Crianças (Children)

For Mozambican children, the world is their oyster. They live in the world’s greatest playground, complete with endless places to investigate and endless opportunities to make-up games. They can run around with their friends, exploring, romping in the mud and dirt, and playing to their hearts’ content. Only when it is time for a bath or a meal does someone come and wrangle them up. The kids in my neighborhood from ages 2-7 gambol in a pack, making toys from sticks and trash, drawing at Tia Ana’s house with colored pencils or in the mud with sticks, and using their imaginations to pass the time in a state of utter ecstasy. If it weren’t for the alarmingly high possibility of contracting cholera or malaria, being malnourished, and receiving a poor education, I would totally be a Mozambican child.

Kids are constantly dirty, even the “rich” ones, like the children of teachers in Invinha, because they play in the dirt all day. Visiting the US over Christmas, I immediately noticed that my friend Liz’s three-year old daughter Natalia was sparklingly clean. Not a speck of dirt on her. It was quite a shocking and amazing sight to behold after a year of playing with kids covered from head to toe in dirt. And after a long day frolicking through the bush, the kids will inevitably be given a bath before dinner. It is customary to give small children baths in the front yard. So every day at about 6pm, you can scan the neighborhood and just about every house will have the kids standing there in a line of nakedness, as they await their turn in the bucket.

In one of their jaunts through the greater neighborhood, when nature calls, a kid will just go in a bush. But, other times, they will also just poop on the floor. A fifteen-month-old pooped on my floor the other day. And then started to cry as her mother cursorily cleaned it up with a rag. I immediately threw a load of bleach on the infected area. A few days earlier, I had been walking back home from school when I passed the house of my favorite siblings, Belsa, age 2.5, and Gigantinho, age 5 (yes, Little Giant is his given name). Belsa was crying and Gigantinho was just standing there. When I approached them and asked what was wrong, Gigantinho informed me that Belsa had taken a shit in the coal stove. Yes the five-year old had indeed used the swear word “to take a shit” and yes, as I was horrified to lay eyes on, Belsa had relieved herself in the coal stove. Why? God only knows. Where was their mother? God only knows. This was one of those moments when I think to myself, why in hell am I living in Mozambique? And needless to say, I hightailed it home after that. As far as diapers, most people use pieces of cloth that are generally unable to contain the products they are intended to contain, meaning I only hold kids for about 5 minutes because I don’t want to push my luck too far before one of them inevitably pees or poops on me. And as far as potty-training, most mothers use the philosophy that the child will learn when the child learns, leaving a trail of shit wherever they go until about age 5. Mozambican children are absolutely beautiful, but they are also absolutely disgusting.

Some of the teachers in my neighborhood have a child that works for them, usually a 10-year old girl from the bush that is an orphan and is now essentially performing child labor in exchange for room and board. She hauls water and carts around the babies and does any bitch-work she is ordered to do. It is a pretty rough and unforgiving life (without an education!), but unfortunately, I try to ignore it because there is really nothing I can do about it, though it is indeed devastating to be forced to witness everyday. But every kid once they are about 5 years old, often even younger, will commonly be sent to run errands: Give this to so and so. Go buy (insert last minute meal item like oil, salt, some sort of vegetable) at the market. Go sit in the water line. This is not necessarily child labor (though 5 is awfully young) but a manner of teaching responsibility and chores like we do in the US. But it is still odd to me when I see a kid of 6 years with a baby of 6 months strapped to his back, carting a haul of items from the market back home. Apparently, “stranger danger” and the fear of leaving kids unsupervised for fear of kidnapping or accident does not apply here.

I always try to get kids to use their imaginations as much as possible because I know that once they hit 1^st grade, all of their creative thought will be squashed out of them by the rote-memorization-filled, mind-numbing, utterly dull school system. I have been told by many a Mozambican that I need to start having children because “children are our riches.” I agree, I tell them, but I probably won’t have any kids for about 10 years, and when I do, I will probably only have two, maybe three. Shaking their head in a combination of dismay and disbelief, they walk away. Mozambican women think that it is a, and I quote, “white woman thing” to only have two kids, and at such an advanced age. I would like to observe this conversation about proper child-bearing age between a Mozambican and a black volunteer. But, it is obvious that children are coveted here in many ways. Obviously, parents love their children. They just have different ways of showing it. I had a kid come crying to my door the other day because the picture he had drawn for his mom at my house had been rejected as garbage by her. I told him it was beautiful and took it from his as if it were pure gold. They love their children but are wholly unworried that the schools are crap and the majority of kids finish 7^th grade illiterate and without basic arithmetic skills. So I do what I can to instill creativity and self-confidence in the kids that visit me. They can draw all day if they want, until they poop on the floor, at which time they are swiftly sent home.

