Abuse is pervasive in Botswana. It creeps into almost every corner of society and haunts the psyches of many. Most don’t even realize what it does to the potential progress of this country or how it affects every individual. Subconsciously, it affects the lives of almost every Motswana.
Kids are taught that abuse and violence are ok early on in life. Students are hit by teachers with sticks if they’re late, if they give a wrong answer, or if they simply cross someone the wrong way. If an entire class fails a test, it’s not the teacher’s fault. It’s the kids’, and they all get lashes. The schools don’t seem to be interested in thinking of a better way to “control” and discipline kids. Instead, they hit them, and it squanders any hope for most kids to be creative, try new things, take risks or fulfill their dreams.
At home, with parents who may have grown up in a similar system, or whose own parents beat them, they don’t know any other way, so many, not all, but many parents hit their kids. Domestic Violence is so widespread that many wives and girlfriends think their man doesn’t love them if he doesn’t hit them. Girls and women are hit with belts and sticks, sometimes tied up and burned and sometimes murdered. Often the women and children are blamed for the abuse, as if they deserved it. Therefore, in most of these cases, even with murder, no charges are pressed, and the police don’t get involved.
Camp GLOW 2008 is one of those rare opportunities, although only a week, which allows adolescents to escape that world and live in a different place. This year, I coordinated the camp that brought together 27 boys and 26 girls from villages all over the country to learn about a wide variety of topics through educational activities, including HIV/AIDS, what it means to be a leader, human rights, planning for their futures, gender equality and gender-based violence (GBV). The kids also participated in a lot of fun activities throughout the week, most notably the Mock Protest around the issue of condoms in schools, a theatre competition and a fierce dance off.
While at GLOW, there’s no hitting, beating, yelling or scolding. These future leaders get to learn in a supportive environment, have fun, and receive positive reinforcement for all of their good behaviors from participating in sessions to helping out others. With the incredible help of 35 facilitators who I got to train, learn from and work with, this year’s Camp was a huge success. After the Camp, these kids went back to their villages where they will form local GLOW Chapters in their schools to teach and organizer their peers around HIV/AIDS and GBV. The light that GLOW brings to the lives of these kids shows in the pictures:
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Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
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Traveling the Distance: Getting to Work
Cutting pass the part of my path that the river has now flooded, just as I was about to squat through the second hole in the fence to continue my walk to the office, I was stopped by a security guard. Wearing a dark blue uniform, hands calmly at his side, his eyes locked on me, and I froze.
“Where are you going?” he asked me sternly with an icy gaze.
“uh… well...” I stammered, I was startled. “Ke ya tirong.” I’m just going to work.
“I’m patrolling this area, trying to find the person who’s been cutting holes in the fence.”
“Well, I don’t know who that is. I’m just taking my daily walk to the office. Unless I want to walk through the river, I crawl through the holes in the fence. I’m very sorry, Sir, but I don’t know any other way.” I pleaded, trying to both explain myself and elicit some sympathy.
“Why don’t you use the gate?” he retorted, coldly.
“Because I already walk for an hour to get to the office, and using the gate would add another 15-minutes to my already long walk. I’m truly very sorry, Sir. I’ll start using the gate next time. Can I just crawl through since I’m already here?” Of course I would use the gate if it were convenient. I follow a train of people who take the same route every day. ‘When in Rome,’ right?
“No, you need to use the gate,” again with the ice.
“But I’m already right here.” I hate mornings, officer, I have a long walk to get to the office, and now I’m going to be late. I’ve made assiduous attempts to make this rough commute work out. Don’t penalize me for assimilating with your people.
“You need to use the gate.”
At this point, feeling defeated, I smiled. “Fine, I’ll use the gate, will you walk me there to make sure I use the right one?”
“Sure, no problem,” and we went on our way.
“O bidiwa mang?” asking his name.
“Nna? Me? Kabo.”
“ah-ah! No! My name is Kabo.”
He smiled and laughed. The ice was broken, and we had light, friendly conversation for the rest of our 10-minute walk to the Maun Secondary School gate.
