Gonzaga-in-Zambezi

Your daughter’s face is a small riot,
her hands are a civil war,
a refugee camp behind each ear,
a body littered with ugly things.

But God,
doesn’t she wear
the world well?

-Warsan Shire, “Ugly”
from teaching my mother how to give birth

I returned to Zambezi a slightly different person than who I was when I left last June. Not only had this place shaped me in ways that would continue to unfold after I’d left, but also I had seen and experienced new things during my time away that challenged my understanding of who I am. This was a tough year, the toughest of each of my 21 so far. I’ve heard they keep getting tougher. I came to Zambezi with a heart weary from working to carve out a place for myself in this world. I carried with me the burden of never feeling like enough in my schoolwork, my jobs, and my relationships. I touched down in Zambezi with skin itching with dislike for myself, with a desire to escape my body and the year I had shown it.

There are no mirrors in the convent, so I thought it would be easy to distance myself from what I look like in favor of who I believe myself to be. But since arriving in Zambezi, I’ve heard multiple people who remember me from last year exclaim, “Kate! You are getting big!” Although I know that this is a compliment in Zambezi, that didn’t keep it from stinging a bit. I come from a culture that tells me to think about my body constantly—what goes into it, what it looks like to myself and others, what it can and cannot be squeezed into—but never to openly comment on someone else’s. These Zambians I have come to know and love were drawing attention to what I was trying desperately to forget. They noticed the weight I carried with me, the remnants of a year heaped with new burdens.

Mama Josephine has carried her share of weight, too. In a country with an average life expectancy of 57 years, she walks the sandy streets of Zambezi with 72 strapped to her back. She has given birth to nine children, she works for an organization focused on empowering women in community development, and she was the only one from her province invited to Kenneth Kaunda’s (the first Zambian president) inauguration party. Her work in all three areas—politics, motherhood, and community organizing—requires her to take up space and have voice.

Josephine taps her bare feet on the convent floor as she leads us in a clumsy American rendition of “twaya mwanta.” The song is one of my favorites. It invokes the holy spirit to come to the singers, to dwell in our bodies: tuna dyoumbe mou mujimba. Josephine’s mujimba weaves through the narrow aisles of the market as three Zag women follow her. She speaks individually to vendors (almost all of whom are women), encouraging them to attend the “women in leadership” class that our team is offering this year, lecturing them on the importance of voice and self-reliance. Josephine moves the spirit with her tough and weathered hands. She fills a once-lifeless classroom with nine eager students, who collectively have more children and more business experience than most people’s extended families. They chatter in Luvale passionately and forget to translate for the four American teachers, but we don’t mind. This space is for them. Their chitenge-clad bodies and their oochi-smooth voices swell to fill the needs of the world around them.

The women in leadership class in the midst of saying, “We are women! We are strong!” Courtesy of photographer and motivational speaker Molly Bosch. Important note: Sam said it, too. I think he said it the loudest.

Josephine moves her hand between my thigh and hers when she tells stories. This one is about her daughter and the ways that she worries too much about how she looks. Josephine prefers to focus on what she can do: “I have got a body and I have got a lot more to do with it.” The way she says it is meaningful. I have a body. It is mine, but it is not me. Zambezi is one of the most beautiful places to have a body. Here, I can feed it with Zambian-American dishes made with love by our mamas and with biscuits and ginger beer bought in the market. I can clothe it with something that was crafted specifically for my shape, stitched with my measurements in mind. I can use it to share myself through tears of joy and connection while hearing the blog and its comments, through body language essential to conversing with a language barrier, through playing with a 9-month-old baby boy while his mother takes the computer class. Having a body in Zambezi is about moving it to the rhythm of this lovely little town, about filling it with the love that’s all around me.

When Mama Josephine hugged me tightly for the first time in a year and commented on my weight, what she meant was that I am growing into myself. I am joining her in the ranks of women who have faced this harsh world with tough skin and soft bellies, with bright eyes and strong backs for carrying whatever is required of us, with hearts overflowing with the beauty this life has to offer.

Now, as our lovely Father Dom says, “I am going to take my whole self to bed.”

Kisu Mwane,

Katie Polacheck
Class of 2017

PS:

– Mom, Dad, and Bear: Hope you’re enjoying some thunderstorms in that humid Wisconsin summer. As I’m writing this on the front stoop of the convent, I’m imagining being on the back deck with you, reading library books on a summer night. Can’t wait to see you soon! Love you all. Give hugs to Aug the Dog.

– Zack, I picked the Warsan Shire poem for you. Love and miss you much. Happy 21st! Enjoy a drink and a beet salad at Geno’s for me. I’ll be here eating cabbage.

– 2015 Zam Fam, I have surprising news. Nobody got sick in Dipalata! We all enjoyed nshima, bananas, and oochi in relative gastrointestinal peace. We did get a goat, though. His name is St. Ignatius (GOat Forth and Set the World on Fire). I miss you all and think of you daily. I can feel your presence in this funny yellow home we share with generations of Zags. You are all so very central to my Zambezi experience; thank you for making this the journey it has been. Zambezi misses you just as much as I do.