            I recently visited Malawi, from a bus that is, as I used the tiny country as a corridor to pass from one Mozambican province back home (Malawi intersects Mozambique to the west of my province) during my school break travels last month. I had never been to Malawi before but can safely make these observations: Malawi is pretty much the twin of Mozambique. The much smaller, heavily-accented, almost linguistically incomprehensible, chock-full of errors English-speaking twin with sweet roads (I don’t think we even came across one pothole in 1 full day of travel!) and brightly painted shops. Malawi is just barely nicer than Mozambique and speaks English as a second language to the local language of Chichewa (meaning the English level is low and many do not actually speak it), but clearly still suffers from the same problems of development. It is, however, an absolutely stunning country, and very reminiscent of my district in Moz, with whole zones dedicated to the cultivation of beautiful-for-the-landscape tea plantations.

            I also recently celebrated my birthday. And do not fret, it was celebrated in true Mozambican fashion: lots of singing birthday and other party songs, me being forced to make three different dramatic and schmaltzy speeches intended to inspire everyone to bring about the “new” Mozambique, hoards of people lined up to “greet” and kiss me, and a ritual cake-cutting ceremony that I had witnessed many times before but never before had to lead, causing me to commit many a cultural faux pas I’m sure. Overall, a very distinctive, but enjoyable day.

            Probably the biggest news of late is that Invinha recently got a tower for the new cell-phone service here in Mozambique, and it has revolutionized the whole town. Welcome to the 21^st century Invinha! I can now send texts, check my email everyday, and take phones from my students when they ring during class…

            And finally, my grant to buy a copy machine and printer for my school was filled a few weeks ago. I wanted to send out a big thank you to everyone who was able to support my school. My director shrieked from excitement when I told her that we had secured the money (I thought she was going to jump out of her habit!). Other teachers and students who have heard the news have demonstrated equally exultant responses. Pictures and personal notes are sure to come as I am able to put the plan into action in the next month or so. Obrigada!

Malaria

This past weekend I ran some trainings for the leaders of girls groups, with the main goal being to equip the women with basic knowledge of our girls group program and how to be a good facilitator, as well as with basic (sexual) health information so that they can hopefully begin to effectively lead girls groups in their own communities. I was super excited for the weekend to finally be realized, as I believed that it would be the first of many important steps in actually building some inchoate vestiges of sustainability into Peace Corps Moz’s girls group program. And even within the midst of a few unanticipated and utterly demoralizing logistical trials (one being that a Peace Corps staff member had suggested to me the location, which inadvertently ended up being a venue primarily used by men and their prostitutes: perhaps not the best place to lead a conference with women you are hoping will be positive role-models for young girls), I do honestly believe that we in part reached our goal. One of the women commented, “I have learned so much, which I will guard in my heart and in my mind so that I can help our girls and the future of women in Mozambique.”  She wins.

            A last minute programming addition was the catalyst from which our last day was finally able to be what I had envisioned that the training could be: a bunch of women dancing and singing, certificate in hand, pumped to go home and get the ball rolling. In honor of April being World Malaria Month, and April 25 being World Malaria Day, we decided to incorporate some malaria information and games into the otherwise heavily anti-HIV focused campaign of the conference. In sub-saharan Africa, every two minutes, 3 children under the age of 5 die of malaria. Malaria is the number one killer of children under 5 in Mozambique specifically, as 142 of every 1000 children do not make it to celebrate their fifth birthday, and 42% of these deaths are linked to malaria. Malaria is the number one cause of death for all ages here as well, accounting for 29% of all deaths in Mozambique, while HIV/AIDS comes in at “only” 27%. I have been unable to find the exact number of people who die from malaria each year in Mozambique, but these statistics are staggering enough. HIV/AIDS gets all the attention, though malaria is a much more deadly peril. Though all provinces of Mozambique are considered to have high malaria threats, the northern part of the country, where I live, is most affected. And unlike its more legendary killing counterpart, HIV/AIDS, it is preventable and treatable, as well as more realistically eradicated. The game we played at the conference dealt with this first aspect of malaria: prevention. The rains came late this year, and therefore malaria is still a threat at this time of year, with the big mud puddles serving as breeding grounds for hoards of mosquitoes. Therefore, one area of prevention is to get rid of standing water around the house. Also, properly hung and utilized mosquito nets over every sleeping area, using naturally found and grown bug repellents (lemongrass, etc), and cutting down overgrown weeds are methods of prevention. The winners of our prevention-game each won a medically treated bed net as a prize. Aside from the lack of knowledge about or the plain neglect of adherence to simple preventative measures, I believe, in my admittedly inexpert opinion, that the number one contributing factor to the malaria epidemic in Mozambique is how “malaria” has become synonymous for “sick.” A far too frequent conversation here:

Me: Where is so-and-so today?

Person A: Oh, he is out sick with malaria.

Me: Did he do a malaria test at the hospital?

Person A: No.

Me: Then perhaps he doesn’t actually malaria, and perhaps just has the flu. He should go to the hospital and get a malaria test.

Person A: look of disbelief on face

By equating “malaria” with “sick,” the scariness and realness of the disease becomes less influential, because people are constantly overcoming and living through bouts of assumed “malaria.” The great threat that malaria does play will never be realized and taken to heart until this myth that all flu-like symptoms implicate malaria has begun to dissipate. Not only do constant real malaria infections regularly keep people at home and absent from school or work, only adding to the lower productivity of many aspects of society here, but to be honest, people are systematically dying by something that is easily cured with medication. Even when someone is rightfully diagnosed by means of a malaria test at the hospital, it is quite common for the hospital to then be out of stock of Coartem, the anti-malarial drug, (and quite often, the hospital has run out of the diagnostic tests) leaving people understandably less inclined to return to the hospital and wait for hours in line for their malaria test the next time they are sick.

