Gonzaga-in-Zambezi

Over the past two weeks I have been intentional about spending time with Zambians outside of the classroom setting. Whether that entails playing soccer in a nearby village or sitting at a computer teaching aspiring individuals Computer Science and Computer Engineering. These different encounters have created bonds between me and the different individuals I spend my free time with. While this sounds great and worthwhile, most of my not so beautiful challenges have come from this relationship building. This may seem counter to what may be expected but as an American I am labeled with many assumptions and preconceived notions of wealth, status, and stability. It also doesn’t help that I am teaching members of the community how to use computers, which in Zambezi are extremely expensive and hard to come by.

These notions are creating expectations and barriers when I am building relationships. The first of these was with an 18-year-old boy named Michael. We met my first week here while dancing around a candle one night at my home stay. I walked out to his village a few times to play football (soccer), and he also came after one of the computer classes hoping I would teach him and his little brother how to use a computer and download music. This was great until he started to ask for things. Josh warned us that this might happen, and of course it did. Michael asked my soccer ball, told me he would like a backpack because he has to carry his schoolbooks by hand to and from school, and he wants a memory card to get his phone to work properly. Were all these things the sole purpose of him hanging out with me?

I also have been teaching two 20-year-olds, Samuel and Patrick, computer engineering after our afternoon classes.  One day at the end of a 30-minute walk with them they told me that they want me to get them out of Zambia in a few years. They thought I would have connections that could get them to America for free and then they could make a lot of money. Another guy by the name of Steve came and asked me to teach him how to write code and create programs for computers. After teaching him, he came to me a few days later asking for a certificate from Gonzaga University so that he can get a job. He told me that if you go to an employer and claim you have a certain skill set you must show proof of completion of a class to get hired. Showing an employer that you have a certain skill is not a custom in Zambia; you must have a certificate. After explaining to him that I am just a student of Gonzaga he understood that I didn’t have the authority to give university certificates.

I have kept putting myself in positions to get to know people and it has been ending with me having to give bad news about their expectations of me. My most upsetting encounter has happened three times where a student has come to me asking either about Gonzaga University and how to go to school there or how they can get funding to go to a university in Zambia. Graham, a student who wants to attend a Zambian University, asked me this question. He told me that he graduated grade 12 and that was where everything ended. He has always desired to go to a university, but in Zambia a small percentage (less than 1% in the Zambezi district) go to a higher learning institution. Not knowing exactly what to say, I asked him if he had access to a computer and Internet, thinking he could Google search scholarships; he said no. After that, I remembered Josh saying that the computers we bring are meant to be for the community. So I told him that the only thing I can do for him is to ask if the Parish Priest will let the community use the computers under supervision while the Gonzaga group is gone. After hearing that, Graham got a big smile on his face just by the fact that he might have access to a computer that he might be able to use to find a potential scholarship for a university that he hasn’t applied to. After leaving that conversation, I was so upset at the fact that I could do almost nothing for a man who wants to attend a university more than some Gonzaga students do.

From all these experiences I have formed relationships that all have some aspect of expectations involved. I understand now that I am seen as an opportunity to those I am forming relationships with. Some see me as a wealthy, educated man who can help them get from where they are to where they want to be. It is upsetting that it is hard to form authentic relationships here that are free of these barriers.

Fortunately I have a student who is a big football fan. Jevious (Jay-v-us) is one of the students in the beginner computer class. He and I began talking about the 2014 World Cup and who we thought would win. This sparked a conversation that lasted three hours and included a plethora of subjects. I have continued to talk to Jevious and he has so many dreams and desires, yet over the past week he has never asked me for anything during conversations that regularly last 3-4 hours. He is determined to come to America so he and I have been spending time describing our cultures to each other. This is the authentic friendship that I was hoping for. It has allowed me to understand that not all Zambians look for handouts from Americans but rather that there is a good amount who do want to be in community with us and build relationships that can last.

Since being here in Zambezi I have been faced with many beautiful challenges that have encouraged me to grow spiritually, emotionally, and physically. My beautiful challenges have caused me to sit and contemplate how this culture, focused on generosity and oneness, can impact my understanding of my own culture as well as my understanding of self. These struggles to build authentic relationships have been challenges that have caused not so much contemplation but it rather left a pit in my stomach. As my time here is coming to an end, I hope to leave my relationships in places that can, in some way, benefit the Zambezi community after I leave.  God bless to all who see this blog and I am excited to come home and tell you more of my adventures.

Mark Beck, Class of 2015

Romans 8:31-39

P.S. Papa, Grandma, Mom, Dad, Kel, Jenny, and Mikie… Love you all and can’t wait to tell you all of my adventures.

When I arrived in Zambezi I was confident that I had come without any expectations. I had a busy last semester of college with graduation preparations, medical school finalizations, and a full load of classes, so I had minimal time to envision what my month in Zambezi would entail. I got off the bush plane with an open mind and an open heart, ready for impressions to be made upon me. However, I soon started to discover hidden expectations that had been conditioned within me throughout my American life. Particularly, the healthcare system in Zambia left me with the realization that my preconceptions about basic health care did not match the realities before me. Over the past few weeks I have come to see that what I thought were universal standards of healing were in fact only privileges reserved for those able to pay for them.

I am more or less obsessive-compulsive and have perfectionist tendencies that manifest as habits to clean, organize, and control everything around me. Given these compulsive propensities, certain aspects of hospitals and the health care system in America drew me to study medicine. When I stand in an operating room there is a certain calm that washes over me. The room is spotless and smells so clean that I cannot help but breathe in deeper; the walls are fresh and white while the floor is shining and manicured; the instruments are smooth, undisturbed stainless steel, and the outfits and dressings are crisp and unstained. Perhaps even more attractive, however, is the step-by-step procedural organization and control that exude from the operating room. It is meticulous, where checklists are made and protocols are followed; it is where I undoubtedly belong.