As I walk up to the distorted metal gate, fine sand in my shoes, and the irregular cobblestone-like porch I step up to the creaky wooden door and open it. I walk in, there are the grey floors with the contrasting black stove in the opposite left corner, walk-in pantry to the left, double-sink and refrigerator to the right, and a quaint set of double doors entering to an large, open worn-down yellow room. To the right is a wing of rooms filled with beds covered by mosquito nets and to the left, a storage closet, a few more rooms and two classrooms that echoed with the chatter of students during the first week of classes. Welcome to the convent, welcome to our home.

For the past week, we have settled and made our mark on what is our home for the next two weeks. The custard yellow surroundings speaks volumes of the incredible people inhabiting the walls of this place from novel quotes, morning inspirations, affirmation posters, and a personal goals wall. In particular, honoring not only each other, but also the community that has so graciously embraced us as we arrived, our community agreement epitomizes the ambitions we collectively strive towards in our time in Zambezi: honesty, authenticity, intentionality, meaningful and wise use of time, respect for the human person, and of course, fun.

Its kind of ironic that after ten days being away from the States, countless conversations, and witnessing simplicity of such a happy place, I struggle to fully accept where I am at. I give credit to the relationships that transcend my current place in time to those who walked the rugged sandy roads, irregularly power surging halls of the convent, and the undertone of love pulsing from handshakes and greetings surmounting to ten years of cross-cultural interactions.

I spoke with Simako, a young twelve-year-old boy who told me he wanted to be a teacher. He attends school in the morning and the afternoons are spent singing, dancing, and learning how to read with some of the remarkable people I have the pleasure of knowing on this journey. Witnessing the struggle and success of Simako throughout his day has been one of the most impacting experiences I have had yet in Zambezi. I look back at the time I have spent at Gonzaga and am reminded how fortunate I am to have received the education I have thus far. As I sat listening to the aspirations Simako shared with me, I am dismayed in the moments over the past four years of recoiling from something academically associated because it wasn’t motivating. Simako speaks of his goal to learn enough to pass that knowledge to those after him. It is a gift to have a newly found appreciation and motivation for the education I received. What makes my friendship with Simako as meaningful as his longing to learn is throughout the restlessness, distance and struggle God gives me a gift in the form friendship: “Do you know Cecilia?” Simako asked me. Immediately, I flashback to my friendship back in Spokane with a fellow Zag and Zambezi Alum. The subtle reminder of the people that I am continuously surrounded by in Zambezi can create a sense of belonging in an unfamiliar place.

At dinner tonight in the living room of our convent lit by the unequally distributed power lighting and yellow walls hugging our family, we set the multiple, oddly shaped and configured wooden desk tables for what is to be a meal full of more stories and laughter. Upon the conclusion of dinner, we recognize an esteemed individual who has made an impact on our time here in Zambezi. Father Dominic, received affirmation regarding his selfless heart, compassionate spirit, and his ability to attack each day with a vigor that inspires us to do the same. Father Dominic quelled some of the initial nerves I had regarding my time in Zambezi by uniting our family in the first moments in Africa, becoming my first familiar face here. I hold this quote dear to my time in this remarkable place: “It is not the length of life, but the depth of life” by Ralph Waldo Emerson. With Father Dom’s departure quickly approaching, I am challenged again to make the most of the deep connections Zambezi has to offer for the short time that I am here.

At the conclusion of dinner Father Dom makes his round of goodbyes, journaling commences, and the dishes are being done to familiar American tunes, another peaceful reminder of how close home can be.

Each night we conclude with a guided reflection that triggers dialogue to further analyze the tension in our vastly different experiences in Zambia. Tonight, we revisited our community agreement and deconstructed where we as a family are thriving and where we could use some growth. Themes ranged this evening as we hit points of tension and resolution regarding our first week together as a group. Emotions ran high when recognizing the beauty in struggle and overcoming cultural and domestic adversities that challenged each of our perspectives on actions and words. Elly spoke of the language of love and just as different tongues can unite through love, our family experienced love as the universal language of hope and desire for our best selves.

I am writing this blog from the irregular cobblestone-like porch of our home when I look out and see the moonlit courtyard in front of me. It brings me great ease that Zambezi has provided a safe place to call home because, after all, when we look up and admire the moon in the evening, hear a familiar name, make a mutual transcontinental friendship, or listen to American music in the kitchen, it makes our loved ones seem that much closer in a place we’ve all learned to call home.

PS: We will be traveling to a rural village outside of Zambezi this weekend. We will be returning Sunday evening and will resume blog posts then. Have a great weekend!

Kisu Mwane and Go Zags,

Zachary Chelini, Class of 2016

It’s nearly impossible to go through a day in Zambia without at some point being drawn into a dance circle. Usually it’s at least fifteen children eagerly clapping and pulling their favorite chindeles into the middle to perform a goofy and rhythm-lacking dance move. As the kids laugh at the moves we come up with they sing “sala chi tomato, chi tomato, sala chi tomato, chi tomato.” The song was originally created to teach the younger children about growing tomatoes, with “chi tomato” meaning “big tomato.” Each day these dance circles bring us closer to the Zambezi community and a step closer to understanding who the big tomatoes of this world are.