            As Peace Corps Volunteers, it is beaten into us during training the importance of adhering to our malaria-prophylaxis daily or weekly regimen. I have probably lost half the volume of the hair on my head as a side effect of my weekly malaria-prophylaxis pill over the last 19 months (not to mention the vivid dreams and occasional mid-sleep hallucination of rats climbing all over my mosquito net), but at least I am protected. We are given bed nets and a constant supply of bug repellent. We have both the rapid malaria test as well as the anti-malarial drug easily available in our Peace Corps issued med kits. I don’t even know a single PCV who has ever even had malaria. And yet our counterparts, students, friends, neighbors, etc all remain at an extremely heightened risk every day. Our school year is only 4 months young and already, 2 students have passed away. All I know is that they were sick, and then the school posted a notice on the front gate, ambiguously informing us of their passing. Though it is incredibly rare for someone to have their neighborhood-gossip-chain cause of death actually be “malaria,” due to the already explained misconceptions regarding this particular disease, I can’t be sure that malaria was not the principal cause, and I am statistically inclined to say that it was. The average lifespan in Mozambique is about half that in the US, and dealing with death is an overly routine experience. Yes, malaria’s more famous mortal counterpart HIV/AIDS, with its assumed link to sexual promiscuity and all that accompanies this fact, is also a massive player in this circuit, but malaria must start to be seen as on the same level, as it attacks the most vulnerable: children under 5 and pregnant women.

            Bet nets are the most eminent means of prevention. The previous ideal for net distribution was one per household, which leaves the children, who often sleep on reed mats on the floor and have also not yet developed any semblance of immunity against the disease, wholly unprotected. Now, the suggestion is one net per sleeping area (most people don’t have beds), but they are expensive and even if received for free, often end up being sold in the market the next day as a vehicle for easy cash used for something deemed more important. People also are often uninformed as to proper use of the nets, occasionally using them as blankets or not knowing how to hang them up. It seems for the first time that the more attention is being paid and more funds allocated to prevent the biggest killer in Africa, as it rightfully should.

Topic 5: Religion

Mozambicans may think they, and they only, are correct, religion-wise, and everyone else is wrong, but this certainty will certainly not prevent them from treating someone from an opposing religion any different. I have never encountered any animosity or any acrimonious words. They only want to know that you have a religion. This is the only thing that matters: you believe in something. “Are you Catholic?” they ask me. “No, then Muslim? Seventh Day Adventist? Jehova’s Witness? Do you go to the Jesus is the Man church?” (probably the buildings say, “Jesus is the Lord” but it is the same word for lord and man so I prefer this interpretation). I respond negatively to all and they seemed stumped and concerned. I temporarily relieve their pain when I say I’m Jewish. Then they think more deeply about this and realize they have no idea what I am talking about. My preferred way to continue, especially when talking to a Christian, is to say, “Well, Jesus was a Jew.” They invariably do no understand, apparently this core tenet of Judeo-Christian teaching is not imparted here. “We use half the same Bible,” I continue. Now, they are really skeptical, thinking, what in hell is the white lady babbling about? Half the same Bible? Bull-shit. So I conclude, leaving them forever thinking that I am crazy, by saying “Somos irmãos” (we’re brothers) in a tone that says, “Don’t worry.” They are quite mystified and puzzled, but at least, according to them, I have a religion. Even if it is some seemingly made-up, crazy, never-before-heard-of, white, American, lady religion.

Last year, I taught my students to say “Happy New Year” in Hebrew around the time of Rosh HaShana. They thought it was absolutely awesome (if awesome means hilarious and crazy, but in a good way). Now I am often greeted by my old students with “L’Shanah Tovah” at all times of year. I respond with “Feliz Ano Novo” (Happy New Year in Portuguese) and they laugh and laugh and laugh. Pouco a pouco (little by little), we are all learning.

But just being Catholic, or Muslim, or believing “Jesus is the Man,” is not sufficient. They intertwine the Western tradition into the traditional religion. And no one has a problem with it. Jesus is one thing, but feiticeiros, evil spirits, are quite another. They will go to the curse-disseminating person, put a curse on you for stealing their vegetables, and then go to Mass. Hey man, whatever floats your boat, just please don’t curse me for failing you when you most likely never showed up to class and therefore deserve it (this has happened to other Peace Corps Volunteers).

Superstitions are also very common and vary depending on your region. In our training town, women weren’t allowed to eat raw coconut because they will get diarrhea. But seeing as coconut meat is pure fiber, I don’t see how having a uterus makes you any more susceptible to diarrhea-by-coconut. Here, in Invinha, women can’t eat turtles, or you will have turtle-shaped babies. I have two problems with this: one, I have never seen anyone (man, woman, or child) selling a turtle or eating a turtle, nor have I seen a turtle strolling down the dirt road. So I’m confused as to the origin of this superstition. Two, what would a turtle-shaped baby really look like? I’m not going to lie, I would like to see that.

