder is. “SNAP AND GIVE” they scream, referring to a Polaroid camera they assume based on the size and shape of my camera. Every time I walk through the rickety gate guarding the convent, I have my trusty Canon 6D slung over my shoulder. This camera has become part of me and of my persona whilst in Zambia. We both have a long way to go in our life together. I am 21 years old, just starting to live my life and experience the world, this camera has a mere 15,473 photos taken in its lifetime with many tens of thousands more to go.

I landed in Zambia with only 341 photos of our trip so far, a hand full of photos that reflected my relatively low understanding of Zambia at the time. This new place I was dropped into pushed me far outside my comfort zone and began to overwhelm me. My camera was my safe place, my sense of control and order amid my uncontrollable environment. When I became uncomfortable or confused I would take a photo and use my camera as my shield, deflecting my true feelings and experiences. This caused me to become introspective and analyze myself critically, inspiring the discovering and learning that can only happen on the edge of one’s comfort zone. Over time, and many clicks of the shutter, I turned this introspective nature outward and began to explore my place in the world and do my best to understand our new home in Zambezi.

I am constantly looking around me, observing the faces of joy and struggle, heartbreak and triumph. We are all constantly adjusting for the conditions around us. For an emotional, intimate photo I like using a shallow depth of field, focusing in on one person and allowing them to become the focus of our mind through the image.

On the concrete porch outside a dilapidated house halfway down another sandy road off the tarmac, I sat across the table from James the tailor. His modified foot-powered sewing machine separating the distance between us as he puts down his garment to warmly greet me. James, my first friend in Zambezi, exudes a joy for life I hope to embody every day. We talk about his work, his passion for sewing to support his family, and how he most enjoys his home business because he can work 15 feet away from his wife, Mary, whom he loves with his whole heart. I can feel his love and passion in his words. The conversation continues about our families, and our mutual connection with my sister and his daughter working as and hoping to become nurses. I am curious about schooling in Zambia, so I inquire about university fees. I see the joy on James’ face replaced by pain. He explains that school is too expensive and he is having trouble paying for it. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure of how to react to this news, adjusting my camera whose value could easily pay for all of their education. James continues to tell me how he can work so hard, but there is no opportunity here due to the corruption in the government. The emotion is palpable in the air; I no longer worry about my dirt crusted feet and what I will say next. My friend has become my sole focal point. I can’t help but tear up hearing how hard James and Mary are trying to support their family. I see here, this home, built with love and commitment, as an example of the work James and Mary have put in to provide for their family. Through this conversation, James transitioned from James the tailor to James my friend. He made me feel comfortable enough so I could take the filter off my lens that was distorting my perception and come closer to being able to see the people on the other side of the camera. My camera no longer was my shield but a tool to connect and document.

Through my 24-105mm lens I am granted a unique perspective into the world. I try to focus on the details both in my photography and in my life. These photos allow me to see our experience in a different light. I see things in 1/2000^th of a second intervals, which forces me the find the details; from the ways the yellow walls of the convent tell the story of hundreds of visitors or the emotion in the jovial faces of the children. I try to capture the people here to help tell their story. Many of the photos shared on the blog so far have been part of that effort. I have been struggling with how/if I will share these photos publicly when I return home. My fear is I will share these images causing the lives of the people I captured to be stripped away. Leaving nameless African people in the void, reinforcing the white saviour complex we are trying to desperately to avoid. I hope these photos are not the end of the conversation, but the first page in the story of our new friends we will soon be able to share with you all.

Where I find the most peace in my life is sitting outside on a clear night and seeing the millions of glowing dots in the sky. Zambezi offers one of the most spectacular views I have seen, sending chills down my spine with the hairs on my arms sticking up as I let the grandeur of it all flow over me. This nightly ritual helps me process the day’s events and center myself. As astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson says in one of my favorite quotes:

“The atoms of our bodies are traceable to stars that manufactured them in their cores and exploded these enriched ingredients across our galaxy, billions of years ago. For this reason, we are biologically connected to every other living thing in the world. We are chemically
connected to all molecules on Earth. And we are atomically connected to all atoms in the universe. We are not figuratively, but literally stardust.”

