How these Sisters are foster and adoptive mothers, good ones at that - August 29, 2012

I had lunch with the Salesian Sisters at the Provincial House on a Wednesday. It was very nice. I got the chance to listen to them share stories about their work, their lives. It is always enlightening for me. I have heard from some of the girls how they regard the Sisters, especially the one or ones they are closest to as family. Those girls who don’t have parents, neither Mom or Dad or no Mom, usually end up in the care of the Sisters and many stay until they can be on their own.

 

I recall talking to Mathilde about it when she told me about her pending engagement party. I asked if she was inviting or expecting family to come to the ‘presentation’ but she told me that Sister Hildegard is her family and that is who she is expecting. Mathilde has neither mother nor father. I have been blessed to see the girls who have grown up with someone stable in their lives and are now ready to leave the nest and be full-grown, contributing members of society. I have also seen the little ones who struggle to find that someone.

 

At lunch that day, Sr. Josephine talked about Rebekka. Rebekka is a small child about two years old, round face, cherubic cheeks, bright eyes with pools of black, a generous smile, she is round, bubbly and a little chubby. I always saw Rebekka when Sr. Josephine came from Sanga Mamba to Café Mozart for supplies or to visit. Every time Sr. Josephine was there, so was Rebekka. All the girls loved her, she is such a sweet and alluring child. Shy at first, but friendly. It took her a while to acclimate to the Austrians, she cried at first because she hadn’t seen white people before, but then she got used to them. I hadn’t heard her story before, but at lunch that day Sr. Josephine shared her story.

 

Rebekka came to the Sisters at Sanga Mamba, starving and malnourished, beaten and abused a year ago. A relative dropped her off one day. She was a skinny thing then and looked the part of the starving child and didn’t say a word, she was very young, but either extremely shy or too traumatized to say anything. Sr. Josephine talked to the Sisters at the table and I sat right next to her so I heard her story first-hand, though in French. At this point, I had spent 10 weeks in Kinshasa so my comprehension was very good. I heard words I’m familiar with working in child welfare:  abuse, maltreated, traumatized. Unmistakeable even in French.

 

Sr. Josephine explained to us as she had to the relative that they don’t normally take in such young children. Children come to them to attend school and live there as ‘internes’ when they are old enough for school five years old or thereabouts. Rebekka was very young. Sr. Josephine was reluctant to take her in at that young age but couldn’t refuse, the child was young yes but needed someone to take care of her and raise her. How could Sr. Josephine say no to that? So she took her in and became her adopted mother.

 

Sr. Josephine was at the Provincial House in Lubumbashi for a week, and told us that she talks to Rebekka on the telephone every day while she is away and that Rebekka calls her ‘mama’. She is surprised now that the child is talking so much and tells us about it because when she first came to Sr. Josephine she didn’t talk at all, not one word. But after time with Sr. Josephine, Rebekka began feeling comfortable, safe and loved. The last time I saw her before I left Kinshasa, she even sang for me ‘bon anniversaire’. What a sweet child! It is always hard to imagine that someone would abuse such a beautiful, innocent, little child, but they do and it can’t be explained or understood. I am grateful and happy that in the DRC the Salesian Sisters are there for these girls, especially the littlest ones. They are sisters to some and mothers to others.

“A-eh Marie-Lauren!” and how that greeting started and evolved – August 29, 2012

Just by being here you have an impact. But you never know what that impact is or how it feels, you just know you are here to be with people, to show them you care, to help, to lend your skills, to do whatever it is that you can do. I didn’t realize my impact or influence on the girls until the night of Bijou’s wedding.

It all started with Katey. I don’t know why, I don’t think it was because I am Canadian, I don’t think anyone here knows the universal Canadian ‘eh!’ and I am 99% sure I didn’t use it here because I was speaking French instead of English, but you never know when it is ingrained as it is. It may also be that is how Katey talks. One morning, it began very musical and rhythmic “A-eh
Marie-Lauren!” and I replied with the same melody “A-eh Ka-tey!” and so it went. Every morning and then every time we saw each other, “A-eh (name)!” It became like a greeting and salutation all in one, it reassured the other that everything was all right, spirits were good, one’s health and happiness was intact enough to say ‘hi-howareyou-Imfine” all in one word.