When people go to Mass, they dress to the nines. “Sunday best” is an understatement. Full prom-dresses, disco suits, baseball tees, whatever is sparkling clean and new is what you wear to church, no matter what era it is from or how crazy you look. If you don’t really have any money, then you scrub your one outfit so that it is as clean as it can possibly be, even if that risks putting holes in it. But damn, your capulana may have a hole and be held together by a thread, but you are looking good. Once dressed and ready to go, you often travel miles on foot to church. Once you arrive, you spend the next 2 hours wailing. One of the only things Mozambicans assuredly learn in primary school is how to carry a tune, so church music here is absolutely beautiful. But then some of the women start with the wailing and its all downhill. Loud, nonstop, 2 hours of pure screaming. Like I said, Mozambicans love them some religion.

If I were a Mozambican woman, I would be a nun. They have a great life: food security, a job (many are teachers, nurses, school directors, etc), educational opportunities and, most awesomely, socially-accepted exemption from marrying a Mozambican man. The order of the nuns in Invinha is based in Portugal so each nun, while completing her training, is sent to Portugal. All the nuns have thus been to Europe, and thus kinda have an understanding of what my world is like back home, which is interesting for all involved parties. The nuns in Invinha are great: smart, funny, happy, compassionate, and giving. And they are some of the only Mozambicans I have ever met to know what Judaism is (though they do seem a little worried that my people do not consider Jesus as our Savior) so we get along swimmingly.

One Ball Bowz

My dog Bowzer was the runt of his litter. He was a puny little thing to say the least. Once, when he was an adolescent puppy of about 4 or 5 months, we actually found a banana that was practically bigger than he was. He was always covered in wounds from the fights that he invariably lost at the hands of the bigger dogs, aka any other adult dog in the entire country. But his size was not the only thing that let him down in the Mozambican dog-fighting circuit. He was also just the chillest, most non-chalant, most relaxed dog ever. He simply just went with the flow and tagged along with whatever happened to be going on at the moment: dog fights, a jog into the bush with his owner, a trip to the market, an afternoon snooze under a mango tree on a hot day. Bowzer was down for anything. When the other dogs were running wild, Bowzer was right behind them, nipping at their heels, mostly just wanting to join in the fun and play around rather than fight. His preferred spot to doze off the day was in his reed-basket turned bed, contorted in any of a multitude of ridiculous sleeping positions. But most strangely, Bowzer was famous: famous throughout the neighborhood. Now why would everyone around, from a culture that both abhors and fears dogs, inevitably know about the dog of the crazy white teacher, you might ask. Well, Bowzer only had one testicle, the other one apparently undescended. The women in my neighborhood thought this fact was absolutely hilarious and would constantly blame Bowzer’s odd-dog behavior on it (as well as claim that any eccentric or bizarre human male must be as such because he is “like Bowzer,” aka with only one ball). Thus, my old roommate and I nicknamed him as “One Ball Bowz.” Basically, Bowzer was a character and I loved him dearly up until his passing just a few days ago, shortly after his first birthday.

            I am running a few trainings in the northern part of the country for the leaders of girls groups and I needed to go to a city about four hours away to access our girl’s group national bank account. So I was hitchhiking outside Invinha. And Bowzer, my other dog Devin, and two random dogs were apparently keeping me company as I waited. The four dogs were wreaking havoc in the middle of the road when a car pulled up. I was mostly concerned with flagging it down, seeing as it seemed like a safe, quick ride. I was wrong. The car ignored me and plowed right in the middle of the dogs, running over Bowzer’s two back legs, and then speeding away. Somehow Bowzer managed to drag himself to the shoulder of the road and I streaked over to him. The bones in his two back legs were severely broken and sticking straight out of his leg. It was clear he would never walk again. He was shaking from pain and couldn’t lift his head. As I tried to comfort him, I ultimately decided to pay some guys from the bush 100 meticais (about four dollars) to take him into the bush and kill him, ending the suffering he was undoubtedly experiencing. Meanwhile, a crowd formed and mocked me for petting this dying dog and talking to it in English, practically in tears. (Why is the white teacher crying over a lowly dog?) As I walked away with his collar in my hand, I heard him squealing in pain, as I can only assume he was being dragged away to face his fate. But I honestly believe I made the right decision. Even in the US it probably would have been difficult to salvage his legs, considering two of them were totally and completely mangled. If it had been only leg, I would have tried to find some, however far-fetched, way to amputate just the one leg, making me not only the crazy white lady with the uni-balled dog but also the crazy white lady with the uni-balled, three-legged dog (which I admit, would have been quite the legacy to leave on the community of Invinha). I briefly considered buying a lot of rat poison to feed to him as a means of euthanasia, but I’m glad I didn’t, as I learned afterwards that death by rat poison is incredibly painful and protracted. So, I believe the guys from the bush snapped his neck with a rope/chord. But I really had no other options. There is no vet that can administer whatever drug they use to humanely put down dogs in the US. Dogs are not a man’s best friend here during their lifetime, so that which ends it is apparently equally callous. Thankfully, Bowzer didn’t suffer too long, but as I write this, Devin and I are for sure mourning and feeling his loss.