As my camera rhythmically clicks away photos of this night sky, I often reflect upon this quote and its broader meaning. We may all be different makes and models, Canon, Nikon, American, Zambian; but we are all here on this little pale blue planet orbiting our sun, flying through space together at 504,000 miles per hour. This reminds me how petty all our issue
s are in the larger scheme, in a planet of 7.125 billion humans we all make not even a blip on the radar of the universe.
As this snapshot of time in Zambezi ends in a few days for us, I am grateful for my lenses and how I have had the privilege of getting the image and story of a handful of people of Zambia, 8,935 photos later (so far).

Kisu Mwane,

Tyler Hamke

Class of 2017

P.S. For the first time in history Gonzaga won the annual Gonzaga vs. Chilena football match.

“Ed team, let’s roll!”

It is 8:55 am, and we have just finished a breakfast that most likely consisted of bananas and oochi that was enjoyed over good conversation, reflection, and a reading of the previous day’s blog. We gather our backpacks that are filled with children’s books, our students’ name tags and notebooks, chalk, and other materials we will need for our lesson. Andrew, Elly, Emily, and I pile into the back of the Jeep and pray that it starts. After about three or four tries, it finally does and we’re on our way.

We pull up to Chilena Primary School at 9:05, right on time for our 9:00 class. (We’re on Zambia time.) Andrew and Elly split off for their grade 7 class, and Emily and I walk into ours. We are greeted by our 26 students, and we begin singing our good morning song.

Chimene mwane, chimene mwane!

Some people say chimene mwane!

Hello, good morning! Hello, good morning!

Some people say hello good morning!

Then, we begin our lesson. Emily reads a story to the class, and we have the students open up their notebooks for their writing assignment: “Write three sentences about your morning routine”. This was part of the lesson that Emily and I taught on our second day at Chilena. I remember walking over to the right side of the classroom and reading a student’s work:

“The first thing I do in the morning is I wake up. I go outside and I get some water. I wash my face and brush my teeth, and I eat breakfast with sweet potatoes. Then, I go to school…”

Kelvin goes on to describe not only his morning routine, but his routine throughout the entire day. With the exception of a few spelling errors, his writing is nearly perfect, and he well exceeds the three-sentence requirement.

Great, I thought. Our curriculum is going to be too easy for these students.

 I made my way over to the left side of the classroom to continue looking over my students’ work. I knelt down beside Vera, and she looked up at me with wide eyes. All she had written down on her paper was the prompt that she copied down from the chalkboard.

“Vera, what is the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning?”

“Yes,” she replies.

After several more failed attempts of rephrasing the question into words Vera might understand, another student sitting in front of Vera turns around to speak to me.

“Madame, this girl does not speak any English.”

Throughout the past two weeks, I have learned that it is true; along with several of her classmates, Vera does not speak English. She knows how to read English, but struggles to comprehend what she is reading. With one-on-one work, either Emily or I are typically able to help Vera and the students that sit by her to write at least one sentence in their notebooks. We have found ourselves spending a lot of time with the students that sit on the left side of the classroom.

The left side of the classroom is where the students who struggle with English Literacy sit. On the right side of the classroom sit students like Kelvin, who are considered “high achievers”. The layout of the classroom segregates ‘high’ and ‘low’ achieving students. It’s a practice that’s common throughout Zambia, one that’s a standard taught in training programs for primary school teachers – the concept of teaching to the top.

Teaching to the top means that classes are designed to help “high achieving” students succeed. The level of difficulty of coursework helps them flourish while leaving behind the students who are not at the same level of literacy.

I had the opportunity to sit down with Jessy, the amazing woman who is the regular teacher for my grade 6 class. In an interview with Jessy, I asked her which students in her class she thought could realistically attend university after they finish secondary school. She listed off three names.

Just three students. Only three students that walk to school every morning to sit in the dusty classroom with no electricity, trying to soak in as much knowledge as possible. Just three of 29; a little less than 10% of the class.

“They are smart enough for university, but the problem is money. Those students will most likely not be able to afford university. I’m not sure if any of them will go.”

When I asked Jessy how this affected her teaching, she explained to me that she gives remedial work for students who need it. She is one of the only teachers who differentiates for students.

This concept of teaching to the top has left me discouraged, heartbroken, and furious. It has caused me to question my role as a temporary teacher at Chilena: How am I going to help these students in just three weeks? It has also caused me to question my role as a future educator, as well as the education system as a whole: How will I help my future students grow to their potential while helping students of all abilities? Why is it that the education system allows so many students to fall through the gap and to not reach their full potential? What does this mean for the education system in the United States?