Over the last week in Zambezi I have seen as many powerful women as I have seen stars in the sky. In our rural village lacking city lights, that is a lot of women. Our own convent home would fall apart without the presence of our two Zambian mamas, Mama Katendi and Mama Violet. Dressed in their bright chitengi and with soft-spoken but commanding voices they guide us through life in their town as they cook for us each day. Tonight I was tasked by Mama Katendi with cooking the apple crisp for our dessert. As I began to combine ingredients, Mama Violet watched me with skepticism. In front of her stood the girl who dropped four eggs at her homestay five days ago, flooded the pantry two days ago, and was currently spilling two cups of flour all over the floor. The woman looking at me had managed to walk two full buckets of water (one on her head and one in her hand) back to the convent while our group struggled to load ours into the car to drive them home. Yet both of my Zambian Mamas supported me in my desperate endeavors not only to cook but to reach their level of empowerment. With each of my endless cooking questions, the Mamas reminded me that I already had the knowledge I needed as they gently pushed me back toward the cookbook. These women did not leave me to fend for myself but instead encouraged me with the same kind of quiet and wise love I know so well from my own mother at home. Later, as she announced dinner was ready, Mama Katendi smiled warmly at me and assured me that yes, my apple crisp looked beautiful. She saw my anxieties and she calmed them with a simple smile.

Zambian women posses a strength beyond what I could have imagined. These women are the cooks, the innovators, the counselors, the shop workers, and the mothers of this village. Walking through the market I see countless women running their own stalls and shops. My host sister, Karen, works ten hour days at a grocery store followed by a twenty minute walk home to cook dinner in an outdoor stove for her family. She dreams of going to university and studying Psychology some day. Mama Love and Mama Josephine are Zambian women who work together as community organizers fighting for increased women’s rights and education. Mama Josephine guides us as we stumble through our Luvale language lessons while Mama Love never misses an opportunity to speak abundantly about her passions. Every single day these two do something that changes the life of a woman in Zambia for the better. Vera, one of the girls in mine and Katie Kenks’ grade 7 English class is quiet and speaks little English. But her gentle demeanor gives way to a thriving desire to learn and a perseverance to read the sentences we give her, even when she seems to have no idea. Each time Vera reads I am blown away by her ability. These are women who live with no running water and often no electricity. They work with fire-lit stoves and grow a great deal of their own food. Zambian women have dreams, they have goals, and they have some of the most intimidating and powerful personalities you will ever meet.

Before I came on this journey I thought I was coming to empower women. I thought I was walking into a world of strict gender roles that confined women to the home under the masterful hand of their husbands. I was prepared to respectfully disagree with the role of women in their culture. I was prepared to thank God every day for my own women’s rights at home. I imagined I would meet many men with strong voices and an abundance of opinions, while I was served food by women and occasionally passed them carrying babies in the street. I believed I would need to tell these women how valued they are and remind them of their abilities. I was right in some ways, but in many ways I was very wrong. Yes, this is a society with pretty strict gender roles. Yes, I am often served food by women and I pass multitudes of women carrying babies wrapped in chitengi on their backs every day. Yes, I thank God every day for my rights at home. However, no, these women are not confined to their home. No, I have not found myself abhorred by the role of women in this community. No woman demands respect quite like a Zambian woman. At first glance it may seem like the men are the big tomatoes of this community. At second glance it may seem like those of us with a skin color that gives us automatic respect and authority in this community should be the big tomatoes. But spend five minutes with a Zambian woman and you will no longer question who is the big tomato here. Instead of me empowering these women, every day here I have been empowered by their voices. They push me outside of my comfort zone and prove that this is where I can truly thrive. Each day that I sing “Sala chi tomato, chi tomato” I am reminded of the beautiful big tomatoes that I interact with every day, and each time I feel united in our power as women.

Love and kisu mwane,

Emily Handy

Class of 2017

On my first day in Zambezi, when I stepped off the tiny bush plane with three other students, we were greeted by a joyously singing mass of children. One of these children I was blessed to meet just a few minutes after landing is a 12 year old girl named Glory. Glory is the eldest of four children and has the sweetest voice when she speaks. I was eager to learn everything about her that I could. Unsure where to start, I asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. She very quickly responded, “a doctor”. I asked why and she explained, “ I want to do my best in school and become a doctor so that my little brothers and sisters will do their best, and so they know they can do anything.” I was surprised and impressed with the love, drive, and passion this girl had at only age 12. She later wrote me a letter with a vocabulary list of Luvale words in English so that I could learn. She also asked me in her writing if I slept well, suggesting I pray in the night like her so that I can keep the bad things away. Once again, her compassion and beautiful faith overwhelmed my heart. I was so excited that she was my first friend in Africa and I’ve only begun to know this little girl. But this is not the story of Africa. This is Glory’s story.