Even if Katey was in serious conversation with someone or with others or if she was busy working, if she saw me she gave me her great big smile with all white teeth against her rich ebony skin and that familiar greeting. I knew that everything was okay with her, I replied signalling all was well with me. Even if I wasn’t feeling right, slightly out of sorts, lonely or misunderstood, hearing that greeting from Katey lifted my spirits and reminded me that
everything was alright in the world because I was with people I cared for who cared for me.

It started almost right away, week one for sure if not day one. It was an unusual way for me to remember her name and for her mine, but it worked. It spread to the other girls as well. They challenged me to remember their names as well. I did. I had to write down over 60 names on a tiny piece of paper and after two weeks I had them all. And then many weeks after, when there were new girls at the school beginning their training and formation, they heard the greeting and joined in. They were new to me and I hadn’t room in my head for more names so I replied with just an “A-eh!” One of the girls challenged me, she told me her name was Lucie and that she expected when she greeted me with “A-eh Marie-Lauren!” I would reply with “A-eh, Lu-cie!”

I was shocked, surprised and slightly embarrassed in a good way that the girls all knew this greeting at the wedding. I looked good, dressed in a short pink-striped dress that I bought with Matilde at the Grand Marche, I did my hair and makeup and my nails. I was quite a sight. Even Sr. Hildegard commented on the length of my skirt. They are such real people sometimes I forget they are nuns. I am looking good and I am just sauntering to my room to freshen up after dinner and before the dancing begins. I was seated early so I didn’t get to see all the girls before dinner, but I have to pass them on my way out. I was totally caught off guard when to my surprise instead of a hi or hello, ‘salut’ or ‘bon soir’, there is a chorus of “A-eh Marie-Lauren!”

Every girl there that I knew gave me this greeting, and if they were slow to join in the chorus, they added their greetings like an echoing wave. Oh my! It was fantastic. Way to make a girl feel special! I’m not normally shy, but when you are centred out like that it can be a bit overwhelming. It may have been my imagination or not, but I’m sure everyone heard that greeting cause I think a chorus of 46 or so girls can be pretty loud. I didn’t even look back as I left to see if heads turned, I imagine they did. (Pictured here is me with Terese).

Those girls were so nice to give me that attention. I had tried over the 10 weeks I was at Café Mozart to give them mine. I see that they returned the favour. Much appreciated.

Upon realizing these girls don’t have family, some don’t have the bonds that are essential for normal growth and development – August 7, 2012

I was very sad yesterday. I don’t know if it was the malaria pills or the tiny cold I had that’s making me sensitive, but I cried deeply for the little girls.

We had visitors from Sanga Mamba yesterday, they came with the Sisters, ‘Les Soeurs’, and stayed for most of the day and left in the evening. When they were leaving at 8pm that night, the littlest one bawled and you could hear her cries from inside the café while she and the others piled into the truck outside to go back to Sanga Mamba. I think she made friends with the girls here, reconnected with the ones who are staying here from Sanga Mamba, and didn’t want to leave them or us. It made me so sad to hear her crying.

Many of the girls here are from Sanga Mamba so when the Sisters visit, all the girls run to them with screams and shouts and give them big bear hugs. So many of them are attached to the Soeurs, their foster moms. They need to be. I think the Sisters ‘Soeurs’ have enough love to raise all these kids and keep them in their hearts. I think it is good that some women can be devoted and committed to that life and be foster moms to so many children who need them.

Sometimes though, a few slip through those arms and are without attachments. As we watched the girls playing in ‘le salon’, the tv room for the Sisters that all the petites are welcomed to hang out in, we noticed some things. The littlest one who bawled upon leaving is 2 years old and receives much of the attention because she is the littlest and for now, the cutest. Then there is Ma-do, who is five years old, sassy and cute and she knows it. When the littlest one is not here, Ma-do is ‘le plus petite’ and gets all the attention. Then there is Sarah who is like a middle child. She is neither the youngest not the oldest of the petites nor has she found a way to be. Sarah is ‘metis’ meaning she is of fair complexion and mixed. They called me ‘metis’ here also when I first arrived. I have explained the double meanings of ‘metis’ here and ‘Metis’ in Canada. I’m Trini
and thus mixed so yes, like ‘metis’ but maybe different. Definitely, there is ‘shadeism’ here as there is anywhere there is difference even if it is slight, but I don’t think that is troubling Sarah as much as being in the middle.