Teaching to the top has also caused me to reflect more upon concepts that we have been discussing often during our nightly reflections at the convent: accompaniment and kinship. We have often discussed our purpose here in Zambezi. I believe one of our purposes here is to get to know the community and to walk alongside them. I want to learn from the beautiful people that live in Zambezi; to learn about their stories, their families, their lives, and their culture. There is no “top” in this village; there should be no “top” in life. In life, we are not organized like my classroom at Chilena, with “low achieving individuals” seated to the left and “high achieving individuals” seated to the right. Rather, we walk among each other, learning from one another every day.

Last weekend our group took a trip to Chitokoloki. During the hour long drive, the students in my car took turns reading out loud the article that was given to us for reflection that night, The Voice of Those Who Sing, by Gregory Boyle. In this article, Boyle explores the concepts of accompaniment and kinship.

“Of course, there’s no ‘us’ and ‘them’- just us. I suspect that Jesus was executed, in the end, for suggesting this very thing… no one is left behind. There is no hierarchy of value, no pecking order of worth. No one’s presence among us is a waste.”

This article was the perfect article to precede our trip to Chitokoloki. It was during this trip that I met Misula, a 24 year old single mother that I struck up a conversation with because of her involvement in the church choir. Misula and I talked for about an hour and a half. In the beginning of our conversation, we exchanged stories about our families, shared songs from our respective countries, and talked a little bit about what it was like to live in Chitokoloki. After some time, we began talking about topics that were beyond surface level. There is one answer that Misula gave me that I will never forget.

I asked her how it would be perceived if a chindele, such as myself, were to move to her village. Would I be accepted into her culture?

“Why wouldn’t you be accepted?” She asked. “You are a human being just like me. You are no better or worse than me because you are white. You have come to learn from us just as much as you have come to teach us.”

I was almost brought to tears. In one response, Misula perfectly answered so many questions that I didn’t even know I had. There is no top. There is no ‘us’, and there is no ‘them’. On this earth, we are all human beings; we are all one.

Each morning as I stand in front of my students at Chilena, I can’t help but wonder how the classroom would be different if there was no teaching to the top. Now, I can’t help but wonder how the world would be different if there was no “teaching to the top”. How would the world look different if we all stood as one, instead of being separated into ‘us’ and ‘them’?

“For Jesus only sees a circle of compassion and wants no one outside of it… Everybody belongs. No kinship, no justice. We begin here.” –Gregory Boyle

Kisu Mwane,

Katie Kenkel

Class of 2017

P.S. Mom, Dad, Mary, Kevin, Emily, Alex, and Joey: I miss you so much and I can’t wait to be with you all soon. Keep cheering on the Cubbies for me… (Even you, Kevin). I’m doing so too, even from half way around the world. I love you guys more than you know.

My time here in Zambezi has been a mixture of sand, dirt, water, and cement. Each moment I look at this place I see the sandy roads, the dirt of the ditches they are digging in the market and that we use for our bricks, the water of the river and from the sink (hopefully), and most of all cement on my clothes, in my hair, on my hands and too many other places. Cement has taught me a lot. A bag that looks like a 60-pound bag at home may in fact hold 50 kilograms (About 110-pounds) worth of cement- the worst. It would be smart to pick it up before you say you can carry it through the market back to the convent close to a mile away (that was a workout and a half and my new Zambian compatriots laughed at that dumb chindele trying to show off his “strength” by being an absolute fool). I also learned that when you put a bag of cement on your shoulders it gets EVERYWHERE and is really difficult/impossible to wash.

Looking back at that moment, I see a lot of shortcomings in my application of my education, as an engineer and a son. “Work smarter, not harder,” my dad would always say… woops. That phrase sums up a lot of my trip in Zambezi. I was working too hard to be who I think I am supposed to be, and not recognizing that I am accepted and loved exactly for who I am in each moment.

If anyone has been around a group of Gonzaga students for long, they begin to see the stupid amount of talent and skill that each of them possess. But, they will also see the humility and self-awareness that makes each person feel loved. Being a part of one of those communities is amazing but is also really difficult sometimes. The question that I have been struggling with is: What makes me unique and adequate to have such an experience and to be able to call such people friends? Each day I see Zags here living in amazing ways, whether it be opening up to each other, supporting one another, walking with Zambians through a learning process for both communities, and most of all creating meaningful relationships with the Zambezi people. Where do I fit in to this daily life?