Nevertheless, Glory’s story is just one of the few I’ve began to open and read. Others include that of Mama Josephine, Father Dom, Mwamba, Jessy the tailor, and that of my home-stay family. What struck me about my home-stay and its comparison to other students’ home-stays is the extreme diversity of experiences we had. Some students slept on a bamboo mat on the floor of a mud hut, others shared a bed with members of the family, while Dakota, Katie K. and I piled into a full size bed. Our family had running water, a television, a toilet in the house, and a few electronic toys. Others, let’s just say, had a more limited selection of amenities. When our Gonzaga group got back together the next night for reflection, we talked about how some home-stays were more of a “traditional African” household and others were described as “more American”. This seemed strange to me. Lots of other homes in other countries have televisions and we don’t call them American, and there are mud huts in other continents but we don’t call them African. I left for bed that night still surprised by how radically different each home-stay was, despite each home being within a 5 mile radius of each other, and I was confused by our interpretations of these differences.

The following night, we watched a TED Talk by Chimanda Ngozi Adichie titled, “The Danger of a Single Story”. Slowly it started to make sense. I’d developed a single story for Africa. I called our home-stay “more American” because a television and smart phones did not fit into the box I’d built for this continent. Neither the story of Africa nor Zambia can be defined by one home-stay, or by one month of studying abroad. They are defined by a mass compilation of the stories of James the tailor, George the shopkeeper, a schoolgirl named Barbara, and millions of others I have not yet met. These are the individual stories of people of Zambezi, not the story of Africa.

What is our Gonzaga in Zambezi story? Once again, this is a difficult and probably impossible question. Despite living in the same convent, eating the same meals, and often meeting some of the same people, we are all having very different experiences. Some of us enjoy chasing sunrises during early morning runs, while some of us prefer remaining happily in our beds until the roosters so graciously wake us up. Some of us spend our afternoons shopping for chitenge and snacks, while others play Chi Tomato with the children. Some of us dance in church (Jeff Dodd), while others attempt to fake putting money in the church collection box when they forget to bring some, causing us all to stifle our laughter as we walk back to our pew. (I’ll allow this student to remain anonymous). Some of us are the convent’s brave critter removers, while others are fierce and adaptive kitchen chefs alongside Mama Kitendi throughout our battle with an unreliable stove and water source. Some of us journal under the night’s stars, while others prefer reflecting on events with empathetic and listening ears. We will all come home with different stories, none more or less important than others, and none of them individually define our group experience or story. Rather, together we make up our story.

Now what is my story? We are only on day six in Zambezi so I apologize for not having a very complete answer. But so far I have loved playing with all the children and conversing with students in our leadership class about life in Zambezi and the challenges that come with gender roles and business. I cherished my afternoon today listening to the church choir practice outside while sitting under a tree with Glory. She spent an hour teaching me new words in Luvale and I repaid the favor by teaching her how to sing “My Only Sunshine,” one of my favorite childhood songs. So far I’ve been struggling with trying to manage and embrace awkward encounters that are a result of my already awkward personality combined with the misinterpretations and challenges that often come with cross-cultural interactions. The sight of so many children hanging out on the streets all day because their family can’t afford to send them to school makes my heart ache with a longing for them to receive an education that I take for granted. I wonder and worry whether Glory will ever make it to medical school like she dreams of. I am trying to understand what us Americans can learn from our new friends in Zambezi and the importance they place on family, community, and the most loving form of hospitality. I am still feeling like a strange object to stare at in the market, like something that disrupts normal conversation and results in whispers of “chindele”. I wonder when I can become real to them and when they will become completely real to me. I am constantly finding new ways to spill water in the pantry and loving every beautiful laugh and tear of this trip thus far. Like I said, this is not very complete and it is pretty messy, but I guess that’s life, and I guess that’s the beauty of my story.

I keep finding myself feeling overwhelmed by all the stories I hear everyday. I feel the need to write them all down so that, when I come home, I can answer the questions about “How was Africa?” and “How was Zambia with all your friends?” in a complete and organized way. But my experience here is not the story of Africa and it is not the story of our entire group’s experience. It is just one tiny little part I’m sure will keep expanding throughout these next couple of weeks and beyond. I’m reminded of Adichie’s words when she explains that the danger of a single story is not that it is untrue, but it is incomplete. Those that know me well know that I do not like not knowing the answers. I can get very frustrated when I don’t understand. But I am able to remind myself that I don’t need to have a neat, compact, single answer or story about my time in Zambia or Africa in general because that would discount or discredit the stories of so many others. I don’t know what all this means. I don’t understand how to find answers to all my questions, nor do I know if I am even asking the right questions. I’m not sure what God has planned for me these next few weeks. But in the mean time, I will do my best to listen to the experiences, hopes, dreams, and fears of people like Glory, so that slowly, story by story, I can develop my own story in all its complexity, challenges, whimsy and love. But I think that that is the beauty of stories. All of our stories are the compilation of other stories, and through that we cannot only tell our own story, but work together to become one and tell the story of us.

Kisu Mwane, my friends. Sending you all my love.

Katie Barger

Class of 2018

The “Zambian Bug” is an illness that haunts Zags during their stay in Zambezi. History of past trips has shown that it will terrorize at least half our trip so I was well aware that my time would likely come; I just didn’t think it would come three hours into our trip. Yes, while standing on the dirt road with millions (exaggeration) of children waiting to welcome the last two flights of Zags, the Zambian bug resurrected my lunch. The next forty-eight hours were nothing short of miserable. Between constant vomiting, a fever, dehydration, exhaustion, and delusion, I was attempting to make this new place feel like home. I have never felt such misery, fear, and frustration as I did during this time. The illness was enough, but add on the conditions in which we were adjusting to and the misery was magnified.