Given my passion for surgery, I have spent a significant amount of time shadowing in operating rooms and am familiar with the associated procedures, rituals, and precautions. When I found myself standing in the Zambezi District Hospital’s “Operating Theatre,” my expectations of what I would encounter in that room were immediately shattered. Instead of fresh white walls I was staring at peeling, yellowed paint. Instead of shining floors I was staring at sandy, cracking, concrete. Instead of shiny instruments and bright lights I was staring at rusting sinks, spider webs, collapsing ceilings, and a corroding operating table. This was not my haven; it was my hell. I commend the doctors and surgeons that work at these hospitals as they try to save lives in conditions that fight them every step of the way.

Healthcare in Zambia is free. My expectations of what free healthcare would look like shifted as I was told that although fees are not a problem, transportation is. Only a few designated hospitals throughout Zambia are equipped with antiretroviral drugs for HIV/AIDS treatment, and thus treatment is inaccessible to a large portion of the population. Some of the district hospitals also deal with corruption, with leaders pocketing money that was intended to purchase vaccinations for the population. I cannot imagine a world in which free health care could be so difficult to take advantage of, where doctors and hospitals were not a comforting commodity around every corner, and where not even those dedicating their lives to healing are trustworthy with honest intentions.

My expectations were further challenged yesterday during our visit to Chitokoloki, one of the most respected and sought-after missionary hospitals in Zambia. The hospital constantly exceeds capacity, having to accommodate excess patients on makeshift mattresses all over the floors, and private rooms for treatment are non-existent. Women and men are separated into their respective wards, which are large open rooms packed with beds to allow for “patient privacy.” Patient protection programs, such as HIPPA, are nonexistent, and the reciprocal doctor protection programs, such as lawyers and impeccable dissertations, are not necessary seeing as Zambian patients do not sue their doctors. Premature babies are left in dysfunctional incubators heated by a warm water bottle, and before recent innovations, x-rays had to be hand-developed in a dark room before they could be read.

Although the operating rooms at Chitokoloki were much improved compared to the Zambezi District Hospital, they still lacked basic necessities such as anesthesiologists. This type of doctor is present in every operating room in American hospitals and yet is nonexistent in the district, thus requiring all surgeries to be performed under local anesthesia. This expectation was one of the most shocking for me to let go of. These people had to go under the knife in a waking fog with no muscle relaxers, speaking to the bravery of both the patients and surgeons. Yet there are no complaints. These people do not whine, they do not cry, and they certainly do not have anything to say about the meager conditions in which they are treated. The resilience of this country astounds me.

The health care students, plus a few others tagging along, were permitted to watch both a bilateral tube ligation and a basic hernia repair. As I prepared to enter the operating room I found myself waiting for the ritualistic instructions, preparations, and sterilizations. None of these expectations were fulfilled. We were told to find some scrubs in the supply closet and put them on, and that shoe covers and masks were not necessary. Our only instructions were to avoid touching anything blue in the room, which signifies sterilized equipment and surfaces. Further, the surgeon allowed seven of us to observe in his operating room. In America most doctors do not allow more than one student observer in the room at any time; my previous experiences have done nothing to prepare me for Zambian medicine. I was prepared to be chilly in the operating room, as they are kept cold to control microbial growth, but actually found myself quite warm standing there. The room felt strangely relaxed to me with the familiar procedural orders seemingly lost in the art of improvisation.

The hospital staff amazed and inspired me. These people literally have dedicated their lives to saving people in hot, smelly, second-hand conditions, and they do their jobs without complaint, without hesitation, without leave, and without letting their limitations stop them from defying impossible situations. They have become self-sufficient and have learned to improvise with unmatched skill. It is inspiring to see what expectations you can rise to and what standards you can set in the face of such obstacles.

Although Zambia is filled with happiness I cannot begin to measure, love I cannot begin to emulate, and hope I cannot begin to harness, it is also filled with unimaginable darkness and cruel hindrances. Medicine was designed to make people feel better, to make them feel secure, and to ensure confidence; yet the medicine here is unlike any I have ever encountered.  As Zambezi has dissolved expectation after expectation, I have begun to rediscover the face of medicine. I realize now that doctors and hospitals are more than just checklists, order, and precautionary protocols; they are where innovation is fostered, bravery is expected, and where faith is constantly called upon to make the impossible seemingly palpable. This continent may not be a leader in medical advancements, but I think Africa has a thing or two to teach future doctors like myself on adversity and finding a way to beat the odds; after all, a life might depend on it.

God bless and much love,

Kylie Edinger, Class of 2014

Psalm 46:10

P.S. Mom, Dad, Jake, Jason, Jonathan, and the rest of my family: I love you all dearly and miss you all deeply. Zambia is in my veins and I cannot wait to share it and my future plans at Chitokoloki with you. Kisu mwane xoxoxoxo.