While the littlest one was getting all the attention, Sarah was writhing on the ground, playing all kinds of zany tricks. Last night, she pretended to be blind with her eyes squeezed tight and reached out to grab the littlest one by the arm or the hair. I wasn’t sure what this was but I had seen it before, I’m not a social worker so I hadn’t done the analysis. Two of the Austrians volunteers are social workers so sometimes we have chats about social work and child protection. The other times I had seen Sarah act out was when Ma-do was getting all the attention for being cute and Marina, the oldest of the petites, had a running joke with me where she would try to ‘mange mon corps’--nibble on my neck and I would tickle her. It was Marina’s and my thing, but Sarah was also trying it out, trying to fit in. Sarah hasn’t found her own thing as yet.

Yesterday evening, Julia remarked to me that Sarah acts out because she doesn’t have a close attachment to any one person. Julia has noticed that Sarah acts out, rolling her body all over the couch or the floor, doing all kinds of arm-flailing to get some attention even if it’s negative attention. Oh, how my heart ached for her and for all the girls. Then I remember that I’m at a
boarding school for girls that is more like a foster/group home for children and girls who don’t have families. I cried from the depths of my heart.

Some do have the familial attachments, some have gone ‘home’ to Grandparents, God-parents,
aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers and a few to parents for their vacations. Some have no one and no place to go. Then I realize that so many of these children and girls do not have a mother-father or mother relationship. They, and we, rely heavily on the Sisters to provide the guidance, discipline, love and affection that 50-odd young girls between the ages of 5 and 18 need.

In my work in Toronto, Ontario with child welfare, we have long preached that children fare
well in a family-setting. Children need the bonding and attachment of one family or one stable adult in their lives. Here I see what happens when that is not the case. I cried, not for myself, but for all the girls who don’t have a family or a close attachment to one. They are again stronger than I for I have that attachment and can’t imagine my life without it.

Later on I witnessed something entirely different. The next night, Sister Yolande called all the ‘filles’ downstairs to say hello to the Sisters from Sanga Mamba, who had returned for another visit though brief. There were such shouts of glee and joy and laughter. There were hugs and kisses, strange handshakes and jumping on backs and lifting people up. Even the Austrians got right into it. When I saw the girls hugging each other even after the Sisters had gone I realized that they at least have each other. They have family of a different kind. For that, I am entirely grateful.

La musique du Congo, the music of Congo--only a sample, just a taste – July 31, 2012

I have experienced some of the music of Congo and of Africa but only a little. J’ai ecoute la musique du Congo et d’Afrique mais un peu seul. As they say here, ‘petite à petite’. I’ve been invited to the night clubs but will wait a bit before I go out, it would be nice to go out with the friends I’ve made here and to see how the Congolese socialize and dance.

In the meantime, I’ve been to the Fikin – amusement park for children – and watched and listened to a couple concerts with live music. I’ve been singing with the girls here a little, learning some music and teaching some. Little by little, I’m experiencing Congo.

I went to the ‘Fikin’ with the Austrian girls. The sons of a friend of Sister Hildegard invited the girls out and there was room so I got to go along also. We managed to fit nine people in the SUV; there were the five Austrians, plus me, the two sons and one of them’s girlfriend. This was the closest the Austrians have gotten to the experience of transport in Kinshasa. We passed taxi vans filled with people on our way to the ‘Fikin’ and I explained, and they could see for themselves, that there were five or six rows of people in the van knee-to-knee and knee-to-back. The vans have five or six, more often six, wooden benches secured in the van for easily 24 people or 30 people. Transportation is cheap here though so 500FC or $0.50 is not too much to pay for convenience if not for spaciousness.

At the ‘Fikin’, we watched two small concerts. At the first concert people were seated and more relaxed and the host invited children up on stage to dance. I joined with a chair dance when the DJ played ‘Chop my money’ and all the littles danced on stage and we all danced in our seats. We remarked that we could easily imagine the ‘petites’ at Café Mozart on the same stage. (I was glad for the break to be out on my one day off but I was wistful thinking about the girls being able to enjoy the ‘Fikin’ also). At the second concert everyone was standing and moving to the music, it was gospel music so more dynamic and exuberant. Even though I don’t understand the words the music is beautiful.