Once we arrived at our destination, I shook his hand with both of mine, thanked him for doing his job, and for taking the time to walk with me. I was genuinely gracious, especially for his eventually polite demeanor. And then I rushed away, grumbling. 45 minutes more to walk…
When I arrived in my village, I was spoiled by my NGO when it came to transport. For the first couple of weeks, Mpho would give me a ride to and from the office. There were two problems with this option. One was that she went in early and left late, so it would take more time out of my day to ride with her than it would if I was walking. Second, even though she lives close to me, I didn’t feel right about her giving me a ride since she’s already horrendously busy at work. I don’t want to add one, more small thing to her over-crowded, metaphorical plate.
At that point, an intern began working with us who lives in my neighborhood. She also has a car and offered to give me a ride. She worked the same hours as I did, so this turned out to be a great option. Two weeks later, she moved to the other side of town.
Since it was the peak of winter, the mornings were nice and cold, and I wanted to do a better job of knowing my way around, I started walking most of the time, and taking taxis on occasion. Phaketse was kind enough to show me all of the short-cuts to get to my house as quickly as possible.
My walk would soon prove to be a daily adventure of meeting new people, encountering wildlife and finding new obstacles to my commute, not to mention what a great workout it is. Every day, I travel with my backpack filled with my laptop, water, and usually some groceries, so that certainly adds some pounds to carry.
From the office, I walk 15 minutes to ‘old mall’ through a small neighborhood, pass a couple of safari shops and construction sites. From there, it’s 10 minutes through town to Choppies, one of the local grocery stores. Then, I cut through another neighborhood for a 20-minute walk to the Old bridge and cross the river. It’s 10 minutes along the river and then 10 minutes through my neighborhood to my house. In total, it’s about a one-hour power walk.
The first few times I did this, I was exhausted by the time I got home and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. The Olympic record holder in the 400m is from my village, and I believe his commute to school may have been similar to mine to work.
Since I like a good workout, I kept with it, and it’s become easier over time. As it gets warmer, however, the heat has been making it more difficult. By the end of August, I felt like I was in that scene from the Chronicles of Riddick where they’re running away from the rising sun, trying to stay in the shade, because the sun is so close to their planet and so hot, they’ll melt when its rays touch them. Since Botswana is a desert, the nights and mornings are cool, at least until October. Over the winter months, I dressed in layers, and stripped them off throughout my one-hour walk as the sun rose.
With the warmer months approaching, one of the most entertaining parts of my walk has emerged: parasols. It’s constantly sunny here. I’ve been in Bots for 6 months, and I’ve only seen rain once. A lot of people start to carry umbrellas to block the sun, men and women alike. These parasols come in all shapes, sizes, and animal formations. Imagine a skinny African man walking to work carrying a pink, frilly parasol that is supposed to resemble a hippopotamus, complete with eyes and ears poking out of the top. No one even bats an eye. It’s normal. My favorites are the ladybug parasols complete with big antennae. There are also rhinos, elephants, cartoon characters and bird parasols complete with beaks. I need to get pictures of this stuff.
On most mornings, I try to hail a cab for part of my journey. Being a foreigner, it’s not easy. A white guy, standing across the street from one of the lodges, carrying a backpack certainly doesn’t look like someone who lives in Botswana. Half the time, they want to charge me 5 times the usual rate, and sometimes they’re not even going in the direction of my office since I live so far out and it’s not the best road to grab a cab. As my Setswana improves, so does my ability to get a taxi that doesn’t want to overcharge me.
On my way home one day as I was approaching this very spot, next to the Maun lodge, I saw a large number of students from Maun Secondary School congregating on the bridge. Once I got to the bridge, I discovered what all the commotion was about. There were two hippos, romping, jumping and playing in the river. It was my first wildlife sighting! And it began the list of reasons I’ve begun to enjoy this commute. The name of my ward is Boseja-kubu, and “kubu” means hippo. A few weeks after this first sighting, as I was walking along the river, this big hippo head popped out of the water only 10 feet away from me. I froze for a moment in fright, but it only paused for a moment, looking right at me, before it went back under the water.
