Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Esengo - Partie II
On Friday morning, I made a new friend. This is me with Dieu Merçi, "Thanks to God" in French, and Dieume for short. He is two. Dieume is a neighbour's little one who spends more time with the Mandefus than he does at his own home. Until Friday morning, he was so afraid of me - the first mondele he had ever seen - that he wouldn't even go near the house. This quickly became the running joke of the whole building. People kept trying to bring him into the house, but every time he saw me he'd run away screaming and crying. And then we'd all laugh.
So Friday morning, his mother had had enough. She brought him down to see me, and when he started crying and pulling away from the door she scooped him up and said "Stop! You will say hello to the maman" (have you ever tried to reckon with a Congolese woman?). This abruptly stopped his tantrum and she carried him over to me. I said bonjour, and he very poutily said BONJOUR! I said comment ça vas? He looked down and, totally unimpressed with meing forced to greet me, said CA VAS BIEN! When I held out my hand to him, the panic began to set in again and he started pulling away. One short 'eeh!' from his mother nipped that in the bud, and he let me shake his hand. Well. That was it. We were best friends from that moment on, and I became Yaya Megan (the Lingala word for big sister).
I really did become like and feel like a big sister to all of those kids; Elie, Debora, Esther, Beni, and Dieume. Even to some of the young orphaned girls and filles-mères. By the end of the weekend I had so many names flying around, from Maman Christianne to Yaya Esengo, that I could very well have forgotten my real name. Just plain old Megan. How dull (just kidding, Dad). Whenever I went out, the kids crowded around me and even sometimes on top of me the minute I returned.
After I got back from my first stay in Maluku, my mom informed me that her friend has put my name forward to speak on a panel next International Women's Day or Week about gender equality in Congo. After having told her about my weekend and experience with the young women the day I left, she and my aunt and uncle and me had a bit of a simultaneous epiphany: what better venue to give these girls and women a voice? Les Mamans agreed. So Friday night a group of eighteen young girls and women, some of the ALFEMADEC women, Papa Benjamin (to translate from Lingala to French for me) and I gathered under the tree to begin recording these women's lives. Over the course of the weekend I spoke with 28 women - not even an eighth of the women of Maluku who are living in desparity. Here are a few of them.
Fina Caidor is an orphan. She is 19 years old and has never gone to school. She is not married. Fina can sew, and makes a bit of an income as a seamstress, but doesn't own a sewing machine or have any material to work with. She is currently living with Maman Martine, as she has no means to support herself. She wants very much to go to school and learn to read and write.
Matondo is a mother. She is 19 and her father has passed away. She had to quit school when she was 14 because her family couldn't afford her school fees. Her older brothers kicked her out of the house soon after, telling her that she was useless and 'may as well just go and get pregnant.' Her husband left her a week after their son was born and she doesn't know where he is. His family refuses to speak with her. Matondo has no job and few employable skills. She wants to study so that she can raise her son and take care of her mother.
Bubala Pembe Mubaya is 36 and a mother of three (unfortunately, I wasn't able to get a picture of her). She has also taken in her younger sister's son. None of her children, between the ages of four and twelve, are in school because she has no means to pay their tuition. Her husband abandoned her only a couple of years ago. Bubala works in the fields and the forest collecting produce to sell in the market to feed and clothe her children, but this is not nearly adequate. She would very much like to be a seamstress because it pays much better, but she has no sewing machine or any of the other materials necessary.
How can I leave this place? By Monday, Matondo and Fina had also begun calling me yaya. They were so sweet. Shy as all get out, but sweet nonetheless. They begun sitting next to me, smiling at me; Matondo even began passing me her son whenever we wer
e together. Maman Martine's daughter Natalie braided my hair. The ALFEMADEC women began giving me gifts. Maman Martine had some material of hers sewn into a Congolese outfit for me. Maman Yvete sent me home with an entire regime of plantains because I like fried makemba so much. And the afternoon I left, Maman Eugenie sent me off with money. She gave me money. 5000 Congolese francs. It was later explained to me that this is a regular practice for communities when their children who are students come home to visit. They understand that students are broke, and will generally collect a sum of money to send them off with so that they can pick up something they need; food, shoes, clothing, school supplies. These women with barely any means at all sent me, their student daughter, away with 5000 francs to buy myself something I need.
This was the point at which I lost it.
I burst into tears again! They all said stop, don't cry, this isn't a sad time (as their eyes filled with tears) and turned me around and sent me down the hill to where the driver was waiting to take me back to Kin. Loading me into the truck turned into a big sob fest. Everyone from my host family was there to send me off, as well as half of the neighbourhood who had begun to gather around to find out why the mondele was crying. Shit, I'm tearing up just thinking about it. They took me into their homes and shared their lives with me. They gave me a Congolese name. They called me their niece, their daughter, their sister, their mother. My family here in Congo.
Tell me, how can I leave this place?
I want to build them a school - free education with child care. I want to build them decent housing with plumbing and electricity. I want to publish their stories - not for resale, just for them. I want to learn from them and grow with them. I want to laugh with them. My family here in Congo.
No comments:
Post a Comment