But the most fun was learning a song from the girls on Monday night. We sung together last week sometime and heard the girls sing “Lord, I lift your name on high” in English, French and Lingala and we all wanted to learn the song in Lingala especially. After dinner yesterday, some of us gathered in the courtyard and sang a little and talked a little. The lights flickered and went out. Of course, the chorus of ‘oohhs’ ensued plus a few ‘oh nos’, but for the most part we just chilled and enjoyed the moments in the dark. My eyes got used to the darkness pretty quickly because the moon was almost full and thus very bright so it wasn’t really that dark. “What do you do when the lights go out?” one of the Austrian girls asked. I don’t have a good answer for that but I’d rather chill and hang out with people than stay in my room in the dark, because the only thing I can do there is sleep. We just chilled and hung out, sang a bit, talked a bit. The lights flickered on and then off again.

People kept asking me when I would be singing. I love singing but this was a command performace that I hadn’t prepared for. Noella told everyone that day that I would serenade them with Alicia Keys’ “No one” at night. My French is not that bad but I’m pretty sure Noella and I talked about ‘on va chanter’, as in ‘we’ will sing. Earlier that day for the English class, Noella and I translated “No one” together. In the moonlight under the Kinshasa night sky, I sang one line at a time and Noella gave the meaning in French.

Sometimes I forget that she is a teenager. It wasn’t until someone made fun of how she delivered the chorus in French that I remembered she is only seventeen. The chorus is “no one, no one, no one-un-un-unnh” in English; Noella spoke slowly and without much emotion, ‘Personne. Personne. Personne.’ rather matter-of-factly. These are words she is saying, not singing, and it was incredibly funny how dead-pan was her delivery. When someone laughed a little and remarked how flat Noella gave the ‘personne’ part, she got mightily offended and feigned annoyance. It was hilarious, I couldn’t help the situation at all because I continued to laugh, but I would bury my head in my lap so it wouldn’t seem that I was laughing at her. In her broken English, which must sound a lot like my French, she says “You make fun of me! I not sing for you no more.” And so it went. It was so amusing, we had to apologize and encourage her to continue with platitudes and graciousness. Teenage girls are so much fun!

Noella also led our learning of the gospel song, “Lord, I lift your name on high” in English, French and Lingala. A mountain of hilarity again with the teenaged antics. But we sang it in three languages. It was great to learn the French and Lingala with the help of Matilde, Vanessa, Crystal and also Lumiere who gave us the words and chords. I hope to come away with more music, language and culture and I hope to be able to give back more than I receive.

On how art is a reflection of the artist and the world they live in - July 26, 2012

I got the chance to hang out with the girls on a Sunday, we ended up taking a walk to the Academie des Beaux-Artes, which is not far from Café Mozart. I have passed by it in a car but I didn’t realize it was so close. We took a little walk, me and 2 young women and 3 little girls. Nous faisions a promenade a l’Academie des Beaux-Artes ou les artes et sculptures restent ici. Even the walk was fun.

It was really nice, there were sculptures galore just as in Rodin’s garden in Paris. I took lots of pictures at both sculpture gardens, especially of the sculptures I really likes. “The Kiss” is one beautiful sculpture, so passionate, Rodin quite exquisitely captures two lovers clearly enamoured of each other in an embrace at the moment just before their lips touch. You can feel and sense the tension there. I quite enjoyed that and had more time on my own to reflect on the art. I’ll go back to Beaux-Artes and reflect, it was beautiful but sad also, at the same time there were concrete and stone sculptures of moms cradling babies (made me wistful), there were also sculptures of war and abuse, army men with guns one poking someone in the back in a menacing way, a man beating a woman. Tortured. The arts speaks for the artists who are Congolese who have been through something. It was beautiful and sad and I’ll go back another day on the weekend.

Walking along side the road I am struck by a gallery of another kind, for some strange reason I haven’t figured out the word for garbage, but the gallery of plastic bottles that are littering the landscape surrounds me and I am struck by it. I took pictures surreptitiously with my cellphone. The plastic bottle is the only piece of garbage that stands out among all other garbage because it refuses to be obliterated like the pieces of paper mercilessly crushed by passing vehicles and trampled by feet. The plastic bottle withstands all pressures and remains, flattened but intact, perhaps missing its lid but unbroken.

Playing in the dark - thank God the power finally went out - July 24, 2012

I know it sounds odd but I thank God the power finally went out on Monday night. It was going to be a usual night like any other, after prayers and dinner, I watch some TV with the girls in their verandah-esque open-to-the-outside TV/sitting room. I usually watch for a half-hour or so then it’s time for me to tuck myself in, 'je me couche'.