I’ve grown to appreciate my walk especially because it’s been the best way for me to meet many of my neighbors, and it’s led to some great conversations, including the aforementioned ones with Phaketse and Tumelo. In particular, I’ve discovered there are many recent transplants from Zimbabwe living in my ward. Since Botswana and Zimbabwe share a border, and Zimbabwe’s economic and political turmoil has come to a peak recently, some Batswana have bad stereotypes about Zimbabweans, and some even fear them. “They’re lazy… they’re stupid… they’re thieves… they’re stealing all of our jobs…” are some of the things I hear. It sounds exactly like what the racists in Los Angeles say about the Mexicans, not to mention what those in Italy say about Romanians (the gypsies).
Over the first couple months of meeting and interacting with people from Zimbabwe, I discovered I was forming my own stereotypes. They’re some of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, resilient and hard-working. They’re so kind that I’ve become much closer to my Zimbabwean neighbors than the Batswana.
One day, on my usual walk along the river, I met a man named Dube. Less than a minute after I met this man and we walked together, a little boy, maybe 2 years old, way up ahead on the path screamed, “HELLO!” looking right at me. His voice was filled with the type of playful enthusiasm that took me back to youthful days of innocence for a second.
The moment we caught up with him, he grabbed Dube’s hand. I pointed at the child and asked, “This one, is he yours? Is he your son?” The little guy grabbed my pointing finger and then held on to my hand, walking in between Dube and I. He soon realized he could jump and swing, using the two of our arms as a jungle gym.
The three of us walked that way for the next 15 minutes on the way to my house. I discovered they’re from Zim and moved here about a year ago with one of their relatives.
A couple weeks later, I stopped to speak to an older woman who was walking down a sandy path using a thick branch as a walking stick. Fluttering around her like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon was an energetic youngster whose name I would learn was Lesego, which means ‘Lucky’ in Setswana. The older woman, Mma Gonyora, and her whole family moved here almost 10 years ago from Zimbabwe. I’ve stopped by their house several times since we’ve met because I so enjoy their company. Every time I walk by their gate, I hear Lesego screaming “Kabo! Kabo! Uncle Kabo!”
Others from Zim I’ve met, Munya at Love Botswana, Isabelle at Jump Street Lodge and Fatima with Damsel Catering, among many more, have all been equally wonderful. They’re sewn from the type of thread that is vibrantly different from that of the Batswana.
Perhaps it is the great turmoil their country has gone through, Mugabe tearing apart their economy over the decades. I remember reading an article in the Economist a couple years ago about Zim and gasping at the 253% inflation rate. It’s surreal to have been here, right next door, when their inflation rate rose to 9 million % and to read about a can of Coke costing 58 billion Zim dollars.
Part of the problem, in a nutshell, at least the way one of my good friends from Zim, Rra Mahopolo, explains it to me, is the way Mugabe handled the land. Zimbabwe used to be the breadbasket for all of Southern Africa, rich in commercial farms and ranches that were well-managed. Zimbabweans, historically, are extremely hard workers. In order to 1) remove his citizens who didn’t support him and 2) play a hack-job game of Robin Hood, he kicked out all of the successful farmers and ranchers and gave the lands to poor folks who were his supporters. These people had no idea what they were doing with the farms and ranches, so they completely destroyed the industry.
The people in Botswana have never really had to struggle. They’ve always been at peace, a democratic government and no history of war. For the most part, they are laid-back and calm, both good qualities, but it can be a challenge when there is a real conflict or problem to be solved and no one seems to notice or want to do anything. It still boggles my mind that the HIV/AIDS crisis hasn’t really woken them up. It’s partially a result of their dependence of government, not having to struggle in the past and therefore little community initiative to solve it.
The people from Zim never ask me for money, none of them. They ask me for work, and when I tell them no and explain why, they accept it and keep looking. Most of the Batswana who are used to the government providing so much, ask me for money and beg me for work. In other countries where the people might start their own businesses, struggle and find ways to create their own income, many people in Botswana who are poor wait and beg for someone to provide. Why work when the diamond-fed government and economy will give you a food basket if you’re a destitute?
The stereotypes I’ve formed bother me. I’m open to admitting that. However, the longer I work here, and the more Zimbabweans and Batswana I meet, the greater the contrasts become and the stereotypes enforced.