Almost four years ago I traveled to Ghana, West Africa, with Saint Francis High School in Sacramento, California. One of my favorite and most talked about memories from that amazing trip surrounded the simple gift of fresh mangoes. On one of our many bus rides, we were running far behind schedule (Ghanaian time is a lot like Zambian time) and when we finally reached our destination, our guide, Thomas Awaipo, realized we had never stopped for lunch. Although we told him again and again that all of us were fine and had power bars and other snacks to tide us over until dinner, he insisted on going to the market and grabbing us a snack. We emerged from our rooms to find two juicy, fresh picked mangoes, cut up and on plates for our consumption. I have never tasted such a fruit. The ripeness, the sweetness, and the pure nature of those mangoes follows me to this day. I have yet to find another mango as delicious as those in a small northern village in Ghana. For the past four years I chased this insatiable mango desire. I tried everything – mango salsa, mango chutney, mango salad, grilled mango, every recipe I could find – attempting to replicate the memory of that taste. Alas, no success. I’m still searching for that perfect mango flavor. My time in Ghana not only encompassed tasty fruit, but a people that struck me with their kindness. I saw a community walking over a mile to pull all the furniture out of their homes, so that the American girls did not have to sit on the ground. I witnessed a people who had nothing and yet were willing to give everything. I visited with Catholic Relief Service workers creating long-term projects for simple problems, all in the name of empowering the communities. I met a doctor, who—after working for years in the government hospital—became frustrated with the high cost of healthcare ($7 a year) and the inability of most Ghanaians to pay, so he left and opened up a free clinic, with an HIV/AIDS hospice attachment. I came home wanting to share their stories and my new perspective on the world, on giving, and on community.

When I came to Zambia, I thought ah ha! here is my chance to experience that sweet fruit yet again. Here, after four years of longing for the simple taste of fresh mangoes, I would finally get a second chance, a second taste. But, damn those pesky hemispheres and the switching of seasons. It’s winter here in Zambia, which means no mangoes. Foiled again. As I sat and pondered my deep desire for mangoes, I started to realize that perhaps it was not the fruit itself I longed for, but for something more basic, more human. I ached for the attitudes, perceptions, and lessons I learned from the people of Ghana. I yearned for the unfiltered, raw, pure nature of their lives, much like the raw and pure nature of the mango. Somewhere along the way in the past four years, amongst the hustle and bustle, the stress and the obligations, I stopped living out the messages from Ghana. As our time here in Zambezi is coming to a close, I turn my head and heart towards the question of “how do we take our time, our experiences, and our relationships from here, home?” I want to recapture the messages from West Africa, while incorporating my new knowledge from Zambezi, but how?

Many of my fellow Zamily in the previous blogs mention the generosity of the Zambian people, the outpouring of love, fellowship, and community. We’ve all struggled with how we can repay the generous gifts. How can we ever express the gratitude for a mattress given up for us on our homestays, for the invitation into a dancing circle of children and adults, for more food presented at our table than most families see in a week, for time and energy spent cooking and teaching us language lessons, for the long hours of conversation and relationship building, for the presentation of a goat (yes, a live goat), and for the many blessings bestowed upon us by the people of Zambezi? I think any attempt at repayment will fall far short of our desired intention. Rather, I believe the questions of “how do we take Zambia home” and “how can I (we) repay the generosity” are inextricably linked.

We can “repay” the Zambian people by taking their generosity, compassion, and acceptance back home. Now I don’t mean to say we should start greeting every guest who drives to our house with song and dance. Too much of that and the guest lists may start to dwindle. There are some limitations to taking Zambia home. Attempting to live like Zambians in the United States may prove far more difficult than we imagine and would be absurdly naïve! Perhaps the truest testament to their way of life and kindness is not to imitate those values in the same way in America but to utilize the lessons of compassion, giving, and community in our own setting. Living out a life of giving and acceptance merely takes little steps in the hopes of slowly but surely bringing Zambia, Ghana, and all the compassionate cultures of the world into our own homes, neighborhoods, cities, and country.

For some of us, living out Zambian values may look like volunteering once a month at a free health clinic as a doctor or a nurse. It may be joining Teach for America, the JVC, or the Peace Corps after graduation. It may be the donation of time and effort to nonprofits and charities. As a Political Science and History major, my gift from God and the gift I can hopefully share is my voice. For me, the best testament to my experiences in Ghana and Zambia is not the pictures I’ve taken, the videos I’ve shot, nor the items I’ve bought; it is in better living out the following quote from FDR: “The truest test of our nation is not whether we give to those who have too much, rather it is in whether we give enough to those who have too little.” I can lend my voice to the voiceless, and I can work to break down the margins that keep the marginalized at the edge of society. I can speak on behalf of the hungry, the broken, the imprisoned, the poor. I can practice the Zambian value of generosity by funneling my talents, passions, and education towards the people who need them most; I can give of myself to the poorest of the poor with full acceptance of them, their lives, and hardships.

Perhaps the best way to live like a Zambian – the best way to share our experiences here – is not through imitation but through living out our Jesuit, Catholic, and humanistic education more fully, wholly, and unconditionally. Perhaps the greatest lesson we can learn from the Zambians is not how to live like them but how to live as better Gonzaga students, better Christians, better Americans. Perhaps the baggage we bring back should not only include all the wonderful tangible reminders of our time here but should also include a better understanding of our Jesuit tradition, of how to live as men and women for others, and a more complete plan for how to go forth and set the world on fire. And maybe, just maybe, it should also include an African mango.

Prayers for those affected by the UC Santa Barbara shooting

All my loving

Shannon Clark, Class of 2015

P.S Mama, I hope this was worth the wait. What happened to the Red Sox?!!?!?! 10 losses in a row, 8 games back last time I checked. All bad news. Guess I have to head back to the continent for some good luck.

And Loki, I miss you like crazy. I hope the house is going smooth and that you are giving Chippy all the sarcasm he deserves. Happy early 7 months gorgeous. We’ll celebrate both important days this next week when I get back. I love you to Africa and back.

And fam bam, if you’re reading this, I promise I won’t talk about Africa as much this time, but you might still want to keep count. Love and miss all of you.