Monday night was different and how I enjoyed it! Sometimes after prayers and dinner I end up dancing with a few girls, even if I dance well they laugh. Sometimes they laugh because I catch on so quickly and it’s a surprise to them. My favourite experience has been dancing with them to “Sh’took my money”, which I think is ‘she took my money’, it’s a great and fun African song in English so for me it’s easy to understand and everyone else gets it as well; it’s a very popular song, I’m sure I’ve heard it everywhere I’ve gone. There are even dance moves and gestures for the song and everyone sings along. “Sh’took my money, sh’took my money, sh’took my money, and I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.” (search on the web).

So Monday night I plopped myself on the couch as invited, “Marie-Lauren, assiez-toi,” but we were watching music videos and some people were already up dancing, then I was invited to dance also, they know that I can and I never refuse an opportunity for dance or to learn a new move. So now a bunch of us are dancing.

And then the five Austrian girls that are also volunteering for the summer and who arrived on Sunday night pass by on their way to bed, they are encouraged to come dance, because now it’s a dance party, not your usual TV-watching night. When everyone is watching tv, you can sometimes pass by, say ‘bon soir’ and be on your way. Monday night was different, there was no way you could refuse the energy that was in the air, it was infectious.

Then, all of a sudden, in the middle of everyone singing along to the video and dancing, the power goes out, and everything goes dark. And not just for a minute, because here in Kinshasa, in Gombe, the power is always on, if it goes it’s for a few seconds, or sometimes it flickers, but in the five weeks I’ve been here the power hadn’t gone out for any length of time. As in most big cities that consume a lot, conservation is a concept that is not practiced as much as it is preached. Even though the power could go out at any minute, people have air-conditioners and use electricity, there is work to be, done business goes on and here there is bread to bake. It wasn’t until the big power outage of summer 2005 in eastern parts of Canada and the United States that Canadians started to take electricity consumption and conservation seriously and were at first asked to use power more judiciously and then charged time-of-day rates to encourage conservation.

In the dark, there were shouts and hollers of ‘awws’ and ‘ooohhhas’ s if we were asking some
grand poo-bah to ‘turn the lights back on please, we were having such a good time’. The fun didn’t stop there. With cell-phones as flashlights, the girls guide each other, taking great care with the five new girls, down the stairs to the courtyard. It takes me a moment to join, I watch for a bit, take pictures from upstairs, it’s really fun upstairs because the flash from my camera is the only light in a sea of darkness. Then I hear my name and they are calling me to come down.

We begin with a game much like “duck, duck, goose” but the words are different and it’s a song everyone sings while they clap their hands rhythmically to the music. It’s enchanting and I wish I had recorded it because I can’t remember it now. It was really great to see the girls having so much fun without the amenity of electricity. I saw their leadership skills in action as one by one, they each took turns choralling everyone, instructing the game and leading us on an adventure in the dark. Katey, a young-ish girl who smiles lots and seems to me to be shy most of the time begins the song for the game. It is played, simply, it is played and we the outsiders, the volunteers, look on and participate. When a scarf is dropped behind you, you leave your seat on the ground and run around the circle of seated girls and women trying to catch the person who dropped the scarf to the music that is being sung while hands slap laps in an ever-increasing pitch and frequency. Once you make it back to a seat after you have dropped the scarf and run away from the person chasing you, the music begins afresh, slow at first then faster until the next person makes it safely to a seat before they are caught. Katey continues to lead the song throughout this game.

We then play a child’s game like “London bridge is falling down” but faster, in French, and with 30-odd women and girls the tunnel we create with outstretched arms seems very long. I hear a few of the words in French and my partner Matilde sings it clearly for me so I can sing it. We wind our way to the front of the building from the courtyard with that game. Then when it is finished because our arms are tired and no one wants to run through the tunnel anymore because we are not all little children, though there are little ones-'les petites', and our bodies can take only so much running while squatting, we race to the courtyard at the back and start a new game.

Sister Rosalie has come out with a light and a word of caution. She only speaks in French, but like everyone here she gestures so you don’t miss what she is saying even if you don’t understand the words. Sister Rosalie is in charge of the girls in the dormitory, that is her work. She reminds us that it is late, by now 9:30pm, and we have neighbours in the apartment building next door who
are not playing games in the dark and might like the opportunity to sleep quietly. Sister Rosalie is encouraging and walks around us with the light balanced on her head. It’s a thing here and everyone can and does it, sits, stands or walks balancing something on their head.

