Should I be here?

Should I be here?

(I’d like to preface this entry by stating that my feelings about this have begun to change. I’m not as frustrated as I have been. I am trying to be open to my purpose here and I am trying to find the positive impact that the Peace Corps has made in Jirapa. I’m taking each day as it comes and making baby steps.)

12/30/07 It is known that spirituality for the African Traditionalist encompasses his whole life. Just as one cannot separate man from his own breath, severing an African from his spiritual practices will surely cause harm.
Since I was a young girl, I’ve admired anyone who chose to devote his time as a volunteer providing international aid. It is here that Hebert Spencer’s theory of contempt prior to investigation takes on new meaning, for it is truly impossible to access any situation in life prior to one’s own experience with it. It is only now that I realize the power and responsibility that the Western world holds when entering a country with the motive of providing aid. Prior to living here, I imagined to find suffering so terrible that nothing would have prevented me from coming to help. Much to my surprise, people here are doing just fine.
Like every story of invasion through out history, this one is the same:
There exists some group of people, native to the land, eking out a life, oblivious to the rest of the world. Then along comes another more powerful group, deciding for one reason or another, that these people should change. They slowly begin invading, bringing along their new religions, new behaviors and big dollars, convincing the innocent people that the way they’ve carried on all this time is faulty. The problem is, as you can probably see, what works for one may not work for another. Eventually, the unsuspecting people begin to doubt their happy lives, especially after being informed that they are barbaric, filthy and even evil. Their “inhumane” spiritual practices are condemned and new churches are built with foreign currency.

Thus, his breath is severed. It is impossible to separate man from spirit, inevitably some part of him will die.

The culture begins to shrivel before the eyes of its people as that of a three-day old umbilical cord. With the life force snipped, eventually, the dangling piece will dry up and fall off permanently. Enough decades elapse and the memory of the old ways slowly disintegrate. Few even remember the traditions that preceded the synthetic imported world that now surrounds them. Anything indigenous is viewed as inferior. A finely crafted, hand-weaved, reclining chair is sold for 3 dollars while flimsy uncomfortable plastics ones are sold for 5. Finely woven, natural fibers are discarded for imported see through synthetics. Drumming and singing are replaced with the blaring tunes of foreign musicians in a language no one understands. The younger generations believe these ways are modern and therefore superior. The elderly are shunned and left grasping their traditions in their frail hands with heads bowed in reverence and mourning.
Missionaries and volunteers are different in approach but similar in outcome. One attacks the soul and the other body and mind, together leaving, in their wake, skeletal robots unsure of their origins though they’ve never left their homeland. Even more baffling is the result that such extreme disempowerment brings about: the people begin to think they can not function without foreign aid.
A depiction has occurred to me as follows: A healthy young man is standing on a street corner, minding his own business. Walking towards him is a generous group of men all breathing through oxygen tanks. Upon seeing the young man with no oxygen, they tackle him and rush him to the nearest hospital. After many hours, they finally succeed in forcing his healthy lungs to use the oxygen. The poor young man lies helpless and confused, since he does not speak their language. The band of men stand proudly over their newly rescued success, smiling and patting one another on the back. The victim lies in bed, longing for his lost breath and all that is heard is the whirring of the oxygen machines.

So, where does this leave me?

When I was 20, a loving woman, whom I deeply respect, kindly pointed out that I had no integrity. She was right. As long as everything appeared to look good on the outside, I was content. It didn’t matter if the truth was ugly because all you could see was the pretty picture I painted. Living that way caused me extreme turmoil that I was comfortable with for many years. Today, you can see the whole picture and uncovering the truth plays an important role in my life. Since there are varying degrees of the truth, I try to remain open, mindful and considerate of my fellows and the environment. As I’ve been made aware of this reality, its been painful to be honest with myself. Do I keep my mouth shut, turn the other way and continue working? Do I quietly play the role of volunteer, adding to the previous 45 years of disempowerment, telling myself I’m helping? Do I tell the truth as I see it? I don’t feel like I’m here by mistake. How do I keep my integrity across the board with the peace corps and the people of Ghana? These are the questions that I ask myself tonight as I sit in my home on the last night of the year.

I know one thing, thanks to my beautiful friend and spiritual guide, Nina, when you don’t know what to do, wait until the answer is revealed. It is always revealed, sooner or later. So I keep plugging along through the days. I’ve made plans to meet with a traditionalist to learn what’s been lost. Maybe I’m the needy one. I’m open to what ever my purpose turns out to be.

The book responsible for my current mind-set: Lame Deer: Seeker of Visions, by John (Fire) Lame Deer and Richard Erdoes. A book about a Sioux Indian and his life. While reading it, I became nauseous from the similarities between the torment endured by the Native Americans and the assistance inflicted upon Ghana. I believe books make their way into our lives providing the next course in life. I came here with no books, deciding all that I am supposed to learn will find its way to me. It is no coincidence that I read this book.

Market day

12/30/07 Today was picturesque of the life I hoped to experience here. I woke and had a leisurely morning drinking tea in the center of town. Later I walked down to the grand market and greeted the few people I recognize from my weekly trips. I bought the same foods I always buy, garlic, ginger, limes, tomatoes, cabbage, bell peppers, bananas, papaya, carrots and fresh wheat tea bread, which I can only find once a week from a lady living in a remote village. She greets me with a hug now and even though we can’t understand each other, the purchase is filled with smiles and plenty of head nodding.

I walked home, during the hottest point in the day, kicked on the fan and began preparing hummus and salad. I found Tahini paste in Techiman and there’s a bean here that is close enough to a chick pea to use in place of. Mix in a little lime, fresh garlic and olive oil. Its delicious. The only hard part is hand mashing the beans, this takes time and elbow grease. Here they mash everything, so I have clay mortar and pistil that I mash the beans in.