            The week before this incident, the students at my school completed their first trimester final exams, for the first time administered by the Ministry of Education. This means that not only were the English exams full of grammatical errors, but they were also completely un-evaluative and irrelevant to the students’ lives. The text that the students had to comprehend for the 11^th grade exam was about pets in America: how we buy them their own food, treat them as a member of the family, and even use them to assist people with disabilities. Then the essay they were to write was to describe their favorite pet. This topic could not have been further removed from my students understanding of the world. Not only did they not know the word for pet when I translated it to Portuguese to help them out, but they also just do not view dogs and cats in this anthropomorphized and personified sense. It would be like asking an urban American student to write about killing a chicken, goat, or pig for dinner. Essentially, the test was exactly what I predicted it to be: the worst test they could have possibly thought to give, which is, however, another story and another tirade for another day. But as the crowd stood deriding me as I was saying goodbye to Bowzer, I couldn’t help but think about this dichotomy, between how I, an American, and the people of Invinha differ so greatly in our ideas of how dogs can fit into our lives. Obviously, there is no right answer. My dogs are seen as my children to my neighbors because of how I treat them, while Mozambicans use dogs solely to deter unwanted intruders. We all have our place.

But this blog goes out to One Ball Bowz, an odd, little dog that I absolutely loved.

Peace Corps Partnership

My colleague, a history teacher at my school, and I recently wrote and submitted a grant proposal to purchase a copy machine and printer for my school through the Peace Corps Partnership Program. This program uploads the proposal onto the Peace Corps website and allows for donations from website viewers back in the US. Once the proposed budget is fulfilled, this one at $3,923, the volunteer (me) will have access to the money to put the grant plans into action. The program has recently accepted our proposal. I have outlined what I see as the main benefit for the copy machine below: essentially, the enhancement of the quality of education my school will be able to offer the students, though its advantages will be far reaching at both the scholastic and community levels. If the statement resonates with you, the link to donate on the website is also below. A copy machine will revolutionize the capacity in which my school and the community as a whole can run, making this technology affordably available and accessible to about 16,000 people for the first time. This project will definitely make a direct impact on my community and continue to do so long after I leave. A school, by nature of the number of lives it impacts, needs a copy machine to function, and I would be honored if I could help implement this technology in the community and school I have grown to love to live in. On behalf of the people of Invinha, I thank you for your dedication to reading about our lives here through my blog, and I therefore thank anyone in advance who is able to help us realize this project.

Invinha is the only secondary school in the area and serves students who travel unfathomable distances to and from school everyday by foot or bike (up to 20km in one direction). It is also considered one of the top schools in the province (which is, however, the lowest academically performing province in the country), yet still has definite improvements to make as far as the quality and student support it offers. I believe that offering the services of printing and copying is extremely important as Invinha continues in its efforts at development, of which education (and ideally good education) is the cornerstone. As my counterpart and I began thinking of ways in which I/we can make a lasting and meaningful impact on our school, we felt that a copy machine was the most dynamic and student-centered, allowing for the most meaningful improvements to the quality of education in an area where school buildings are becoming accessible for a growing number of students but where the quality of this education is still quite lacking.

Teachers and students will be the main beneficiaries of the inauguration of these technologies. A school cannot fully function without a copy machine. When a teacher in Mozambique and at my school wants to give a test in which every student will receive his own copy (as opposed to writing a shorter, less evaluative one on the chalkboard), he mandates that every student who wishes to take the test contribute the amount for that test copy to be made and a portion of the travel fees the teacher will accrue on his way to the city about 20km away, which has the nearest copy machine. With all the disciplines each student takes (up to 11 in some grades), this fee becomes exorbitant to all, and wholly restrictive to some, by the end of the academic year. By lowering the price for copies and printing and not requiring teachers to travel to the city to copy tests, more students will be more able to contribute and take the test, allowing more students to pass more classes. Furthermore, when a teacher wants to use a text or handout in class, he also requires a contribution from students for the printing and copying of said document. Teachers therefore rarely do this, instead they must write it all out on the board or dictate it aloud, and the students copy the information, which wastes valuable class time that could be better allocated elsewhere. This time could be used in a more enhanced manner to more deeply discuss, explain, and practice the information if they were able to cheaply disseminate texts, worksheets, handouts, etc to their students. The introduction of the technologies will tremendously improve the quality of education the students receive on a daily basis at my school. After the teachers are briefed on the great value these easily accessible machines can have on their teaching, they will be able to incorporate student-centered and creative plans into their lessons that will increase their students’ academic gratification and performance. The acquisition of skills and knowledge that simple handouts can provide in a classroom setting is vast and downright important, and can only be introduced to the school through the purchase and implementation of the printer and copy machine that these funds will ultimately buy.

Again, thank you for your continued time and support in reading my blog, especially this one. We here in Invinha thank you in advance for any support you may be able to give, helping us in a very necessary way to provide a higher quality of education to our students.