My first impression of Zambezi was purely positive and joyful. I was happily surprised to find greetings of song and dance at each new destination. I walk down the streets here and find myself immersed in abundant conversations, smiles and many tiny hands grasping for mine. This place radiates pure beauty accompanied by indescribable feelings of joy.

I compare my current relationship with Zambia to a developing conversation between two people who have just met. When you first meet someone you don’t know, you put a smile on and shake hands. You act happy and engaged while keeping personal information behind a closed door. Once you sit down and get to know each other a little bit, you establish a baseline of trust that allows some truth to come seeping through the cracks.

Zambezi and I are at the point where we are past the baselines of trust. The baseline of trust sparked my curiosity to see behind this door and to tap into the Zambians’ depth.The joy that the Zambians’ portray is by no means superficial, but it is the first of many layers that make up their lives.

The specific type of door in this situation reminds me of one I put upduring my freshman year of college. Transitioning from high school to the dorm life was uncomfortable for me at the beginning, but I would never tell anyone my true feelings in fear of being seen as weak or overly emotional. I would put on a smile and reply, “I’m good” when someone new would ask me how I was doing.

Behind the same type of door sits undeniable pain and suffering in Zambia.There are families here who live on less than one US dollar a day and have over seven mouths to feed. Despite their undoubted hard work and resourcefulness, some families still can’t afford basic needs such as food, shoes, and school uniforms which then creates a cycle of poverty. It’s a heartbreaking tragedy.

But what is so incredibly inspiring about this whole affair is that the Zambian people don’t let these hardships define them. They refuse to wear the pain. Instead, they look to God to discover joy and positivity. The people wrap themselves in the warmth of love, which fills each and every one of their hearts. What they lack in material possessions are more than made up for with community and connected spirits. Thinking about how much raw courage and strength these people possess brings me to tears. The people here are full, and it’s so incredibly beautiful.

Witnessing their strength has taught me so much about how to live life in a positive light. The people have left me with the desire to brighten up my own life by loving every person like crazy and embracing the blessings that I have been given.I am truly inspired by the courage and compassion that the Zambian people portray every day, and I hope that one day I can live life in such a beautiful light.

Maggie Chamberlain, Class of 2016

P.S. A quick shout out to Susan Norwood for being such a wonderful health education mentor. Your wisdom and expertise was a HUGE factor in our success this trip, and we can’t thank you enough for your dedication. Have a very safe trip home; you will be greatly missed!

P.P.S. While part of our team was in Solwezi tonight, we had homemade gnocchi, Fanta, and mama’s donuts at dinner (thanks to Stephanie and mama). Take that Solwezi group.

*Sorry for the late post! Zambia time and a bad Wifi connection are to blame*

We are only half way through our trip in Zambia and I already have had the experience of a lifetime. From the second we stepped off the plane I found myself trying to explain to others how I am in fact not Jason (a former Gonzaga Student who visited Zambia), Chris Brown, or a relative of Barak Obama -_-. Perhaps I should have joked around with the people about who I am, but unfortunately sarcasm only seems to create more confusion than you really want to deal with. Not only have I found myself trying to explain my own identity while in Zambia, but I also have found myself as an example of American diversity to other Zambian people. When asked “do you have any Africans in America?,” a member of the group quickly replied to that question comically by saying “Why yes we do, we actually brought one.” Of course their response would be referring to me in which case all I can do is sit there, shake my head, and laugh.

While these few instances may have been a more light hearted thing, there have been many moments in which I have been unable to completely understand or at times even convey the many questions that constantly come across my mind. To make things even worse, the explanations that I do have for a small amount of these questions only give me what I feel as a partial comfort to the actual truth.  In other words these explanations are only patchwork to ease my mind for a short time. It’s only a matter of time before I find these patched up questions coming back to the forefront of my mind. Perhaps if I was a person who takes more steps to accurately reflect upon my day such as journaling, talking to others, or merely just laying still in my thoughts I could find more explanations that will ultimately find some clarity to these questions. Alas this would be something that I would personally find a bit of a stretch. Fortunately I was able to find a little a bit of clarity within the last couple of days.

This last weekend we got the privilege to spend time in a small town called Dipalata. To put it mildly, our experience there was quite humbling as the community lacked electricity, running water, and paved roads.  My initial experience with this community did nothing more than bring even more questions and even some undesired stomach issues that almost definitely detracted from my ability to enjoy the full experience of Dipalata. The timing for this sickness was the worst possible for me. Somehow through the illnesses that hit some at the convent in Zambezi, I was able to completely fight off all of them until we came to the one place where man really meets nature. Dipalata.  For me this whole trip just became the roughest part of my experience in Zambia and the pit toilets, mosquitoes, and very hot weather offered no comfort to me as the stomach issues continued to progress. Yet through the unfortunate circumstance of this experience I somehow found a moment of peace on this trip that I had not yet been able to actually experience on this entire journey. Now before you try to guess where this moment of peace was; no, this is not one of those moments of peace that you can find on the porcelain throne. This moment of peace gave me just a little bit of clarity that ultimately eased my mind a bit as perhaps a few of these questions that I had, whether it be one that I can articulate or not, were finally answered. That Saturday night, after we got to see some of the things that make Dipalata so beautiful, and a missionary’s house that gave us just a little taste of the life that we know back in the good ol’ USA, we found ourselves gathered around a campfire. The Gonzaga students and faculty and the community of Dipalata, began to sing songs and enjoy each others’ company. To be honest we mostly let them sing the songs as they had instruments and what sounded like an orchestrated choir singing to us while all we had were the good willed attempts of singing a few songs in Lunda and Luvale and some mash ups of American music, including a song by Smashmouth. Of course, my illness kept my singing spirits at bay, and all I found myself doing was watching the singing festivities occur in front of my eyes. This lack of participation somehow offered a silver lining. It made me very observant to what was going on around me, especially to the glowing fire in front of me and the bright twinkling stars hanging above in the night sky. For me, this was a moment of awe and wonderment as a sight like this doesn’t happen very often for us in the United States because of the ever-present light pollution. It was a moment to see the beauty of God’s creation. This complex night sky offered up a sight of a billion stars and cosmos that we haven’t even begun to fully understand as we study every heavenly body with a keen eye and yet when looking at it from afar it just all seems so simple.