The last game is “le lyon appelles” and it is also played in a large circle. My friend Bijou the petite leads this game. Bijou is still recovering from the emergency surgery for appendicitis, it has only been three weeks or so, so she plays the games cautiously. I notice she plays the first game without the running, instead she does a slow but steady crouch. She directs the tug of war game because we wrapped arms around torsos to make a human chain and that would not be good for
people with abdominal surgeries. Bijou has a raspy voice, she is very intelligent and well-travelled, speaks English and has a fiancé Salvatore. Bijou’s voice is constant through the game. This one is the most fun, it is more thinking than running, and one has to concentrate. I’m out early so I join the others in the middle of the circle while the game continues. I attempt to balance the light on my head but only for a few minutes because it is straining, different and
new.

I’ve handedmy camera to Sonya who braided my hair a while back and she has taken pictures throughout. This is the kind of fun I’ve been hoping for but didn’t want to impose. The girls here work hard during the day and for most of them the only time they get to chill and relax is at night when the work is done and they can watch tv. So often, I’ve wanted to lead a game or a song and say something in French that is like, “Hey gals, let’s dance or sing or something!” but that would be me imposing my wants and desires and I’m here for them to learn from, listen to and encourage them. For me, this was another dream come true.

Sister Rosalie comes out when we finish the game to send us all to bed. It is now very late and we are all tired from the games, but we’ve had a good time and enjoyed the darkness and the moments it lends us. I stay up to chat with Matilde for a while about her fiancé and mine, and her upcoming engagement party. Matilde lets me practice my French and corrects and adjusts as needed. I enjoy hearing about the girls’ dreams and desires for the future, very uplifting for me.

Shall I wish for the lights to go out again?

Not speaking French is like being on a silent retreat - July 18, 2012

I realized this a few days ago. I am essentially on a silent retreat. I am silent. The people around me speak. I listen. I hear. I understand most of the time. I pay attention. I listen to words, I look for meaning, I analyse faces and gestures. I feel.

I feel like someone who has just lost their sight and is stumbling around in the dark getting familiar with their surroundings, probing cautiously, tentatively and gradually. It’s not the best analogy because the girls here especially the young ones want to take my glasses off regularly. I do my best to explain that my ‘vu, c’est n’est pas bien’. How do you say astigmatism and near-sighted in French? On another note, I did find out the words for near- and far-sighted in conversation with Francoise. She is far-sighted and I am near-sighted. I think it’s better to be far-sighted if you haven’t got money for glasses. Francoise doesn’t have money for glasses, she seems to be managing. I don’t think I would manage with not being able to see clearly more than 6 inches in front of me. I managed for 9 years when I was young but I don’t know if I could do that again. My Dad is farsighted and I know he has to stretch his arms out to read anything that is close, distance is okay but anything close is difficult to see, hence far-sighted. I feel for Francoise because I know what it is to not be able to see. I will have to do something about it before I leave here or after I get back. The girl should have glasses to see with.

So imagine me fumbling about but instead of not having glasses, I do not have words. Me, the verbose one. The poet. The communicator. In English I am fine, great, excellent. In French, not so good. It is a challenge I foisted on myself willingly and I must admit it is getting better but I am on a silent retreat. Imagine the internal challenge for the one who always has words, is wordy and always talks. I have only ever talked this little when I had a bout of laryngitis, because that is what it usually takes to shut me up for a moment. So instead of being the talkative one, I’m the attentive, quiet one. I know it must be very hard for those who know me to comprehend that but it’s true.

Sister Mary Nazareth remarked as much when we visited the hospital, she said it in French but I only remember it in English, “But you are a marketer, how come you are so quiet? marketers and communicators are usually the talkative ones.” I replied in my best French, “en Anglais! Je faire marketing et communication en Anglais.” I think that satisfied her. I can converse when necessary and I’m finding that is how I’m talking, more out of necessity than anything. I have wondered how anyone who is a quiet person does this. I have a sister that is known as the quiet one, I now know what life must be like, except for the tolerance. I have to remind myself often that this is a treasured experience. I talk all the time, for my work, my volunteering, because it is who I am—a talker, learning to listen is a gift I accept.