I remember the first moment I met Zimbabweans in my neighborhood. I was hanging my laundry out to dry on the fence when 2 young men came through my gate.
“Dumela,” I greeted them with a smile, eager to meet people.
“Hello, sir. We’re looking for Peace…” they trailed off, speaking slowly and shyly. I didn’t quite understand what they were saying.
“I’m a Peace Corps. Ke bidiwa Kabo. O bidiwa mang?”
They looked at me, a bit confused. “We’re from Zimbabwe. We don’t speak Setswana.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” feeling a bit guilty for assuming, but wait, I’m in Botswana, why wouldn’t I assume?
“They call me Kabo. What are your names?”
“I’m James, and this is Masimba.”
“Masimba! That’s a great name. What does it mean?” I asked with my unabashed enthusiasm.
“It means strength or power,” he replied with a smile, starting to open up from his shell. “We’re looking for piece jobs. We just came here last week from Zim with our brother and sister, and we are looking for work.”
Of course. Everyone’s asking the lekgoa for work. Not a week goes by that some new person doesn’t come to my yard offering to clean my house or wash my clothes. Then they walk away very confused by the white guy doing his own laundry. “I’m sorry. I’m a volunteer. I only get enough money for food, and the organization I work for pays my rent and bills. . .”
“Oh…” James and Masimba respond, looks of disappointment washing over their faces. Their “Oh” was heavy, carrying a burdensome weight. Translated, it meant: rejected... we’re poor... we’ve traveled all this way to find work... this sucks... our country’s a mess... how will we eat...
I proceeded to give them advice on where they might find work. I know some neighbors I’ve met have their own construction businesses and have recently started some projects. I also pointed out where to find some of the wealthier folks living in their non-traditional riparian homes. They seemed somewhat appreciative, but quickly left so they could continue their search.
My heart went out to them. I could have cried in that moment. They were so sweet, earnest and unaggressive. We had a brief conversation, they accepted my answer, and they went on their way. At that point, I had just moved to this place, so I was only beginning to see how bad things were here, but I still wanted to be able to give them something. Little did I know that some new person from Zimbabwe would come to my house asking me for work at least once a week, each time with the same earnest plea, the brief look of disappointment painting their faces with the colors of years of struggle and hardship, and walking away quickly with hopeful optimism that they’ll find something.
A few days later, just as I was about to walk up the long hill of deep sand that ends at my house, I heard someone screaming my name. I turned around to find Masimba running toward me. He was eager to say hello and fervent to talk about God. We had a brief conversation about some crackpot pastor from Indiana who had written some pamphlets on Christianity that he wanted me to read. It was still a lovely conversation, and I accepted the booklets he gave me with a smile. At this point, I had just made plans with Phaketse to go to church together the following day, so I invited Masimba with me. He was thrilled since he hadn’t been to church in Botswana yet.
Masimba was ready to go at 8AM sharp Sunday morning, wearing his best clothes and his black shoes freshly polished. I met him at his home, a tiny trailer held up by cinder blocks, sitting in an abandoned plot of land. I greeted James, met the aforementioned sister, Joyce, and we went on our way. During out walk to church at service and afterwards, we continued to have great conversations, and I was touched by how kind and compassionate this young man was.
Several weeks went by without seeing Masimba, but I would say hello to James and Joyce as I walked by. Strolling along the river, on my way home from work, per usual, I met another new person. I felt his presence close behind me, and I grew a bit wary until he introduced himself. “My name is Teach, I’m Joyce’s husband.” He’s one of the four that moved here with Masimba.
Months later, on the 1st of November, my counterpart and I were picking up some consultants we’re working with at the Jump Street Lodge to take them to the airport to catch their flight back to Gabs. I was surprised to see Teach walk out of the gate carrying their bags. He started working at the Lodge a few weeks back helping them expand the complex, building some new rondavals. I was so happy for him that he found good work. Coincidentally, his wife Joyce found some work earlier that same day, at my house.