After staring at this sky for a few minutes I caught my gaze moving back down to the singing and the campfire that illuminated all the smiling and happy faces of the people there. There was something different about everything in this moment. For this very instant, all of these happy faces and the accompaniment that each one of us shared seemed to break down barriers and worries that we so often keep on our minds. In that instant everything seemed so simple, and the only word that could be used for that very moment was happy. It was in this moment that I got reminded of something that too often I forget, especially when comparing our lives to theirs. Instead of looking at our lives and defining happiness by what we have, how comfortable we are, and our relationships, we just need to define our happiness by the relationships and communities in which we have. I’m not saying that I selfishly believe that the only way to define happiness is by the things that we have but it’s an unfortunate fact that we all get this very idea engrained into our minds by the very fortune of living in the United States. It is a blessing to be living in the United States but is also a curse as the country has become so much more materialistic and less about connections with others. These people in this poor community may not have everything that they could possible want or need physically, but what they do have is each other and that’s quite all right. They were happy before we got there and they will be happy when they leave. Even though we may be here trying to impart a little bit of our knowledge on to them what we really need to do is meet them at their happiness and that is to just create relationships with the people of Zambia.

Before I finish this post I also want to add that while in Dipalata we were honored to be given a goat as a parting gift. Needless to say, we are going to have one heck of a meal and his name is definitely fitting of his purpose. After some good thought we decided to name him Will Stew, we hope he will live up to his name. Kisu Mwane.

Chris Frager, Class of 2016

I’ll begin by admitting that I was the first to mess with the blog schedule…sorry everyone! I actually became very sick on Tuesday night, worse than I can ever remember (don’t worry Mom and Dad, I am very well now!). I am blessed to have Susan, Conner and the rest of our Zamily. I would have been much more miserable if it weren’t for their constant comfort.

Spending the day in bed gave me time to listen and think and observe the daily grind here at the convent, reminding me what an incredible place we are living in, and with such a wonderful group.  It’s nearly impossible to translate my feelings into words on a blog, let alone choose one of the plethora of ideas swimming in my mind.  I know these reflections will not be complete until long after I return home. I have experienced moments of both unhindered joy and deep sorrow, and have already felt the fruitfulness of living in another culture.  Though we are studying abroad through Gonzaga’s leadership program, I realize I haven’t thought about leadership on a daily basis.  Maybe it’s because the traditional definition of top-down leadership isn’t applicable or appropriate here.  Through my year at GU and now through the people I am spending time with here in Zambezi, more and more I’m coming to believe that servant leadership is about meeting needs.

Our work here in Zambia is less about “us” teaching “them” and more about reciprocity – everyone teaching one another.  Meeting needs as a servant leader in this way is not what I’d expected.  I’ve been discouraged at times by my inability to fully love each of the dozens of children who need a hand to hold.  I must remind myself of the more complex needs I am called to address while in Zambezi and its surrounding villages.  A servant leader who is committed to meeting needs should think critically about her time, resources and goals when choosing how she serves.  Successfully meeting needs is not simply providing resources where resources are lacking; it requires a certain awareness, willingness and love that dares to cross borders.  She must give, and she must humbly receive.  Sometimes she needs to step forward, sometimes take a step back.

Meeting the need happens when you accept the never-ending generosity of Mama Gertrude during your homestay.  You follow Gertrude’s authentic nshima recipe over hot coals under the stars.  You feel somewhat like you’ve intruded upon the lives of the six people living in a modest home, but they tell you over and over yes, yes please, thank you, you are welcome. You are welcome here.  You eat with her family without lifting a finger and sleep in her cleaned bed and bathe in the warm water she spent an hour preparing for you.  Together you walk to church, sing and dance your heart out and you and Gertrude laugh from your belly with all the other Zambians in response to your awkward dance attempts.  You thank her ten times over, knowing fully that your thanksgiving will never repay all she gave to you.

It’s when you’re dancing for an hour in a village circle with twelve-year-old Micha shaking your groove thang and wholeheartedly laughing till your face hurts and your feet are brown with dust and you’re darn tired, all because you know you simply need to say yes in that moment.  You tell Micha to stay in school and work hard and she is going to change the world.  When you say goodbye she calls you sister and you know that you’ve touched each other in a lasting way, although you’ll never meet again.  The fatigue of that evening readily gave way to the need for fellowship, and your fellowship was fruitful.

It’s even when you’re walking down a dusty path in Dipalata.  The homesick feeling starts to take root. You could easily close into your circling thoughts, yet you must command yourself to remain where you are, to dwell on the river and the smiles and the lush scenery. You choose to remain open because the nature of this place and these vibrant people demand your attention.  You begin to snap pictures of a few children, and this ends in an episode of funny faces and giggles and running.  You stepped forward into the opportunity and met a need you had no idea was waiting.

It’s when you find yourself in a huddle of children reading “Whoever You Are” after a few girls pleaded for a story.  Your reading captivates the children. The young boy at your side quietly starts to read. You encourage him to keep reading, he and you switching back and forth rhythmically in unspoken understanding. You are mesmerized by the boy’s confident, measured, melodic words and for some reason your soul is filled to the brim.  You gave what the children needed; they unknowingly gave it right back to you.