I am a second year engineer working on a team with a super genius third year engineer and a graduated engineer. The feeling of inadequacy bogged me down for too long. Not knowing how I would contribute to a team made up of individuals who frankly know more about engineering because of their extra experience in school was a difficult pill to swallow. I could not see how I would have a different impact on the Zambians than Zac or Tyler. So instead of living into who I am, I tried to fit the engineering mold seeing as that is what I am studying and supposed to be “teaching”. But I was faking it – that is not who I am or what makes me unique.

I felt forced in both my engineering group and the community of Zags. My actions felt like I was trying to be someone that I am not, actually more like an exaggeration of who people see me as/”expect” me to act. I spent days without recognizing what I was doing until someone asked if I was okay (Tip for living in a community, when someone says they’re fine, give them specific instances where they are acting different). With some prodding, I realized I was acting differently trying to fit in with these amazing people around me by not being my authentic self and not recognizing my own unique abilities and trying to live into other’s abilities.         The next day I dove back into what gives me strength to be who I am and to know that I am loved and that is my Bible. I ended up on Luke 19:11-27 about the master handing out the Ten Minas to servants. In the story, one of them took the money that was given to him and did nothing with it because he was scared he might lose it and the master got upset with him for not using what was given to him to make more. That is what I was doing with my abilities that God has blessed me with: I hid them in the Zambian dirt because I was scared people would see that I was not perfect and that I had more room to grow. I was not living into the community as authentic Davis. This was my time to add to my talents just like the other servants did in the passage with their Minas, and Zags have done with their abilities, but I was falling short by not being myself, this was my time to change that.

How to change that? The passage opened my eyes to look not only at the Zags around me but also the Zambians that surround us. Each day that I look deeper at their community, the more and more I am blown away. The care that they express for each other is with a love that I have experienced only with close friends yet they have it with everyone. They have an understanding that each person no matter how young or old, sane or not has something to give to the community. I have been amazed and inspired each day by watching individuals interact in this community with joy and bluntness, but before this passage I never had looked at the way they took everyone as they are. It does not matter how dirty they are, their occupation or lack there of, or how old they are. As long as they are themselves, they are accepted FOR their unique gifts. That is something that a person like me who is really hard on myself can learn from. I need to not only accept other people where they are at but accept myself where I am at and FOR what God has blessed me with.

Learning how to accept others and myself for the unique qualities that each person possesses is difficult and messy. People are each uniquely different which becomes apparent after living with them in a confined space on the other side of the globe. The three engineering students here could not be more different from each other, but after further inspection that is what makes us such an amazing team and allows us to get along so well, AND it keeps life interesting.

The opportunity to form a community that does not ignore one’s unique struggles, triumphs, and life is worthwhile and life changing. The impact that such a community has on a person, inside and out, does not wear off unless you REALLY want to scrub it out – just like cement. The two communities that I am surrounded by, Zags and Zambians, have pushed me to accept and appreciate who I am in each moment no matter how messy. This lesson and the cement will never wash out. (Sorry pants that I bought for this trip and dad’s shirt).

Kisu mwane,

Davis Phillips

Class of 2018

The past two weeks here have been wonderfully challenging. The community members I have met are full of strength, wisdom and immense determination. Our Gonzaga team is bright, compassionate and relational. I am in awe of this place for many reasons, including the breathtaking sunsets, the constant chatter and hum of laughter and my love/hate relationship with the dusty, bumpy roads. Another reason is the self-exploration this place has afforded me. I have examined not just the things that make me a good student, friend and daughter, but also things that cause me to fall short in all of those aspects of life. It has been difficult to face these attributes and shortcomings head on but it has also been surprisingly healing. It has helped me work on embracing who I am entirely.