Use this link to read more about the proposal and to donate:

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=640-030

Thinking Critically about Critical Thinking

When I was preparing to come to Mozambique, I knew that there would be obvious discrepancies between the culture in which I had lived for 22 years and between the new one that would ideally be my home for two and a half years. I figured there would be differences in the family make-up and dynamic, which is definitely true. Women are undoubtedly in charge of all work around the house and are at the whim of the man who ideally has some sort of job, but most commonly works in the machamba (family field) or lounges all day, with the woman and children often also pitching in at the machamba as well. “Man of the House” is to put it nicely. The man may or may not have other wives, children, houses, and lives in another part of town or even in another town. Women do not even refer to their husbands by their name, but rather as the father of their child: my friend Cristina refers to her husband not as Benvindo, his name, but as “pãe de Zuria” (father of Zuria, her daughter). I also figured that there would be a disparity among family planning practices, which couldn’t be more true. Women begin having children at unfathomably young ages, often with much older men, and continue to have children until they are biologically unable. Women have an average of like 7 kids and think I am crazy to be almost 24 and not have even one child. I figured there would be differences in food, which obviously there are. I figured there would be differences in what is considered acceptable conditions to live, which is needless to say, right on the money. And these examples are just a few of the things I predicted I would come across, and thus they have taken only minor effort to get the hang of and accept (not that I don’t try to talk young girls out of having children at the age of 13).

There have also, however, been a myriad of aspects of my life here that I didn’t anticipate. Some were very easy to get the hang of, like pretending that I take 3 baths a day to fit in, or hiring someone to sweep the dirt in my front yard everyday so my yard is as “bonito” as everyone else’s and to avoid suspicion or condescension. My shoes get scrubbed, as do my floors, and I now do not get as upset anymore when someone in the 2-hour ATM line has 7 cards, meaning he had been delegated by family and friends to take out money for all of them, slowing up the line. I now know that most Mozambicans are almost unsettlingly nice and it is culturally inappropriate to not do something for someone when asked, stranger or not. They help each other out, which can get annoying when they slow the bank lines and when their excuse for being late to class is that they were conversing with a friend they saw on the road, but it is also admirable. Whenever I am in a pinch, someone will help, which I cannot always say about the fast-paced, busy culture back home. But there are also many more unanticipated differences that have recently really gotten to me.

Prior to my time in Moz, I did not realize that logical reasoning and critical thinking skills are not innate human qualities. Somehow, my students are able to fix anything tangible with any materials they find randomly around them, which is indeed a form of problem solving, but they are unable to problem solve in the classroom when presented with more theoretical concepts. They will get every drop of ink out of a pen (and spend hours attempting to scavenge this last drop) but the concept of singular and plural nouns is lost on them. They can regurgitate that singular means “one” and plural means “many” as I have taught them, but when I say “Maria” or “Mozambique” and ask if it is singular or plural, I get 50 blank stares back at me. “How many people is Maria?” I ask, and again I am greeted with 50 looks of confusion. I anticipated that Mozambican students would not have the same skill set as someone of the same grade in America, but I did fully understand why that was. Yes, it is because these schools operate without proper materials and books. Yes, it is because these schools are understaffed and over-enrolled. Yes, it is because the teachers have minimal training. Yes, it is because school is cancelled whenever it rains because the noise the rain makes on the tin roofs makes it impossible to be heard throughout the classroom. These things I knew would be obstacles with which I would have to combat but I thought that would be it. I didn’t realize that the school system was so terrible for so many other reasons, and it has taken me almost 18 months to really grasp it all, most of which is not the fault of anyone or anything except probably a 20-year civil war of destruction. Education here is a passive experience. You show up and you disinterestedly listen to a teacher dictate something from a book and BAM, you are “learning.” Corruption is rampant, which goes beyond the expected grade changing and favoritism, which I had sort of expected to encounter and think I could deal with if it ended there. When a student has reached 11^th grade by copying everything from other students and relying on teachers to arbitrarily hand out grades without really reading what the students write, all of which is corruption, the students have no incentive to turn in individual, creative work. I try to tell the students “Each one of us has our own, good, individual ideas! And I want to know what your ideas are, not the ideas of someone else! Not the ideas I wrote on the board as examples! I already know what I think! I want to know what you think!” But this concept means nothing to them. They have no experience with it. The boy that works for me once asked me for help with his Design/Art class homework, and one of the questions was something to the effect of “Why is art important?” We discussed it for a while until he had formulated his own, individual, and I think very inspired idea of the importance of art, which he then wrote down on the paper. When he got the homework back, he had received no credit for this response because it was different than what the book says. Our school library, mind you, has one copy of the 10^th grade Design/Art book, which the 10^th grade Art/Design teacher keeps in his house, meaning no student can access said book. So this kid is doomed if he thinks in an original or imaginative manner and doomed if he doesn’t because he has no means of getting to the book with the “right” answer. By the time the students reach my class, they have been conditioned that they don’t have to put any real effort or thought into school to get by, which is utterly demoralizing. I realize many American students have these same lazy, apathetic ideas regarding education, so for me the absolute devastation I feel upon entering the classroom everyday is that here I am, teaching students who don’t care, and don’t even know how to care, without any materials. And I often think, what is the point? 