You’ve no idea what will be required of you upon arriving in Nsangula.  Your group has come with lessons in nutrition and childcare. You sit in chairs under a shady tree in the breeze as your students gather around.  A short while into the lesson your group looks beyond the immediate audience and suddenly notices the sprawling crowd that has gathered, at least two hundred men, women and children.  Your lesson is now a village-wide event.  The people are hungry for information, willing to listen and deeply grateful for your presence in their secluded community.  You decide to rise to the challenge—literally you rise out of your chair to speak the message burning in your heart, telling the community with slow deliberation that they are the leaders who can make a change in their community, in Zambia, and that you want the girls to stay in school and study hard and do great things.  You were not prepared for this soapbox moment, you do not feel competent in this position, but somehow they handed it to you and you stepped forward.

Being a servant leader in Zambia is challenging, and the things we are called to give and receive are hard.  Sometimes I am set on a pedestal of undeserved power and reverence I never asked for; these are the times I need to accept my position and give all I have.  Other times I am overwhelmed by the unrelenting generosity of these wholesome people; in these humbling moments I must keep receiving.  Whether the need at hand is to give or to receive, leaning inward with love for the people around you, I feel, is the beginning of servant leadership.  Often I believe the Zambians are stronger servant leaders than myself, exuding such a fullness of self-assurance, trust in those they are serving, and endless love.  I will continue to admire and learn from the Zambians’ incredible hospitality that amounts to a love greater than I’ve even attempted.

“To whom much has been given, much is required” (Luke 12:48).  Giving and receiving here in Zambia is not only challenging, but paradoxical.  Our blessings of education and resources and more compel us to serve those who are less fortunate, as a few students have already talked about.  But here we are in Zambia, receiving abundantly everyday from those we came to serve.  The people have very little, yet they give and they praise Jesus and then they give more.  Their generosity compels me to give on a larger scale. I pray I can carry on the light these people have sparked.

Love and hugs to all my friends and family back home.  To Mom, Dad and Christian, I hope the move went well and give Mia an extra treat for me.  I miss all you people like crazy and cannot wait to share stories in more depth once we return.

Much love and kisu mwane,

Savannah Bukant, Class of 2015

We’ve only been in Zambezi a little over a week now and it has already been filled with many new adventures, challenges, and insights. I would be lying if I said I haven’t had moments of homesickness, but shortly following every one of these moments I am somehow reminded of how grateful I am to be here.

Prior to this trip, my cultural immersion So … I’ve had some adjusting to do, and I’ve made a few social blunders along the way. For your comedic benefit:

Incident 1: Dinner

I was the first of the group to be Mama Kawatu’s helper in the kitchen. When she asked me what we should make for dinner, I replied pretty ordinarily “chicken and rice.” I soon learned that this implies a stroll to the market to pick out some living poultry for dinner. Upon our return to the convent, mama presented me the dull butcher knife in one hand, the squirming chicken in the other, and gave me the go ahead. Needless to say, she had WAY more confidence in my butchering abilities than she should have. I’ll spare you the graphic details, but I struggled to finish the job as the chicken bled and seized in my hand. I had to call mama in for reinforcement on that one.

Incident 2: Church

Sunday was our first church service in Zambezi. Somewhere in the middle of the mass everyone stood and began to line up at the altar. Unaccustomed to their traditions, I assumed it was time for communion. But this line was for offering, and I was up there with no money. Too late to bail, I ever-so-smoothly pretended to slip some cash through the offering slot. I thought I was pretty sly, until later when the entire Zamfam mocked me for my obvious blunder.

Incident 3: Home Stays

Come breakfast time at the Simonga’s home, I poured myself a glass of juice, thinking this was a safe bet as far as Zambian food goes. I bet wrong. I took my first gulp and my heart nearly stopped. The family eventually taught us that the correct proportions of this drink are one tablespoon of juice, to one GLASS of water. Naturally, I tried to pawn it off on Christine. She took one sip and handed it back. I was hoping she’d be willing to take one for the team. Forcing myself to choke down at least half of it, I feared I was falling closer into a diabetic coma with every sip.

That’s enough stories of me being a crazy chindele (or white person). Every ignorant, embarrassing moment I’ve had while adjusting here can be doubled by an insightful, or humbling moment I’ve encountered, so I’ll share just a few…

Insight 1: Misconceptions

Americans often have some preconceived ideas about third world countries, at least I did. We hear about the poverty and feel sympathetic, often accompanied by the thought of wanting to fix it. What that usually means is leading them towards our progressive, American lifestyle. Aiding them only to become more like us seems like a crime to me. Within the simple life Zambians lead, most are able to find great joy. It’s quite beautiful. Why would we want to mess with that? How many Americans can truly admit they live a life of joy?

Insight 2: Steadfast Faith

Bessie, one of Josh’s Zambian friends, visited for dinner the other night. One of the dinner topics discussed were the socio-economic classes of the Zambezi people. She described them as poor, poorer, and the poorest. Also touching on the severe HIV/AIDS problem, Bessie brought to our attention the prevalence of orphaned people here.

By American standards, we might expect these people to be depressed and discontent. This doesn’t seem to be the case. I attribute this joy to their unshakable faith in God. I am inspired by their trust in the Lord and the ever-present role it plays in their everyday lives. On the first day of leadership class, we began going over the syllabus and were shortly interrupted by a student wishing to pray prior to starting the material. Mr. Simonga prayed for Christine and me shortly after inviting us into his home. The only explanation I can think of for their overwhelming joy has to be their undeniable faith in a gracious and loving God.