Picture taken on our way home from Chitokoloki, one of the many beautiful sunsets seen on our adventure here so far. (pc: Tyler Hamke)

For many people, including myself, a motivation to come here was to get out of their personal comfort zone. Until this trip, I thought that the only place growth could occur was outside of one’s own comfort zone. As an introvert I thought the best way I could expand and get out of my comfort zone was to try and be an extrovert in a stimulating setting like the Zambezi market. However, this caused me to begin to lose my genuine self because I’d compare myself to the incredible abilities of my fellow Zags. For a while I didn’t understand why I would get so anxious walking through the market, talking to my students outside of class or dancing and singing with all the children. I’d second-guess myself every time I tried greeting a shopkeeper or market goer and tell myself “You didn’t pronounce that right” or “You should’ve said something else”. I found myself trying to pretend that I knew all the answers with students outside of the classroom when all they wanted to do was talk. When children didn’t remember or know my name I thought it was because they didn’t like me or I wasn’t fun enough, when actually “Moira” is just extremely hard for them to pronounce.

I am in awe of how great my fellow Zags are at establishing and forming genuine new friendships and at their ability to get out of their comfort zone, which is different for each and every one of us, in a way that leads to new found confidence and growth. I have been trying to emulate them because of my admiration for them.

However, it has become clear that this isn’t the path to true growth for me. I start to lose my genuine self if I try hard to be an extrovert. Spending too much time outside of my comfort zone in this way resulted in me comparing myself to others even more because I was trying to change my true personality.

The past two Thursdays Hayley, Molly and I traveled to give talks about menstruation and pass out kits that help girls stay in school while they are menstruating. “I am here to talk with you all about something that is uncomfortable and awkward, but it is part of what unites all women and makes us courageous and beautiful: menstruation.” This is how I have started the talks I have given to young girls and women at Malola and Kalendyola. The feeling of these talks is all too familiar. The girls slowly hunched over, sank in their seats, and darted their eyes down once they knew what this talk was going to be about. I remember starting middle school and sinking and hiding in my desk while my teacher talked to us about periods. I remember trying to make myself look as small as possible and avoiding any eye contact because eye contact would mean I’d have to say something about this weird thing called a period. I was scared and uncomfortable, just like most of the girls we have talked to.

Mama Love translating part of our menstruation talk at Malola. The pinks bags contain the menstruation kits.

I sat in a classroom in Malola and outside of a hut in Kalendyola, both filled with young girls. Throughout the talks I reassured these girls and women that their period is not something to be ashamed of and that it is important not to let it stop us from going to and continuing school. It is hard knowing that something that makes us women is what keeps so many girls here and in other places from getting the best education they can and being who they are entirely. Normally during our Health classes, I am self-conscious about what I am saying. I question everything that comes out of my mouth. I look at the incredible teaching ability of the other members of my team and believe I cannot live up to them. I am so scared of failing my students. But during these particular talks I am completely calm; my palms aren’t sweaty, which is a huge feat for me, my voice is steady and my head is clear. I feel connected to these girls because I can remember feeling extremely uncomfortable and scared at their age. It is in these moments that I don’t feel like an American teaching Zambians; I feel like a woman talking and experiencing the awkwardness of becoming a woman with young girls. I can see myself in their shoes.

These two menstruation talks are the only times I have had nothing on my mind besides being with these girls and being a woman. Nothing else mattered in these moments, and I found myself never worrying about what I was saying. I wasn’t second guessing myself because I felt like there was no power dynamic, like there was no teacher/student or American/Zambian relationships. It was just a woman talking to young girls. A woman who had been in their shoes and knew how they were feeling; a woman talking with young girls about something that all women struggle with, something that connects us all and makes us beautiful. All I cared about was making sure these girls knew they had nothing to be ashamed about and that it was okay to be scared. We were all embracing womanhood together. This was clear when, after both talks, the girls sang and danced. I was moved to tears as I witnessed these girls, who minutes ago were sinking in their chairs, confidently singing, dancing and smiling together.

Sitting and talking with the women and girls of Kalendola. Mama Josephine translated for me.

Recognizing the calmness I felt in these two talks made me realize that the growth I have experienced here has actually occurred within my comfort zone, in a group of women talking about what connects us all. In this comfort zone, I was able to recognize my strengths and be more comfortable and confident in who I am. This growth in comfort, ability and confidence is exactly what I am trying to attain.