Mozambicans also have what my old roommate used to call “chefe syndrome,” which is the complete and utter submission to the chefe (the boss or the person is power). Mozambique had a devastating civil war soon after gaining independence, which ended less than 20 years ago. Frelimo is the party that has been in power since then and because of the atrocities of the civil war, everyone is scared shitless of being seen as part of the opposition. Therefore, even if they disagree with the government, with their teacher, with their father, with their boss, with anyone in a position of authority, they applaud them. The other day I found out that the Ministry of Education is going to write and administer our final exams for the trimester. This is brand-new policy. I decided this year to change around the curriculum to a sequence that made more sense to me, which means I have already taught things at the end of the curriculum and have not yet gotten to things at the beginning, concomitantly meaning that all my students will inevitably fail the exam that the Ministry of Ed gives. And there is one week left in the trimester. When my colleague told me the news, his wife, my friend Cristina, who is in my 11^th grade class, just sat there. I looked at her and said “Aren’t you upset?! You are going to fail the test and fail English for the trimester!” She just shrugged, “What am I supposed to do?” My thoughts: I don’t know! Get angry! Get passionate! This is your education, your key to a potentially better life for your daughter and sitting here passively is the worst thing you can do! But Mozambicans submit to authority at all costs. This is also why I can’t level with my students and hold an actual conversation about why being late to class is unacceptable, because they will inevitably stand there, head bowed, wholly silent and unresponsive, because I am the authority figure so what I say goes. Anyone who knows me knows that making your opinion heard is of utmost importance and so I hate when my students think I will get mad if they assert themselves in their interactions with me. If they only knew that I would actually just hug them and maybe make them cookies were they to do so. I had sort of figured before I arrived in Mozambique that corruption would be the norm in all aspects of life, and that the ruling power might be conceived as all-mighty, infallible, and frightening, but I didn’t understand what that really meant and how society is so affected by it in so many aspects until I began to experience it every day. I have been thinking recently about what I suppose that development programs here, like Peace Corps, USAID, etc, in Mozambique should do to help most effectively and I honestly don’t know. Did I think that my, personally, being here was going to bring dramatic change on a large scale? Absolutely not. And I don’t know anymore what I thought my being here would accomplish. But I am now of the mindset that critical thinking and logical reasoning skills being taught in school beginning from grade 1 could do absolute wonders. How should we do that you might ask? Your guess is as good as mine.

I apologize if this post is too negative. But after 18 months in Mozambique, hitting a wall is inevitable. Outside the classroom, life is good. 

Form Before Function

There is a general Mozambican ideal that I have termed “form before function.” It can be seen in all aspects of life, and generally makes me want to pull out my hair. At the airport for example, sometimes you put your bags on the counter for an airport employee to do a cursory check of the top few items for illegal substances (good thing they were hidden at the bottom…kidding!). Sometimes the airport employee will actually put your bag through an electronic scanner that may or may not be working. But remember, form before function, so even if it doesn’t work, the electronic bag scanner must be used if it is there. Then, you will be directed to walk through a metal detector that again, may or may not be working. Per usual, however, said metal detector will assuredly be utilized either way. If it is working, I always beep because I have inevitably forgotten to take off my belt or remove my cell-phone from my pocket (I am a bad traveling American I know…), but I just show the relatively disinterested airport employees the item on me that was the culprit and I am waved forward. I then think to myself, yes, the cell-phone in my pocket made the metal detector go off but so did the explosive or gun attached to my leg. Obviously, I don’t have anything like that on me, but I am always pretty weary of boarding a plane with such lax security measures. But the metal detector must be employed in form even if its function is difficult to spot and comprehend.

            Furthermore, there are laws against serving alcohol to persons under 18, laws mandating seat belts, and laws prohibiting riding in the back of a truck. There are laws to protect young girls from rape by their teachers, and against domestic violence. Police officers are ideally supposed to protect and to maintain order in ways aside from random traffic checks that solely result in monetary, or even sexual favor, bribes (Protect and serve? No. Police officers intimidate and extort here). Robbers, rapists, and murderers are supposed to go to jail. These jails, however, are barely existent, and those that are often let prisoners roam the nearest town. Laws not enforced because even if they were, the jails are a joke since police officers, like teachers and other government functionaries, are rarely paid, leaving them with no incentive to work, and ultimately, there could be no follow up on fines: Yes officer, please send my ticket to the third thatched-roof house after the mango tree with a spiny trunk on the road with no name in the town that everyone just calls “that town with market day on Tuesday.” Obviously, there are laws and jails in form, but in function, it is virtually impossible to enforce or use them.