Insight 3: Unmatched generosity

The first day we were here, I ran to the market to buy some eggs for mama. After getting half way there, I realized that I should have asked her the proper price for eggs prior to disembarking. As such an obvious target, I assumed I was about to get ripped off. I bought the eggs after being told they cost 30 kwatcha. Upon return to the convent, I learned from mama I was sold the proper price.

Why should I be surprised by this? Why don’t I give all people the benefit of the doubt that they are fair and generous? Why is it that my world back home has taught me to distrust people’s motives? Why are people so willing to do anything to get ahead? Why does American have such a fixation on money and wealth?

This same day at the market, a 20 kwacha bill unknowingly slipped out of my pocket. A woman chased me down to return my money. This simple example only solidifies the kindness I am trying to convey.

To wrap things up…I know I’ve only scratched the surface of my lessons from Zambia. I’m confident they will continue to be revealed to me even far after I leave. For now, I am amazed by this joyful, generous, and resilient group of people. I realize that I am so blessed to be in this beautiful place that is so full of love, culture, and room to grow. I am surrounded by a fabulous Zamily, to whom I am thankful I can share my experiences.

Love and miss you all at home!

Morgan Harry, Class of 2016

PROGRAMMING NOTE:  We were having some internet issues that we believe have been resolved, so blog postings should be more reliable (except this weekend when we travel to Dipilata).  Now, on to Helen’s blog (happy birthday!!)

We are getting into our rhythm here. Our stomachs are adjusting to new cuisine, our brains to the new form of alarm clock, our skin to the direct sun, and our hearts to temporary family here in Zambezi. I can second all of the wonderful things that my fellow Zags have blogged about the Zambian people and the uninhibited love they have thrust upon us since landing in Zambezi. I have no doubt that the world would be a different place if we all put as much heart into a single thing as the Zambian people put into everything.

 Their mentality of care for other people has intensified an idea that struck me one morning when I realized that the only mirror I have seen since we got here is the handheld one we brought: the Zambian people don’t seem to take interest in surfaces, as we tend to do when we look into a mirror. From what I have seen they don’t value the fluff and ornament that we seem to privilege so highly. They focus their attention on essential human relationships.Our attention is the greatest thing that we can give to someone or something.

The students in our leadership class come each day eager to learn and participate fully in every activity. On the second day of class I couldn’t believe the effort that each student had put into the homework assignment. I immediately found myself questioning my abilities and wondering, “who am I to be assigning homework and ‘teaching’ these individuals who are twice my age and who have more wisdom and strength than I probably ever will?” I later came to realize that this contemplation can go one of two ways:

Who I am to be in this position?

or,

Who am I to not be in this position?

The former places all of the attention on myself: my lack of wisdom, my lack of experience, and my lack strength. It fails to recognize that the people in front of me are just as deserving of everything I have. The latter focuses my attention equally on the individuals in the class—whom I am here to serve—and myself—who my new friends are serving sorichly. The privilege I was born into has given me a responsibility to share the knowledge and education I have received for no other reason than because there are people in positions around the world deserving of and eager for this knowledge.

I had a Zambian tell me the other day that he believes Americans are the most lonely people in the world because in a country of 320 million people we feel connected if we have a cell phone and companionship if we own a pet—two things I will admit to giving a large amount of attention to.I give a good majority of the greatest thing I have to give, my attention, to an electronic device and a four-legged ball of energy and gas (Love you, Tate). I could easily expand this list to a hundred things that I give my attention to that when stripped away have little significance to me. This façade of contentment causes us to become complacent, and I find my attention again falls easily to the other comforts of life rather than the very people right in front of me.

Taking the time to step away from my normal has helped me realize that for every misconception we have of Zambia or of Africa in general, they have one of America. And for every thing missing here, there is something of equal value missing at home.

Cheers,

Helen Reinecke, Class of ‘15

P.S. Mom and Dad, 21 awesome years later. . .thank you for everything. Miss and love you guys. Still under the same moon.Xoxo

Nothing! Absolutely nothing! The constant dirt between my toes and cold showers? Nothing. The ant walking across my hand or the spider, clearly on steroids, above my bed? Nothing. Killing and plucking my first chicken? Nope. Nothing! These otherwise odd experiences have become my new normal. So where is my big Zambia experience hiding?!

Each morning we read the blog post from the night before. While I am moved by their words, I cannot help but feel envious of my peer’s abilities to put words to their powerful experiences. We have been here in Zambia for a week now. Looking back, I fear I have not wrestled with those life-changing questions. There may have been a shock at first, but one week later I find myself comfortable here. I have my routine; I have my safe space.

Maybe the problem lies in the safety of the convent. I have made my Little America here in these concrete walls. If I chose to, I could live in my Little America and be blind to the beauty and the tragedy of Zambezi. I have brought the blessing and the curse of living in a techno-savy America where I can close my eyes and shut out the problems of the world, but the very experiences I am searching for would also continue to elude me. Much like Heisenberg’s observer effect where the thing you are trying to measure is obscured by the very act of measuring, I wonder if the irony lies in the very act of looking for the experience or waiting for the experience to hit me in the face. Yesterday, we read “We See from Where We Stand” by David Diggs. After years of work in Haiti, he sees most American service volunteers as American refugees hungering for meaning in their lives. Am I that refugee?

In living with the Zambian people and immersing myself in their culture, I feel a sense of normalcy. Even though it may have been an awkward transition at first, saying class begins at 15 hours rather than 3 o’clock or that I am a 4^th year at University rather than a senior in college or adopting little parts of Lunda or Luvale in my speech have all become a new normal.

