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.

How can I not feel guilty – on visiting the beautiful waterfalls at Zongo – August 21, 2012

The price of rooms for a night can be as high as $500US. Seems astronomical in a place where the value of a Franc Congolese to a US dollar is 930FC to 1$. One cannot mistake the beauty of the place they call Zongo. ‘Nous avons visité les chutes de Zongo. C’était très beaux.’

The trip to Zongo was well worth the four hours and one pit stop along first paved and then dusty, bumpy roads. The view of the falls was well worth the arduous and treacherous climb up and down steep rocky places and slippery rock faces. As I heafted myself up large steps over huge rocks and wondered if they knew that people older than 20 visited this place. There is an expectation that you be somewhat fit to manage the hike to see the spectacular falls and bathe in the natural shower, ‘le douche naturelle’.

I managed somehow even though I keep reminding myself that my 36th birthday is next week. Sometimes I feel old surrounded by the teenaged girls at Café Mozart and the 20-somethings Austrians. But then I see Sr. Hildegard taking the same steps and hiking herself up and down the same treacherous steps with a smile. I have only a little grey hair in comparison to Sr. Hildegard so I feel better and more motivated to continue along.

It was more than beautiful. It was stupendous. We climbed first down and down to see the
caverns at the bottom, then up and up and up to see the top of the falls against a beautiful blue sky. We climbed down a little lower to take more pictures and see the falls from a different angle. Then up again a bit to stand in the mist and be drenched. It was a gentle shower, hundreds of tiny droplets cool against skin warmed by the sun. I was smart and wore my contacts instead of glasses or as in any rain shower I wouldn’t be able to see through speckled glasses.

It was an amazing experience and I’m so glad I got the see the natural beauty of Africa. Being in the city of Kinshasa is very different from experiencing life in a small African village. We had a marvellous time with our packed lunches of sandwiches and drinks at the side of the river before it becomes the falls.

I can’t help but feel a little guilty how much this trip can cost. Knowing that some people, from NGOs or the UN or the government or other tourists, can spend $100 to $500US to stay beside the falls for a night at the resort at Zongo, when the trip here takes you through what looks like poor villages where the children put out their hands and shout ‘l’argent’ or ‘moneee’, puts the reality of the DRC at the forefront where you realize the divide between the rich and the poor
is as vast as this country. It is still hard to realize and accept that there are street children, children living on the street, while this countries riches include diamonds, gold and other precious metals. Such is life?

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.