            This tendency of favoring form before function is also easily observed in the school system. For example, students routinely spend hours making a beautiful cover-page for their often shitty 5-sentence composition that they mostly copied from a friend in a few minutes. The composition might not be very good at all, but it will be pretty, that’s for damn sure. Furthermore, I missed a week of school for a Peace Corps conference at the beginning of the year, but I arrived back just in time to be forced to meet with all the other English teachers to “plan out” the year. Because the other 9^th and 11^th grade teachers had decided, those lucky bastards, that they couldn’t be there, I was able to do my “plan” myself. When I was done, I handed my “plan” into the English department head. It was a rather detailed account of what topics I intended to cover every week of the year, more or less in accordance with the state-approved, yet quite laughable, curriculum. The English department head was displeased with my work. His two concerns: I didn’t write anything as having been taught during the week I had been out of town, and I was beginning the year by teaching dictionary use and parts of speech (two topics which I knew were not in the curriculum but which I had deemed as absolutely worthy of my and my students’ attention). When I tried to explain this logical reasoning (a concept that is lost on people here), he told me that I had to at least say I had taught something the week when I wasn’t there (which is ridiculous because substitute teachers do not exist here so obviously the kids didn’t learn anything) and that I could not say I was teaching something outside of the curriculum. I had to say the proper things on my year’s schedule, but he didn’t care if I showed up to class or not or what I taught. My year’s plan just had to appear to be what the government wanted, but no one, probably not even the ministry of education itself, cared what I actually did with my students. My plan had to have the correct, curriculum-based form, even if its content was never realized.

            Like many school systems throughout Africa and the world, learning is based on rote memorization. Again, this is form before function. Students have to appear to have learned something by demonstrating they can vomit the exact words from their notebooks onto the test, but it doesn’t matter if they understand said concepts or if they can apply them to anything useful. I always tell my students “Use your head! Activate and turn on your brain!” because I believe that many of my students have vast academic capabilities no one has ever tried to unleash. But they have been so conditioned to learn a certain way, which is vastly different and foreign to me, so it’s a learning process for all of us. Some of my 9^th grade students, who are from deep in the bush, are totally illiterate, which is devastating every time I encounter it. They can copy the shapes of letters and words that I have written on the board, with absolutely no comprehension. But, according to form, they go to school everyday, and who cares what they have actually gained from it. It is the same with many rural primary schools. The kids show up every day; their parents or guardians can say, “Yes, my children go to school.” (A book I am reading about development in Mozambique claimed the following to be a recurrent utterance during interviews, “My kids can go to school, but my pockets are still empty”). But these kids do not necessarily enter the classroom everyday or learn anything if they do because most of these schools are barely staffed. The process and declaration of kids arriving at the school grounds is sufficient, as if the act of walking 2km with a notebook in the crook of the arm or tied to the back with a piece of cloth will magically infuse the brain with knowledge. The government can say that x number of kids are learning to read and that x number of 12^th graders are learning calculus because it is in the curriculum and teachers have signed that they taught it. Mozambique can consequently continue to receive foreign aid (yes, our tax dollars). Very few students, however, actually accomplish the tasks at hand. The curricula for different disciplines are just far too vast and far too hard for the majority of students to hang with it. But it was written down and approved so implementation is secondary. Form before function is generally the only thing that makes me upset on a regular basis here, and yet is also makes me proud of the miniscule minority of students and teachers that are able to make something of the educational system, learn, and grow.

Our water-pump for our neighborhood is currently having problems. The water trickles out so slowly that it takes forever for a bucket to fill. With 20 houses using the pump, and I would say an average of 7 people per household (except mine), that is a lot of water being used every day. So to counteract the problem, which leaves the unlucky few up past midnight for their turn filling up their buckets, my neighbors have created a system. But I have no idea what that system is. And I have tried my best to understand. I have asked. I have observed. I have sat for hours at the pump trying to understand the system. And the only rationale I have come up with is that there is no system. I would bet that some wise fool made the grand statement that some existential process existed and everyone just regurgitated the sentiment without pondering what the bylines of said process were. Instead, they just bicker and steal each other’s places in line, justifying their behavior by demanding they are acting under the all-mighty system. All of this leads me to believe that the lack of a proper orderliness or logic to the water-pump-line is the most deeply underlying cause. In this case, the lack of form has resulted in the lack of function. So maybe the existence of an arrangement that people can cling to and follow, no matter how futile the arrangement, prevents situations such as this. And in that sense, I would have to cast my vote for form, even if it stands independent of function, as seems to be the norm here in Moz.

Aside from the battle between form and function being realized at the water pump, other news has hit the neighborhood. My friend Elsa finally had her baby! Her husband is a Portuguese teacher at my school, and she teaches at the primary school (her husband also has another wife in the city…totally normal). I walked by her house on my way to the trash-pit the other day and she said, “Ana, my daughter has arrived!” so I ran over and beheld the beautiful, HUGE, and strong baby girl sleeping on the reed mat in between her older brother and sister. She does not yet have a name (though when I asked, Elsa told me I could name her if I had an idea, which freaked me out so I let it go), but I must say that holding a 6 hour-old baby is awesome. Apparently, Elsa had been having contractions all day (though she didn’t say anything during the hour I was with her and some other women that afternoon), and asked our other neighbor to walk with her to the health post at 10pm. She “worked hard” (her words, not mine) until 8am, when her daughter was born. They came home soon after, but not before her husband had gone to work for the day…totally normal. Elsa looked damn good for having just given birth hours before, washing clothes in the front yard as if nothing life-changing had just happened, because per usual, another Mozambican woman has a whole lot of força (strength and energy).