Maybe I am forcing my experience to be something it is not. Maybe I do not have all the puzzle pieces to see the full picture. Maybe the culture shock or the revelation of my experience thus far has been simply noticing that their life and their culture is not as foreign as I thought. Imagine that: I have traveled thousands of miles to a foreign country to discover people living out their human existence.

So what about this life-altering experience I have been searching for? Have I taken enough risks? Am I too comfortable to feel it? Is looking for an experience counter-intuitive to having an experience? Why am I so intent on placing meaning to my experience? Each day, more questions seem to spring up where one was answered. As I try to make sense of the experiences I have, I take comfort in knowing that answering these questions will be my life’s work.

Christine Ngan, Class of 2015

After a few days in a place where time seems to stand still, I find myself forgetting what day we arrived here.  That may be a sign that we have finally started to feel comfortable here in Zambezi. We are outsiders — every searching stare, every joyous laugh as we mispronounce a name, every hand outstretched just to touch us — reminds us of just how differently we are viewed here than in America. Yet, through all the differences, we have carved our niche here. We adjust to a new normal, displaying skills of resilience and adaptation that make many of us feel more free than we ever could have imagined.

On Sunday we learned what it’s like to live with a Zambian family and participate in a local cultural event (Sunday Mass). Today we poked our noses deeper into the Zambian life, engaging in our first days of teaching with the Zambian community. The health, literacy, computer and leadership groups all put their five months of preparation into practice.  We soon realized that every reflection from past Zambia Zags was true: As much as you prepare, Zambezi always finds a way to surprise you. While that may be the main theme of our time here so far, here are six lessons I’ve learned along the way:

6. You don’t know a true welcome until you have experienced a Zambian welcome.  Probably the most common phrases here are “You are welcome here,” “Welcome to Zambezi,” and “Feel at home.” Perhaps my favorite phrase the Zambians use is “Feel free.” In America, we love to say that phrase too, but we complicate it by saying “feel free” to do something specific: “Feel free to grab a cookie” or “Feel free to look around.” In Zambia, you can just feel free — without specifications or caveats.  Everything is simpler here, and even the language reflects it.

5. Not only does the “feel free” attitude apply to lifestyle, but it applies to material goods as well.  Today, when some of us went to the market, we came back home with free gifts of a watermelon and a stick of sugarcane so long I could have pole vaulted with it. Our host family offered nearly a whole chicken, a whole fish, nshima and much more for us when we stayed with him, and his whole family waited to eat until after we had gone to bed. Mark, my fellow Zag who stayed in a very simple home far from town, told us about how his family told him they couldn’t even afford Coke — and followed up the comment by offering each one of their Zag guests a Coke for breakfast.

4. The degree of esteem that most of the people in Zambezi gives us is both a blessing and curse.  Whether that respect comes from the relationships Josh and past Zags have built here, or whether that comes from the fact that chindeles (western/white people) stand in such stark contrast to the Zambezi community, it forces us to be wary of our actions in a way many of us have never experienced before. No Gonzaga Study Abroad presentation can prepare us for the number of eyes that will be on us during almost every moment. That can be seen as pressure, but I prefer to see it as a challenge to rise to the occasion and be a person whose actions are worthy of such respect.

3. Patience is key. With almost every name you learn here, you have to ask each person two or more times how to pronounce it. You must wait quite a while for people to show up for classes, since we’re on laid-back “Zambia time.”  Most importantly, you have to be willing to field question after question. During our homestay, our host was shy to the point that the word “shy” doesn’t quite do him justice. Yet he answered every single one of the thousands of questions we asked him. It’s our challenge to model that attitude, since our mission here is a combined one of teaching and learning. We must be willing to foster an atmosphere of learning that encourages questions and doesn’t downplay them as annoyances.

2. This isn’t the first time we’ve noted this on the blog, but the number of children here is astounding. Mama Bessie, the superintendent of the schools in Zambezi, told us tonight that there are 20,000 children in the 110 schools in the area. As Josh discussed during our reflection last night, we must be intentional about seeing kids as more than a backdrop — as more than just an overwhelming presence waiting to swarm us whenever we venture outside the convent gates. We must see them as individuals with their own stories. As a teacher at Chilenga Basic School, I must be intentional to see children as they truly are — beings of infinite worth and potential whose care I am entrusted with during the hours I am welcomed to teach.

I also feel a challenge to be especially kind in my interactions with young Zambian girls. As Mama Bessie pointed out tonight, there may be 20 percent of Zambian men who treat their wives with respect.  She believes the rest treat women more like house slaves.  They believe that the women’s place is in the kitchen and force their wives to cook and clean for them, even when some of the men lie around drunk all day.  The power structure is very male-oriented here, but if we treat a young Zambian girl with respect, maybe she will be less willing to put up with a man who treats her like a slave when she’s older. That is my hope and my desperate prayer.

1. At the end of the day, we learn to adapt to life here. My left big toe is inflamed and infected, and I have come to terms with the fact that I need to soak it in hot saltwater every night. When the shower water comes out as a trickling stream of 45 degree water, you learn to nut up, strip down and get yourself clean. I didn’t go a day without my protein bars this entire semester, but I’ve already gone three full days without one — and thanks to some divine providence, I’m doing just fine. I also stand here as a witness that two grown college boys can fit into a twin bed (thanks to Chris for putting up with me during the homestay), and that when you take college students away from their cell phones, the world does not implode. In fact, life off the grid just might be a more pure and engaging experience.

Josh breaking out his dance moves — including a funky adaptation of the running man — and an ant crawling across this computer’s keyboard might be signs that it’s time to sign off.

Kisu mwane, God bless and Go Zags,

Matt Johnson, Class of 2016

1 Peter 5:2-3