At the dinner table, I learn the most about the French language, the Salesian Sisters, the Congo, Café Mozart, the Don Bosco school and all sorts of other things. There is another here who talks as much in French as in do in English, I am no competition. Others talk, but I am silent. I am pondering. It is really good to ponder. I’ve never thought so much in my head before. I usually think out loud, talk to myself, converse really, and mutter almost all the time. It has been really good to focus on thinking and listening. I liken this to a silent retreat because first it is a form of retreat, I am living in a religious community, and second because French is not my primary language, I am more silent than talkative. I rise a little later than the Sisters here, but I join
them at mass every morning at 6:15am, pray at every meal, pray the rosary and vespers at 6pm and go to the parish church on Sundays. Any retreat I’ve ever been on has not lasted more than a week. After 4 weeks I’m getting used to early mornings and am feeling very good in spirit for praying and meditating every day.

On a silent retreat, which my friends have urged me to attend, and I have poo-pooed it because I knew it would be a difficult challenge, there is little talking, potential eye-contact at meal times but overall little talking. Retreats in general but especially silent retreats are great opportunities for listening, especially for listening to God. I have been silent for almost 4 weeks now. I have heard His voice many times in my head directing my actions here. I have prayed for grace in learning the language, today the words to the Our Father ‘le Notre Pere’ jumped out of my mouth without much effort. I pray for insight on how to reach the young people here and the answer came during vespers, ‘play with them’. It’s been so long since I’ve lived with young people, especially so many teenage girls, I forget sometimes what makes them tick. (Kudos for the
sisters for taking on this challenge.) Today, one tall, pretty girl nearly chased me down to take yet another photo of her. Teenage girls on vacation are not concerned with my English class, nor their chores, they just want to dress up and wear makeup and have their picture taken. So being attentive and listening is bringing me insight and clarity.

If ever you needed to listen to yourself and your Creator, a silent retreat or one such as this, will give you that opportunity.

Prayer, meditation and a dose of silence, a good prescription for a clarifying, spiritual retreat.

The Market in Kinshasa - July 14, 2012

I did my best to not smile. I had a hard time keeping it in. I was very happy inside because of the reality that I was in, that I was fulfilling dreams, and also experiencing so much awesome.

In the bustling, dusty, hub that is a market in Kinshasa, I did my best to look stern and unconcerned, like I belonged, like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t at all, belong or know what I was doing. But I know from living in a so-called rough neighbourhood in a fairly large and diverse city, that you cannot show fear, nor can you show naivete. When they said keep your purse close, they mean it. I grabbed mine under my arm like my life depended on it and I never let it go until my hand hurt from cramping. I didn’t want to seem too happy to be there, I did my best and was still approached, followed, hounded, and harassed by peddlers. One man followed me for what seemed like 10 minutes, past hundreds of stalls, while I bought other things, just to get me to buy the pants that I paid very little attention to, but I must have smiled or seemed interested at least a little. He bargained himself down to ‘trois mille francs’ from five. Someone else tried to sell me pants for eight mille. I was dazzled by the bras in every colour, notably red, fushia and teal. I ended up with a rose coloured one and one white. And abundance of dresses, but I refused to buy anything there that I could get in Canada for the same price. A deal is a deal, however, and I did get a few items for dollar store prices.

I was escorted by two young girls from Café Mozart, two who know their way around the market, know the language and the culture. They guarded me like mother hens, one at the front, one at the rear, keeping me in the middle, safe where they could see me. At one moment in our walk about the market I thought to myself that the situation should be reversed and I should be the mother hen, but I acknowledge I’m a stranger in a strange land and I acknowledge that these ‘girls’ have had to grow up faster than I ever did. I still had a hard time conversing with them in French but it was so much easier to have them guide me. Without them, I wouldn’t have made good bargains, kept a good amount of my money, understood anyone. I followed their lead and they were so good about keeping track of things. I spent the money I had planned to and got some nice things for me and them. One girl, a tall, dark young woman, Noella, with big eyes and a wide smile, has been walking about in flip flops that barely fit. I have watched her walk about almost on tip-toe, almost all the time. I have seen the soles of her feet black where the heels hang over the edge of the too-small slipper. She needed a fairy god-mother to get her real shoes. We ended up getting flip-flops that fit, because she needs something for the everyday running around. I will want to get her nice shoes also, she deserves it, they all do.