The past few weeks have been busy at work, the Trainer of Facilitators for GLOW, visiting the GLOW chapter in Shakawe, the workshop to go over the draft of our Gender-Based Violence manual. I haven’t had a day off in a while since I’ve been so busy. My house is a mess, and my laundry is piling up. I’ve never had a maid in my life, so the idea of hiring someone to wash my clothes and clean my house is a bit uncomfortable to me. It also feels weird since I’m a volunteer, I’m frugal, and I get paid so little: US$250 per month. But I caved. I need the help, and labor here is cheap. Remembering the countless number of people who have come to my house looking for work, I tried to think of someone I could trust. When I thought of the right person, it was someone who had never even asked me for work, Joyce, even though her brothers did.
For 3 hours of labor, cleaning my house and washing my clothes, I paid her P50 (US$7), which in this country is a bit generous. She did a fantastic job. She got stains out of clothes I didn’t know were possible to remove, and my house has never been this clean. Not to mention the incredible speed with which she did a thorough and detailed job. It wasn’t weird to have her here like I thought it would be. What was strange was that I’ve never felt wealthier. What a bizarre contrast. I’m a volunteer surviving on a tiny stipend who came here with only two big suitcases of belongings, yet I’m in a place where I can afford to hire someone to clean my house, someone who has so much less than I do.
On the day I met Teach, Joyce’s husband, I asked how Masimba was doing, and I was told that he had to go back to Zimbabwe.
Knowing how bad things are in Zim, just after the height of the political violence, my heart leapt a bit. They told me he would be back in a month, but to this day, he has not returned, and I wonder how he is, still thinking about him from time to time.
Teach walked me back to their trailer and told me Masimba had left something for me. It was another religious booklet, but this one had a message for me complete with phone numbers and an address:
“I went home, my friend Mr. Kabo. I thank you for all what we have shared together. Going to church together was nice and charming. When you get to your homeland, pliz don’t forget me.”
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Two important discoveries I’ve made on my walks are 1) there is trash collection in my neighborhood, and 2) there is a recycling facility somewhere in Maun that pays 1Pula for glass bottles and 50thebe for cans. Since many of my neighbors still burn all of their trash, and, well, it’s Africa, I was surprised these developments exist. I’ve since begun dividing my trash into 5 segments:
1) biodegradables to throw behind the house
2) bones for the stray dogs
3) paper products for Teach, James and Joyce to use as kindle for the fires that cook their food
4) Cans and bottles for Tiny or Dube to recycle for money
5) All other trash for pick up
Beginning of September, walking by several houses burning piles of trash, during my usual commute, I arrived at the river to discover it had flooded the path. This was the beginning of an entirely new saga in my commute. I know there are many people who take this route to and from work, and since the river probably floods the path annually this time of year, I figure the community probably has a solution to this challenge. If I wanted to, I could walk through the gate before the river, and come out on the other side of Maun Secondary School just north of the Lodge, but that would add 15 minutes to my already excruciatingly long walk. I assume there are others who think similarly.
Stepping stones was the answer. Every day, there was a new array of different types of stepping stones: rocks, bricks, pieces of chairs, a smashed watering can and anything else people could find to throw in this large puddle blocking the path between the river and the barbed wire fence of Maun Sec. This worked for a while, but the river continued to get higher and the stepping stones lost traction in the mud.
At this point, I, along with my fellow community members, would traverse this part of the path over the river by holding onto the fence while lightly stepping on the objects in the river. Packing my water proof hiking boots for my stint in Botswana was a very wise choice, but that didn’t stop my other extremities from occasionally getting cut on the barbed wire.
Like everyone else, I persevered. This was the reality, it was a solution, and it got me to the rest of my path. A week later, someone cut holes in the fence, so for a while, I would crawl through the hole before the large puddle and then crawl through the other side. It wasn’t until the security guard stopped me, and the heat became unbearable, that I was forced to find a completely different direction of travel.
It was time to become familiar with the combi routes; they’ve been my saving grace from an hour and 15 minute walk in temperatures that have reached 112F by the end of October. Summer is only beginning. I hate talking about the weather, and even when making small talk with others, I used to despise discussing something so trivial. These days, sweating 24/7 with no air-con at home or in the office, I am constantly talking about and dreaming of more comfortable climes.