As I lay in bed with a high fever, the sun beat in through the broken windows making the A/C free convent even hotter. My vomiting throughout the day turned into vomiting in the dark because the power gets shut off at 12am daily. Even reaching for a simple glass of water was a difficult task because the water is contaminated and shuts off randomly. My best bet of getting better was some good sleep but of course that wasn’t going to happen because of the dog fights, rooster crowing, and bus horn sounding randomly throughout the night. Being sick with the Zambian bug was absolutely the most miserable experience I have gone through because of added obstacles and fear of the unknown. I didn’t think it could get any worse; and then I felt a bug crawl up my leg as I slept. While I was selfishly feeling bad for myself and wanting to give up on this trip, I was oblivious to the beauty and lessons God had placed around me.

Lying in bed, having these thoughts, I could hear my Zag fam singing and dancing in the kitchen to “Fear” which reminded me of how lucky I am to have these beautiful souls to journey along with. I thought back to when Abbey reminded me that she loved me while she changed the cold washcloths on my head. I reflected on how Katie B. left everyone notes of praise and motivation because…well because she’s just that sweet. Even that moment I peeped into Elly and Mercer teaching their sixth graders and hearing them singing along with their class. How lucky am I to be surrounded by this inspiring, selfless, goofy, passionate- quite frankly- weird group of people.   I’ve been blessed to be a part of this group. I knew I couldn’t let my fears fail me and my team.

Many of us have struggled with the thought of coming to Zambezi and teaching classes. While we want to come and offer what we can to this community, we are careful of the power dynamic. The beauty of this trip is that we are here to be present with these people and experience an exchange of perspectives and culture; not to feel empowered by fixing or helping. I’m a nursing student. Yes, I can talk to you about catecholamines and what causes orthostatic hypertension (shout out to A&P) but I don’t know the first thing about health in a third world country. So, for the past semester the thought of standing in front of a group of Zambians to teach a health class made me uneasy.

As strange as it is, being sick was a huge blessing because I experienced first hand health in this country. Though being ill was only a sliver of exposure into this complex issue, it changed my mentality in our class and at our visit to the Zambezi Hospital. I was humbled as our team met with the community members who eagerly asked questions and saw the works of the doctors who made use of the few resources available. On our visit to the local hospital, Dr. Titus so graciously toured us through the facility. It was crowded, hot, and chaotic. But it was inspiring to our team because we recognized their resilience in overcoming the obstacles in order to bring dignified care to the people of Zambezi. Had I not been sick in the beginning, I don’t know if I would have understood the complexity of dealing with health care quite like I did once I experienced it.

Each of these individuals is inspiring. Every single person has brought comfort and laughter to one another. Each person has a passion that they are sharing with the Zambezi community. Each has a selfless heart which they are sharing. I don’t know where this journey will take me, what kind of person I’ll be at the end, or what ways my heart will be shaped. But what I do know is that I love this family of mine, the beautiful faces of Zambezi that have so graciously welcomed their homes and hearts to us, and the crazy ways in which God is shaping us.  We are alive and thriving.

Ps. Mom- Please do not worry. I am in great hands and loving every minute. It was just a stomach flu. XOXO

Kisu Mwane

Hayley Wilcox

Class of 2018

“Who can answer this question?”

Steven’s hand shoots towards the tin roof like a chindele jumping from a cockroach scurrying across the convent’s dusty floor. He sits there, waiting for the verdict of the benevolent ruler of the classroom, Madame Mululu.

“Alright my friend.”

Steven stands up on his orange-tipped cleats and practically floats across the broken concrete floor to the decrepit blackboard at the front of the room. His oversized white button-up tails behind him. He stares at the board, reading again:

A teacher wants to share 3 1/5 bars of chocolate equally among 8 children. How           much chocolate does each child get?

His fingers grip the ghostly chalk, preparing to lead 44 other eager Zambian children through the board and to the promised answer.

3 1/5 / 8

The problem stares at him, daring him to make a move to try and answer it. Taunting him with the hope of praise, but the equal opportunity for failure and embarrassment.   He is not fazed. Steven expertly rehearses the method he just learned.

16/5 / 8/1

“Turns into” he states

16/5 * 1/8

Staring across the room, Steven sees the nods of approval from Madame Mululu and his fellow learners.

16*1 = 16           

5*8   = 40

He scribbles the numbers on the board as the class shouts them along with him. At this point, Steven is leading the class. He is in charge of teaching the other students how this problem is supposed to be solved. He seems to be foaming at the mouth with this chance to be the center of attention, to lead the others through this seemingly impossible task.

“What goes into both 16 and 40?” asks Madame Mululu.   The class buzzes with little voices whispering to each other, trying to figure out the correct number. Someone squeaks in the back right corner of the room.

“8.”

And they are off, trying to decide the correct numbers through their division.