I was so tempted to sample the wares on the street, there were oranges spiced with salt and piri-piri, yellow-coloured drinks that seemed fortified with something, fried plantain and of course baguettes everywhere. Usually, I travel for gastronomic experiences, I’m a gastronomic adventurer, but I heeded Soeur Yolande’s advice as I know I can have many of those things
at Chez Soeurs and Café Mozart. The market had everything you could imagine and was immense. I thoroughly enjoyed myself while we walked for what seemed like hours till we were all too tired because had worked earlier in the day cleaning classrooms, carrying chairs and tables, getting ready for September and my English course. The market had clothes, shoes, foodstuffs, toiletries, kitchen supplies, everything. I’m glad my list was short because you could easily get lost in there amid all the goods at well-below market value. It was like a giant flea market but tighter, busier, denser and well-organized, foodstuffs over here, shoes there, clothes here.

By the end of it, I was dusty, sweaty and tired. What an exhilarating adventure! I was excited to be there but managed to contain my energy, I was scared at any moment of losing my cute pink purse to ‘vol’ or a ‘voleur’ and at the same time I was overwhelmed at the sights and sounds I could barely keep my eyes on my guides. An adventure to remember for sure. That is a market
in Kinshasa, what they call here ‘marché’.

On being alone while surrounded by people, I’m not the only one - July 9, 2012

My Sunday began with breakfast and church at Sacre Coeur, after that I was left on my own as Sunday is a free day for me. I am on my own today and the pressure of being alone is great. To be alone when surrounded by people is difficult to imagine, let alone experience, but it is the experience of being a volunteer on a mission. Sunday, I felt terribly, utterly alone as I realize I don’t have any friends here, not as yet anyways; I don’t have my boyfriend, my best friend, my Ma or any of my friends to visit or chat with.

On Sunday night, I chilled with the young girls at the school where I am at. In the two weeks I have been here I have learned the names of 51 people and got to know quite a few of them. I am sitting with five of the girls. We have danced, they showed me some moves and I showed a few as
well. We talked in French and English. One of the girls I have become quite fond of remarked that she was going away on vacation ‘vacances’. The last exams were last week and the jury or judging for practical knowledge was last Friday and Saturday, so it is vacation time for many. I asked in my broken French if she was going to visit her parents.

On a side note, I had asked Soeur Yolande about the girls’ situations, because I wanted to be careful how I approached the topic of family around what I was informed were at-risk young women. Soeur Yolande advised me that yes they were at-risk young women, they come from poverty or poor families, some had families, some had none. I didn’t understand any specifics
but enough generalities to get the picture. I work with at-risk youth in Toronto, youth who have been in or are in the child welfare system in Ontario and I am sensitive to their situations as much as I can be.

We had been having a fun time, dancing and laughing, communicating through funny gestures and broken French and English and some Lingala. To answer my question about her parents, the young girl gave me definitive hand gestures: the universal sign for ‘dead’. She laughed and giggled at my look of astonishment. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I should have been more prepared. She gave me another gesture, the universal gesture for baby, meaning her parents had died when she was a baby. The girl at my side told me the same was true for her. Her English is
better and she told me that her mother and father died when she was 6 years old. She has a sister in Congo but she is very far away. The first young girl has a sister and a niece in Canada, but she doesn’t know where.

I should have asked who she was going to visit for her vacation, an open-ended question, but then I might have to infer some things and it is better I know things more clearly. I did ask the question more correctly, “Qui est-ce que tu vas visiter?” She had to explain with more signs because I didn’t remember that marraine means God-mother.

Some of the girls will go away for the vacation time, some to visit family, some to visit friends or boyfriends. Some will stay here the whole summer because they do not have anyone to visit. For a moment on Sunday morning, I started to feel self-pity, I think it is normal to feel that way being so far from home, but it is the thing that binds us. I always try to remember that this, my situation, is temporary, for these girls, this is their reality. They are more alone than I, even if I don’t speak the language.

This is what I am here for. To dance for them, to translate American pop songs for them, to teach them conversational English, to entertain them and make them laugh. They laugh often at my French when I add an extra accent or word or mispronounce something. Funny, they don’t always tell me what I need to correct, but they laugh and that is good. The sound of young people
laughing is reward enough for my petite suffering of moments of loneliness.