The combis are old, rickety minivans with 3 or 4 rows of seats made for 12 people, but in Botswana, they always find a way to squeeze in 20, plus 2. After the driver is ready and 20 passengers have become quite close to each other, the conductor makes room for himself to stand just inside the sliding door and hover over people as he collects everyone’s fare. Where taxis charge P3.60, the combis charge P3.00. More than any profession in Botswana, I have admiration for the combi workers in Maun. They do their work with such precision, systematically, reliably and they stop wherever you want on the route, whenever you’re ready, since there are no specific stops.
In Maun, there are 10 combi routes. No one in my office takes the combis, so it took me a while to explore and understand all of the routes. I walk for 15 minutes from the office to the combi rank at old mall. From there, I can take route 2 to Kwena road where I walk for 20 minutes to get home. Route 5 takes me within an 8-minute walk of my house. Route 2 runs quite frequently, but route 5 runs about once an hour, so which one I take depends on the day.
On my way to the office, I’ve discovered that hailing a taxi from Kwena road is much easier than the road by the lodge. So, in the morning, my new route is walking for 20 minutes to this main road and getting a cab that takes me directly to the office. At the end of the day, I take a combi since getting a taxi from the office to my house is practically impossible in such a sparsely populated area around the office. Once I settled into this new commute, I was so much happier and relaxed about my daily routine.
Additionally intriguing is that every day, I walk for 2 kilometers, uphill both ways, in the deep sand near my house. I can’t wait for the opportunity to tell this story to my grandchildren. And I sincerely love the combis. The people are always so nice and often entertaining. I don’t mind having to be squished up against everyone in the packed vehicle. Sadly, it’s the most physical affection I get here. (Batswana aren’t huggers).
In the combi, I get this feeling that “we’re together.” That’s the thought that goes through my mind at least, “It’s sweltering hot, none of us make enough money to have a car, we live far away from where we work, but we’re in this together.”
I suppose it’s almost how Teach, James and Joyce feel about the long journey they’ve taken. Far away from home, just to find work, living on so little, but at least they have each other.
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Life is beautiful.
“Where are you going?” he asked me sternly with an icy gaze.
“uh… well...” I stammered, I was startled. “Ke ya tirong.” I’m just going to work.
“I’m patrolling this area, trying to find the person who’s been cutting holes in the fence.”
“Well, I don’t know who that is. I’m just taking my daily walk to the office. Unless I want to walk through the river, I crawl through the holes in the fence. I’m very sorry, Sir, but I don’t know any other way.” I pleaded, trying to both explain myself and elicit some sympathy.
“Why don’t you use the gate?” he retorted, coldly.
“Because I already walk for an hour to get to the office, and using the gate would add another 15-minutes to my already long walk. I’m truly very sorry, Sir. I’ll start using the gate next time. Can I just crawl through since I’m already here?” Of course I would use the gate if it were convenient. I follow a train of people who take the same route every day. ‘When in Rome,’ right?
“No, you need to use the gate,” again with the ice.
“But I’m already right here.” I hate mornings, officer, I have a long walk to get to the office, and now I’m going to be late. I’ve made assiduous attempts to make this rough commute work out. Don’t penalize me for assimilating with your people.
“You need to use the gate.”
At this point, feeling defeated, I smiled. “Fine, I’ll use the gate, will you walk me there to make sure I use the right one?”
“Sure, no problem,” and we went on our way.
“O bidiwa mang?” asking his name.
“Nna? Me? Kabo.”
“ah-ah! No! My name is Kabo.”
He smiled and laughed. The ice was broken, and we had light, friendly conversation for the rest of our 10-minute walk to the Maun Secondary School gate.
Once we arrived at our destination, I shook his hand with both of mine, thanked him for doing his job, and for taking the time to walk with me. I was genuinely gracious, especially for his eventually polite demeanor. And then I rushed away, grumbling. 45 minutes more to walk…
When I arrived in my village, I was spoiled by my NGO when it came to transport. For the first couple of weeks, Mpho would give me a ride to and from the office. There were two problems with this option. One was that she went in early and left late, so it would take more time out of my day to ride with her than it would if I was walking. Second, even though she lives close to me, I didn’t feel right about her giving me a ride since she’s already horrendously busy at work. I don’t want to add one, more small thing to her over-crowded, metaphorical plate.