“8 goes into 16 two times. And 40…5 times”

16/40 = 2/5

“So the correct answer is?” asks Madame Mululu. Steven turns to the board, starting to write the answer at the bottom.

“At the top my friend.”

Steven tries to write the answer next to the question.

“No, the other board!” laughs Madame Mululu. Steven turns to the other side of the board and begins writing, standing on the tips of his cleats.

Each student gets 2/5 chocolate bar.

“Is he correct?” Madame Mululu looks at the rest of the classroom.

“Yes” reverberates off the stained, crumbling yellow and blue walls.

“Okay, we will clap for him and he will walk back to his seat, not slow” Madame Mululu relays to Steven and the class, even though all they little hands have already began to clap. They know what is about to happen. Steven knows what is about to happen. His face gives away the joy that he feels. His smile is so wide, every tooth is visible in his mouth, shining and putting his joy on display for all of us to see.

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap

A rhythm develops with each slap of hands together. It reverberates throughout the walls, off the dust-covered glass, and back into Steven, back into us all. Steven starts to shimmy and shake, pose and slide down the aisle to his seat. He turns around like he is on a catwalk and throws both hands out to his side, and slides, completely disregarding the no slow walking rule. No one cares. We all crack up, letting the joy of this moment roll throughout us, moving our hearts and our minds. In this moment, we are all right. We are all one with Steven. The shared love and joy is felt by all, even this chindele sitting in the back of the room.

This chandelle though, still has no idea what he is doing in this place. I wake up each and every morning thinking that this great understanding has come to me in my sleep.  Like the tooth fairy coming to take my back left molar, but instead of leaving me with a quarter and some insight, I wake to find my molar still sitting under the pillow, buried underneath the sheets and pillow case, waiting for her to come. I put the education team as number one on my list of preferences during the application process for two reason: 1) I have no understanding or idea of what the other teams were and knew for a fact that I would only be asking more questions than adding to the information given, and 2) I believed that I could come to this place and help the students at Chilena primary school learn to write and speak English. I have been speaking English my entire life and even though I have zero formal teaching experience, I believed that my experience as a native English speaker would allow me to bring something to these students. I believed that I could help them better understand English and, in turn, build their literacy rates and help them better themselves. Now, staring back at this process of thinking after spending some time in the school and around the Zambians, I realize how shortsighted I was.

These kids don’t need me.

They have amazing teachers who care for them deeply and who are fluent English speakers themselves. My presence has only distracted them. I am a large white male walking across the courtyard of the school, and into a classroom and each and every student’s eyes are on me, not their teachers or their lessons. How am I helping? How am I adding to anything that they are learning? Their teachers are giving us three weeks out of their planned curriculum to allow us to try and help them in a subject where they are already well versed in. This entire line of thinking seems completely ungrateful for the sacrifices that many have made for me to allow for this amazing opportunity to get to see and work alongside some amazingly intelligent and warm individuals, yet I keep finding myself asking the same question. Why am I here? What will I bring to these people?

Yes, I see my placement within the Chilena school as a distraction to their everyday life. Yes, I still question how I will be able to give them a new insight and experience regarding English. Yes, I still question if my work here will bring forth anything. However, I am beginning to see again how even though I have these questions, the people and society here in Zambezi will allow me to work through these questions and walk alongside me to  find possible solutions, while bringing about new and challenging questions that I will carry beyond these borders. Just like Steven working through his math equation, I am working through my own equation of my placement in Zambia and how I can be of service to these people. However, my experience in Zambezi has shown me that these people will love and accept me no matter the doubts, questions or strayed emotions I have. They all know on some level that they are teaching me even more than I could ever teach them, and they are doing it through love and acceptance being shared and given to a multitude of individuals coming from numerous backgrounds, all combining together into this amazing little place in southern Africa. It is the most innate and human thing that we do in this life, to love and accept others for whoever they are, wherever they come from, and wherever they are going.  As I move forward with my short time here in Zambezi, I know that by walking alongside these people, they will help me through time discover who I am and why I am here.  We all have the capacity for giving and sharing our lives and there is always room to walk alongside someone during their journey, which helps both parties grow and learn from each other.  I am still learning and still growing, and with the love and acceptance of the Zambian people, will continue to do so long after my time here has ended.

Kisu Mwane,

Andrew Mercer

Class of 2016

It was a grand reunion Sunday morning as community members and Gonzaga students gathered in the courtyard for the first time since mid-afternoon on the previous day when students left with a host family from the local parish for an overnight homestay. Seven families from the parish shared their hospitality and agreed to host our 17 students – for dinner, the night’s sleep, and a morning breakfast. Many hugs were passed around and the stories were just waiting to be shared about the different experiences that everyone had. All of these would have to wait because the church doors opened and the choir’s welcome calls signified the start of what would turn out to be a beautiful, breathtaking, memorable (three and a half hour) Sunday morning mass.

The mass was celebrated in English and Lunda with a translator between the two during the homily. When I took my first deep breath inside the church I could feel my heartbeat align with the deep bass and rhythmic patterns of the drums. I sat next to Moira, Zac, and Dakota in a pew right behind the church choir. I found myself tapping along with the beat while my eyes tried to take in all of the body movements that the church choir added to their songs. Father Noel’s sermon lasted about an hour, which was broken up every few minutes by the Lunda translator. I was able to listen and reflect on the previous few key points before he would shift to a new topic.