As I am preparing to walk through my last week here in Zambezi, I am coming up with active steps I can take to fully embrace myself and also the Zambezi community. First, I need to work on accepting exactly who I am before I can fully embrace and be a part of the community here. I need to accept my self-discoveries and use them in a way that furthers rather than hinders my experiences. Although I am not sure if I will ever be seen as anything but a “chindele” to many in this community, I can work on showing my true self to the people here with whom I have relationships in order to form bonds that are beyond teacher and student. In order for true accompaniment to occur during this final week, I need to work on being present and being confident in the human being I am, confident in the fact that the people of this community would like me and enjoy talking to me even if I wasn’t here to teach classes. It is important for me to stretch myself in ways that do not lead to a loss of who I am. I need to stop thinking of myself as an American and this community as Zambians; I need to think of everyone here, the Gonzaga and Zambezi communities as well as myself, as humans who crave relationships and love.

Kisu Mwane,

Moira Andrews

Class of 2018

Every morning around 6am, I receive an unintended wakeup call in our cozy, yellow room. No, this wakeup call is not the rooster that crows every 30 seconds; Rather, it is the relentless honking that I hear on the distant, sandy roads of Zambezi. For the first few days here, I found myself asking the famous question that I verbalize at least 20 times each day about life here in Zambezi: “What does that mean?” Like most things in this exquisitely thought-provoking place, it didn’t make sense. It was after much speculation that I found out that the noise I was hearing was the bus system. As buses arrive at their stops, they honk like there is no tomorrow. They do this to warn people who need a ride that they are there. This way, they can account for the people who may be running late, or who don’t own a clock to tell the time. They announce their presence in a way that allows them to be noticed. In a sense, the way the buses announce their presence somewhat reminds me of the profound announcement of our presence in every place we go here.

“Chindele! Chindele!” shout the little kids sprinting out of their home after Emily, Katie, and me as we trudge our sandals through the thick sand to the market. This phrase roughly translates as “white person,” and it is not an unfamiliar sound to our ears. It is nearly impossible to walk anywhere without being made aware of our differences in this community. It makes the idea of accompaniment very difficult when your presence is a profound contrast to the lifestyle and atmosphere that exists here. The moment I stepped off the bush plane onto the airstrip in Zambezi for the first time, numerous little hands immediately swamped me- touching my blue veins and stroking my fingernails. Faces of confusion and awe accompanied these hands. I remember being at my homestay with five of the most curious young girls who yanked my hair into tight braids and asked, “Chindele! Where did you get this blonde wig?” It has been moments like these that have allowed me to recognize that my presence here is unusual and that my position in this place allows my head to be constantly packed with questions like the relentless sounds of the buses.

Perhaps the most prominent observation I have made since coming here is that you sometimes have to make a fool out of yourself in order to create genuine meaning of situations and mutual understanding with others. After this trip, we will be receiving the title of “Professional Fools” because we have successfully made ourselves look like confused tourists who are walking around without a map in almost every location we enter for the first time. Although this has proven to be very humorous in many situations as we struggle with the language and trying to follow the talented dance moves of Zambians, the concept of being a confused tourist has been one of my hardest struggles.

During this trip our Health team has been thoroughly exposed to health practice in a country with few resources. Today, our ZamFam had the opportunity to spend the day in Chitokoloki to teach lessons and get a tour of the hospital. The hospital here is the best hospital in the region because of its resources and healthcare providers. As our Health team received our own tour, the doctor walked us into many wards, without the same privacy considerations we have come to value so much in the States. It was interesting to see how the concept of privacy for patients contrasted with our expectations for healthcare. During the tour, I became overwhelmed when I realized how easy it is for me to gain access to a doctor or healthcare whenever it is needed, whereas here in Zambia, individuals go through great sacrifice to encounter aid. Although it was tough to encounter some of the patients and the healthcare differences in relation to what I am used to back home, it was a great learning experience to figure out how to accept the differences in healthcare practice and acknowledge the way this nation uses its resources in creative ways to care for those in need. This opportunity left me with more questions than answers, and helped me to recognize that although some things are not easy to witness, it is important to acknowledge the differences between our cultures and find value in the way healthcare is provided in other parts of the world.

