Week # 1

My first week of teaching at Tumaini Orphan Vocational Training Center is under my belt...well, not really a full week as one day, Tuesday, classes were cancelled and the entire school spent the day mourning the loss of our second student’s death in the last month. Her name was Bahati (meaning "luck," ironically) – a healthy, smart 16 yearold girl, who was under the fog of malaria and apparently overdosed on the meds. Her family found her not breathi in her bed the following day after taking the prophylaxis - the treatment recommended by the hospital, might I add. There are so many seemingly pointless deaths here; it never ceases to amaze and sadden me. It’s no wonder that Tanzanians are so much more willing to hand things over to God – they have no control. Everything is mungu akipenda or "God-willing." They are forced to be passive, so submissive to His will. But is it God’s will to allow this young sister to pass so early? These are the questions without answers. There are so many of them here...

Now, I don’t mean to make light of Tanzanians faith in God; it’s admirable, but at times, it seems like they could and should fight more, taking some of the situation into their own hands, pursuing help earlier, for instance. In fact, a language instructor named Peter, who trains our new volunteers every summer, also died merely a few weeks ago. While training this past June and July, he continued to lose weight dramatically, his tone became ashy, and his energy left him. Despite all of these factors, no one did anything. His fellow Tanzanian peers remained paralyzed and there was very little, if any, action taken in order to procure professional help, to check on his status. Finally, someone insisted he go to the hospital in the capital, Dar. It was only until their persistence that he received proper care, but clearly, it was too late. He died there after a few weeks. Could this have been avoided? We’ll never know, but it is a cultural phenomenon, endemic to Tanzania and perhaps other countries where medical care is less than sufficient. There seems to be a sense of helplessness, a sense of letting go that’s to an extreme.

We, on the other hand, in the Western world, have control over our death – or at least, think we do. There are certainly less deaths with medical clinics on every corner, health education taught in schools from an early age and we boast a startling ratio of doctors per person. Doctors are sued if they misdiagnose or mistreat a patient; thus an overdose of malaria medication would be unheard of (not to mention that actually contracting malaria would be unheard of, but you catch my drift :).

I couldn’t help but compare this girl’s death and funeral with my grandmother’s just a few weeks ago, which I attended in Atlanta, where we sat in an air-conditioned room in neat rows. The casket was set and centered before us, decorated with a floral arrangement preordered by our family. In Tanzania, a land where being in the moment rules, we circled the abyss into which her coffin was lowered. Huddled tightly, onlookers were sandwiched between buried youth on both sides – one having passed the week before, the same age as I. The dirt towered above, piled high, making Bahati’s loss all the more real and raw. Her physical body would soon be covered by dirt and there it would remain in the ground (“…until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken for dust you are and to dust you will return” – Genesis 3:19).

After the minister’s words, brawny boys dressed in street clothes shoveled the same dirt over her coffin until a dense mound was formed. People took turns leveling it so as to prepare for the minister’s imprint of a cross, which he made using a pipe. Then, slowly, one by one, her loved ones stepped forward to decorate the mound with flowers, even with the stems of the already used roses, thus sticking in mere stems, now headless. What remained made quite a picture – a harmonious combination of natural elements, people’s hands, words and songs.

The Tanzanian minister kept stressing that death is an unavoidable fact of life. We will all die. Let’s face it, he said. He hoped her passing would wake up the youth attending her burial service so that they may live carefully, deliberately. He even addressed AIDS as stealing so many of the young kids today, even though this clearly wasn’t the case for Bahati. There was an overarching sense of “well, this is how it is; let’s learn from it and move on.” As the Swahili proverb goes (with which I was once “comforted” by a Tanzanian friend when my cousin died), “Maji yakimwagika hayazoleki,” meaning water that’s fallen can no longer be gathered. Let it go, in other words.

It seemed rather callous to state the latter as her mother, sisters, and aunts wailed in sorrow behind me. Cuddled on the ground in the dirt, dressed in white now turned ivory, these women could not contain their grief (Cultural note: the burial day is the only day where Tanzanians are culturally permitted to release their sorrow; afterwards, it’s not perceived as appropriate. Resultingly, they REALLY let it all go). The chorus sang about the angels welcoming her to heaven, about her Father waiting for her entrance. Men, women and young students’ voices came together magically as they always seem to do here. I had never felt such tender sadness and beauty simultaneously. I looked up and there was Mt. Meru unveiled in its glory – a rock in the midst of this unexplainable loss. Calming me, its glow reminded me not to question the Creator…and to be at peace knowing that both Bahati and my grandmother are in a better place, the same place.

At Gramabea’s service, her passing was referred to in a more gentle, indirect manner. It was her time, her season. Her spirit would now be present with her parents, my cousins and above all, she would be at peace, finally released from her struggle with Parkinson’s. This disease dealt her great pain in her later years, but with the power of medicine, she remained healthy, active and sharp as ever. Unlike Bahati, she was able to live her life until it was no longer physically possible. Modern medicine and skilled doctors kept her with us and we were blessed to have her and her wisdom with us for so long.

In the US, we don’t want to face death so head on, do we? It’s as if we tip toe around it. Afraid of dying, we resist talking about it, thinking about it and take great measures to prolong the day of moving on from our physical bodies. I think we should be bolder, more confrontational with this inevitable fact of life. We can learn from Tanzanian...in part.

Peace from A-town,
Tait

PS:To post this blog, I jumped on a daladala (a small minivan and main mode of transport here) from my house to enter town. The going price is 300 Shillings or about 30 cents. When the driver tried to charge me more (due to my beautiful white skin), I refused, saying in Swahili, "I work here, my friend." Jokingly, he responded, "Are you Mpare?" - Mpare is a person from the Pare tribe living near Kilimanjaro known to be stingy and tight with their money. The whole daladala erupted in laughter. Glad I can make people laugh...what it's all about!