The first reading during the mass told of a time when the Spirit descended upon the apostles as a strong gust of wind. Father Noel shared that reading and interpreting the scriptures in a literal way is not always necessary. In reality the Holy Spirit more often resembles a gentle breeze that is felt and appreciated throughout the day.

I thought about this metaphorical gentle breeze and remembered back to the night before when Moira, Justin, and I were out at our homestay. Our host family was well respected within the community and extremely involved at the church. The youngest son in the family, Kunda, is 20 years old and just finished University, during which time he studied automotive engineering. We sat in the living room with the faint chatter of a Zambian talk show on TV while Kunda shared with us, late into the night, about the struggles of post graduate life and how in Zambia a degree does not always mean automatic employment. He questioned us asking if this was the same case in America because the movies make it seem as though everyone is very well off.

Back in my seat in the pew at mass, I started to realize that things are more complex than they once seemed. I felt the gentle breeze come through the window as I thought about the power that education and a degree has for an individual. However, too often this must be coupled with connections and opportunities. Kunda said it plain and simple, “It is still all about who you know.” That was a soft reminder about our connection as humans and the immense pressure that we all feel to succeed.

Father Noel continued, adding that we are all broken and greedy and selfish, but the one thing we can all find hope in is the universal language of love. Love is the language of the Holy Spirit. It may be spoken differently (in English, Luvale, or Lunda- to name a few), and it may be displayed differently (through a hug or a handshake), but the reality is that the people of God all know the language of love. Later Sunday afternoon I met with Katie K., Emily, and Mercer to finalize our first few lesson plans for our classes at Chileñga. As a class, the first book we will read is called Whoever You Are by Mem Fox. One part reads:

“Little one, when you are older and when you are grown,

you may be different, but remember this:

Joys are the same, and love is the same,

pain is the same and blood is the same,

smiles are the same and hearts are just the same-

wherever they are, wherever you are, wherever we are,

all over the world.”

Kisu Mwane,

Elly Zykan

Class of 2018

Ps. There were two posts from Sunday! Make sure you catch Dakota’s as well!

As we touched down in Zambezi, we looked out the small windows of the four-person plane, curious about this new world we were about to enter. As we looked around at each other, our faces were filled with joy and eagerness to step off the plane into the sea of children, who were joyously singing and dancing and ready to welcome us into their community. I was embracing all the little hands latching onto me and couldn’t help but smile, listening to these beautiful children screaming, “HI HOW ARE YOU?” with so much excitement. This feeling of love and sense of community have filled our days here thus far. I feel blessed to be able to experience people in this way, but what comes with this feeling of great welcoming to this community; we are also challenged to find our place in this community.

Something I have found myself struggling with is trying to make sense of my past international experiences over the years, including this being my second time on the African continent. What makes this experience in Zambezi different from the rest of my travels is I am being immersed into this community in a way I have never been before. Because we are here for 4 weeks, we are able to make relationships that really can build over time. We are also able to have a first hand experience in the education system, as we are teaching classes during the days. Finding my place here is really a great opportunity I get, to walk the fine line between being an outsider and walking with the community. I am feeling culture shock in a way that is different than before. The culture shock is less about the environment here, and more about the relationship between my culture in the states and the culture of Zambezi in a more transparent way.

Before our flight from Lusaka to Zambezi, the last group to leave was able to spend time at the Flying Missions guesthouse and got to talk with one of the pilots, Andy, for quite awhile. Our talk with Andy was the first time I felt uncomfortable this trip, but was also the first time I was truly challenged to question my place in Zambia. Andy is an expat who was born in Switzerland and then lived in Afghanistan for several years before moving to Lusaka, Zambia. This being said, he is a very well traveled man who was able to share his thoughts on this country from an outside perspective. Andy talked about foreign aid and the downfall of it, if it is not executed correctly. Two things can go wrong: we help when they don’t need it, and we don’t help when they do need it. An example would be the amount of clothes that are donated from the western world to African countries, in order to clothe people who are seen as not having enough to wear. The problem with this system is it puts the clothing industries in Africa in a hard place because they will go out of business if they are no longer needed to make clothing for their community. Another problem with this idea of clothing scarcity is it is a misconception. In my time here so far, I have become fond of a young boy named Motondo, who I have seen everyday wearing different clothes and two outfits on Sunday for mass. I’m not sure where this conception that African’s need to be clothed comes from, but I have also seen it with food. There is plenty of food in Zambezi, which I have seen in the strong traditions that surround meal making. These rituals carry on because of the food that continues to surround this land. It may not be as readily available as what we are used to, but we can’t compare our abundant grocery stores to their town markets. The flip side of this theme is figuring out where we are not helping when they do need help. This is not an easy solution and I certainly don’t have the answers for a town so foreign to me, but that is the lesson that we must share our knowledge, but not attempt to westernize a community. We must make solutions that are sustainable for this community, rather than fixing the problems our way. The message Andy left us with is we need to be immersed in a culture to truly understand the needs of the community.