Although I am battling with the tough question of my role here and the struggle to see such simple fixes to complex problems, I have also found great passion for the Zambian people. One aspect that I have fallen in love with here is how it is hard to find a Zambian who is stressed out by the concept of time. We Gonzaga students come from a place where we are constantly burdened by time constraints and stressed by the lack of time we have to complete every commitment we have each day. However, here in Zambezi, my eyes have been opened to the concept of patience and slowing things down. It is in the three and half hour long church services, the students that arrive 45 minutes late to Health class, and the slow and graceful way women walk down the tarmac road in the blistering sun with baskets on their heads that I realized the beauty of slowing down. Zambians have this incredible way of contemplating questions we ask for longer than expected, for speaking in slow and soothing demeanors, and for looking everyone they meet in the eye. Time is not a constraint that keeps them from having genuine and intentional reactions with the individuals around them. I noticed this when I was sharing a Coke with my friend Mumba the tailor, who failed to lose eye contact as he spoke to me about the challenges of education in Zambezi, the rewarding struggle of providing for a family of 10, working in the market, and sharing his love for Jesus as a pastor. I noticed this in the Head Nurse at the Zambezi hospital, James, as he calmly injected 100 babies with vaccines, while simultaneously teaching our Health team about healthcare in a developing nation and helping to ignite a passion for medicine within us. I noticed this in Mama Violet’s warm embrace as she tended to me after a clumsy and hard fall at a metal playground. The list goes on and on, but the point I am trying to make is that as Americans, we come from a place where we constantly think the world expects so much of us. Personally, coming here was a big adjustment for me because I often struggle with overextending my time to ensure that I am constantly doing my best not to fail. However, my time in Zambia has helped me to realize the importance of stopping, looking up, and observing the way God made the world and how it has so many raw and important lessons to teach me.

This intentionality is reinforced by the interactions that we have with this community on a daily basis. It is illuminated by the eagerness Zambians have to learn. On my third day here, a friendly man stopped me on the road and said, “Hello! Last year, I took First Aid in the Health class, and I was wondering if this year you were offering a Second Aid class?” At first this seemed silly, but as time went on I recognized that it was just the first exposure to the contagious enthusiasm Zambians place towards learning. My time here has taught me that the power of education is stronger than any other force you can bestow on others. Every morning at 9am when I look into the eyes of the individuals in my Health class as I teach about water safety, pregnancy, and high blood pressure, I see a sparkle that I have never witnessed before. These people want to learn anything that they can get their hands on so they can actively start making their community and their world a better place.

Through making a fool of myself here in Zambia, I have come to realize that humanity is universal. Although on the outside, we may appear different, and our cultural practices may contrast, at our core we are all longing for the same thing: To be loved. The other day, my friend Sylvester/Paul (he won’t tell us which is his actual name) stopped me in the market to say, “Zambia may not have a lot of material goods, but the people make it so rich!” I don’t think there is a better quote to sum up this place. Amidst all of the confusion and battling with questions as to why things are the way they are here, I can be sure of this: the people here illuminate a welcoming and compassionate beauty that I have never before witnessed. One of my favorite quotes by Karl Barth states, “Each fellow-man is a whole world and the request which he makes of me is not merely that I should know this or that about him, but the man himself, and therefore this whole world.” Zambia has taught me to not undermine any human because each individual has infinite worth and represents an entire world to be discovered. However, sometimes that discovery isn’t easy, and you must loudly pronounce your presence like a loud and foolish horn in order to vulnerably step into their beautiful world.

Tunasakwilila mwane (thank you) Zambia, for showing me how to open my mind and heart to the beauty of slowing down and recognizing the inherent worth in the eyes and hearts around me.

Sincerely,

Molly Bosch

Ps- Hello Bosch fam! Don’t worry; contrary to the last 320 days of this year, I have been surprisingly healthy! Missing you all, sending hugs and love your way!

Pps- Hannah, Chiwala is still alive and thriving. He wants me to tell you that he is so proud of your accomplishments, and that he misses you immensely. He also wants me to tell you that he wants my family to adopt him even though your family already adopted him, so we can make one big family. (We’ll talk about logistics when I return?) Love you, and I thank you everyday for encouraging me to come to this place.

“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

Early last week, our Gonzaga crew sat down together for lunch and quickly realized we were in for a treat. As lunch was set before us on our large table, a hefty bowl of caterpillars was placed towards the center. As most of us had not yet had the pleasure of eating caterpillars before then, many cautiously began placing a small, safe amount on their plate. Looks of concern and intrigue were passed around the table as people tentatively began to try the caterpillars. Everyone tried at least one, and though they may not have been especially tasty to all, everyone embraced the new and slightly uncomfortable experience with poise and curiosity. Besides caterpillars, Zambezi has served us some especially hefty platefuls of new and uncomfortable experiences. Working through these experiences, I have learned about the power of saying yes while embracing invitations and all else that comes my way.