This paradox of walking with and being an outsider is very representative of my experience in Zambezi so far. My goal on this journey is to find where I fit into this, and who I am in this community. We are all very excited and anxious to be starting classes tomorrow and beginning this incredible journey together.

Taylor – as we begin to prepare for our first computer class, we think of you and miss you. I am filled with happiness knowing that you will soon experience this amazing place.

Dakota Peterson

Class of 2018

Hello loved ones!

Our last hours and days (however many have passed) included several adventures already. The first, and not the least of our achievements, includes all of us making it to Seattle. Emirates Airlines was delightful. There were foldout menus for individuals to order from, the attendants were nice and helpful, the flight was smooth, and the journey was long. Its fourteen hours were felt down to the minute.

We passed the time in the typical Gonzaga student’s way of making the best of what comes one’s way. Students watched films and programs according to their individual preferences, music was shared, calls were made to specific seats (amongst our party), and many nervous and excited conversations exchanged about what this journey means and what our hopes and dreams included.

It has been great to get to know our students, your loved ones. They are so eager to discover, so incredibly caring and supportive. They have said, as we faculty have, that they look forward to- whatever this is- together.

We landed in Dubai, and it was Davis’s birthday. Our group ensured his time was meaningful, and I think it’s a birthday he’ll never forget. Landing in Dubai, in a light-filled city in the middle of the desert is indescribable. We went to the hotel and checked in, then headed out for brief sight seeing. We went to the mall to see the fountain show (think of the Bellagio on steroids) at 10pm in front of the world’s tallest building, passing through the mall’s enormous aquarium stocked with incredible biodiversity. Our driver, Chamal, was from Bangladesh, and explained about his experience in Dubai.   Foreigners make up 80% of the population, most are Indian. Afterwards, we left the mall area and drove further outside of town and dipped toes in the Arabian (Persian) Gulf. The water was warm and refreshing, and it felt so lovely to massage our feet in the rocky, sandy floor below the water.

We returned to the hotel and dined at a buffet, open till 12:30am! Most students filled up and then headed to bed, ready for their 5:30am wake up call and our 6:30am bus trip to the airport to board our flight to Lusaka, which would drop us off and continue off to Harare, Zimbabwe. It was much less crowded than our prior flight.

Upon arriving in Lusaka, we moved through customs smoothly, and earned a lot of stamps in our passports and visas. We were greeted by Father Dom and Guillermo from Flying Missions, the site we’d sleep at that night and whose pilots would fly us the nearly three hours to Zambezi the following morning. Father Dom got us to the mall, outside Lusaka and en route to Flying Missions guesthouse, so that we could exchange US dollars for Kwacha, purchase last minute supplies, and have a warm meal.   Afterwards, we drove for about 45 minutes, on a mostly paved road, to Flying Missions. We divided into five different flight groups, three leaving at 6am then returning to Flying Missions to collect the two remaining afternoon flights. Students cleaned up and were ready for sleep, but not before standing in awe under the night sky and giving thanks to see natural lights illumined, having traded in mall glitz and décor for the stars and nature’s sounds.

At 6am, the flight I was on left the red, dirt runway aboard a six passenger plane. We donned ear protection and seatbelts. We passed over the Kafue River and Kafue National Park- some groups spotted hippo, elephants and impala below their lovely flight. Some pilots did tricks, and passenger stomachs dropped and dipped with nausea.

In our plane, Sam, flew as co-pilot, and Hayley officially conquered her fear of flying. My eyes welled up several times witnessing students become more than who or what they thought they were or could be. And we weren’t even in Zambezi yet.

When we landed, students and children and community members had banners welcoming Gonzaga University to Zambezi with songs and dances and games and thousands of iterations of handholding. Each flight’s passengers greeted the next flight that landed, until we all finally made it to Zambezi, settled in the convent and began to write and reflect and prepare for dinner. Some slept. We are here- home for the next three weeks. Our students are safe and wide-eyed and relying on one another in a way that would warm your heart. Sweet dreams.

Abbey Martin

Instructor and Supervisor, Gonzaga University

You found it!  The Gonzaga-in-Zambezi Blog – a reflective space for students and faculty of this Gonzaga study abroad program to share their learning throughout their travels from May 10 – June 10, 2016.  Nearly every day (as technology and Zambia allows) a student will be posting a reflection on their significant learning, questions, and experiences.  Essential to this program is practicing an ethic of accompaniment — meaning that while in Zambezi, students generate opportunities to receive in the places they are serving, becoming mutually indebted to the community and develop meaningful relationships that assist them in operating at eye-level within this community.

Here is where you come in – while students will not have the ability to technologically connect with others outside the Zambezi community during their stay (no phones or email access), they will be reading this blog and the comments each morning over breakfast.  So send them a shout- out, a loving message, or how their particular posting resonated with you.  These connections from loved ones and curious strangers bring support in the sometimes challenging moments of this program.  Something else may just happen; that along the way, you may also learn about the world, accompaniment, the difficulty to “do good” in the world, and the beauty of new friendships across cultural boundaries.  We invite you to come along for the journey.