Saying yes and being open to new experiences is something I find myself struggling with back home and at school. It requires one to leave comfort and control, and embrace the potential challenges, difficulties, and discomforts a new experience may bring. Zambezi seems to throw new and uncomfortable experiences our way everyday, and through this I have seen the great value that can come from saying yes. One experience of exceptional discomfort in particular occurred last week, when Mercer and I were invited by Mary, the 6o-something year-old tailor both of us visit, to join her as her guests at a community member’s wedding reception.

Neither Andrew nor myself thought much of the invitation when it was initially extended to us. However, we both decided to attend the reception out of respect to Mary. Upon our arrival at the small, stone church hall where the reception was being held, Mary took our hands and guided us all the way up to the front of the seating area. She showed us where the last two empty seats were, which she had been saving for us, in the second row. The seats happened to be directly behind the bride and groom, whom neither of us had previously met. We soon found out Mary was in fact the matron of the reception, and we were the reception’s honored guests.

As soon as we sat down, the reception began. Mercer and I were sticking out like sore thumbs, and many eyes were on us as we uncomfortably settled into our seats. There were close to fifty people at the reception, and everyone was seated in plastic lawn chairs on the dirt floor of the dimly lit church hall. Most people were not dressed up, aside from the bride and groom. As the event proceeded, we realized we would have to stay for the entire reception, though our plan was to leave early and meet our group for dinner. The reception continued, with much singing, dancing, and laughing. Some words and prayers were shared. Later, gifts were presented to the couple being honored. As Mary stood in front of the entire group to present her gift first, she asked us, “Are you ready to bring your gifts up?” Neither Mercer nor myself came prepared with gifts, so we exchanged a disparaging look of defeat as we had to tell Mary and announce to everyone else we did not in fact come prepared with gifts for the bride and groom. Coincidentally, we learned it was also the bride’s birthday, making the situation all that more hard to sit through.

Soon after gifts were presented, food was served. As the honored guests at the reception, we were served first with Mary, before the bride and groom, on the front stage in front of the entire crowd. We receive our fried chicken and bottled Cokes in small Styrofoam containers, and returned to our seats to start eating as many people watched us intently. Mercer and I could not believe how out of place we were in that moment, and how awkward we felt being thrown into the reception so unprepared and unknowledgeable. We left the reception after awkwardly thanking and congratulating the bride and groom. We laughed at ourselves on our walk back to the convent at how we could not believe the experience we just had.

Though this experience caused a lot of laughter and amounts to quite a humorous story to look back on, I walked away learning a lot. Through saying yes to Mary’s invitation and embracing its entirety, I received a small glimpse into this special community. I had the chance to meet many new people, witness some cultural and communal customs, and form a new, special friendship with Mary.

I have always struggled with feeling accepted and invited by other people. I deem myself to be a burden on others, as I feel unworthy of full acceptance and invitation. Zambezi has taught me otherwise in how I have been warmly welcomed, noticed, invited, and accepted into this community, sometimes even as an “honored guest”. I find it profound how Zambezi has been teaching me to say yes to new invitations, while the community here has been saying yes to us during our entire stay. We have been graciously and humbly invited to live as a part of the Zambezi community, and Zambezi has embraced us fully. As part of this communal reciprocity, Mercer and I invited Mary to join us as our honored guest at our group’s accompaniment dinner, being held on our last night here in Zambezi.

Saying yes and embracing daily challenges and events is something I believe points us towards fully engaging in and experiencing life. I believe God invites us to say yes to His invitation to live a life of adventure every morning we wake up, and it’s up to us to accept and embrace His invitation to see what is in store for us. Zambezi has taught me this, and the learning I have done here parallels some ways in which God views us; as worthy, noticed, accepted, embraced, honored, and worthy of Him saying yes to us. I will be forever grateful for our time here in Zambezi, as it has taught me lessons I will carry with me for years to come. When you are served up a bowl full of caterpillars, make sure you ask for them to be passed your way.

Kisu Mwane,

Sam Merritt

Class of 2018