At that point, an intern began working with us who lives in my neighborhood. She also has a car and offered to give me a ride. She worked the same hours as I did, so this turned out to be a great option. Two weeks later, she moved to the other side of town.
Since it was the peak of winter, the mornings were nice and cold, and I wanted to do a better job of knowing my way around, I started walking most of the time, and taking taxis on occasion. Phaketse was kind enough to show me all of the short-cuts to get to my house as quickly as possible.
My walk would soon prove to be a daily adventure of meeting new people, encountering wildlife and finding new obstacles to my commute, not to mention what a great workout it is. Every day, I travel with my backpack filled with my laptop, water, and usually some groceries, so that certainly adds some pounds to carry.
From the office, I walk 15 minutes to ‘old mall’ through a small neighborhood, pass a couple of safari shops and construction sites. From there, it’s 10 minutes through town to Choppies, one of the local grocery stores. Then, I cut through another neighborhood for a 20-minute walk to the Old bridge and cross the river. It’s 10 minutes along the river and then 10 minutes through my neighborhood to my house. In total, it’s about a one-hour power walk.
The first few times I did this, I was exhausted by the time I got home and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. The Olympic record holder in the 400m is from my village, and I believe his commute to school may have been similar to mine to work.
Since I like a good workout, I kept with it, and it’s become easier over time. As it gets warmer, however, the heat has been making it more difficult. By the end of August, I felt like I was in that scene from the Chronicles of Riddick where they’re running away from the rising sun, trying to stay in the shade, because the sun is so close to their planet and so hot, they’ll melt when its rays touch them. Since Botswana is a desert, the nights and mornings are cool, at least until October. Over the winter months, I dressed in layers, and stripped them off throughout my one-hour walk as the sun rose.
With the warmer months approaching, one of the most entertaining parts of my walk has emerged: parasols. It’s constantly sunny here. I’ve been in Bots for 6 months, and I’ve only seen rain once. A lot of people start to carry umbrellas to block the sun, men and women alike. These parasols come in all shapes, sizes, and animal formations. Imagine a skinny African man walking to work carrying a pink, frilly parasol that is supposed to resemble a hippopotamus, complete with eyes and ears poking out of the top. No one even bats an eye. It’s normal. My favorites are the ladybug parasols complete with big antennae. There are also rhinos, elephants, cartoon characters and bird parasols complete with beaks. I need to get pictures of this stuff.
On most mornings, I try to hail a cab for part of my journey. Being a foreigner, it’s not easy. A white guy, standing across the street from one of the lodges, carrying a backpack certainly doesn’t look like someone who lives in Botswana. Half the time, they want to charge me 5 times the usual rate, and sometimes they’re not even going in the direction of my office since I live so far out and it’s not the best road to grab a cab. As my Setswana improves, so does my ability to get a taxi that doesn’t want to overcharge me.
On my way home one day as I was approaching this very spot, next to the Maun lodge, I saw a large number of students from Maun Secondary School congregating on the bridge. Once I got to the bridge, I discovered what all the commotion was about. There were two hippos, romping, jumping and playing in the river. It was my first wildlife sighting! And it began the list of reasons I’ve begun to enjoy this commute. The name of my ward is Boseja-kubu, and “kubu” means hippo. A few weeks after this first sighting, as I was walking along the river, this big hippo head popped out of the water only 10 feet away from me. I froze for a moment in fright, but it only paused for a moment, looking right at me, before it went back under the water.
I’ve grown to appreciate my walk especially because it’s been the best way for me to meet many of my neighbors, and it’s led to some great conversations, including the aforementioned ones with Phaketse and Tumelo. In particular, I’ve discovered there are many recent transplants from Zimbabwe living in my ward. Since Botswana and Zimbabwe share a border, and Zimbabwe’s economic and political turmoil has come to a peak recently, some Batswana have bad stereotypes about Zimbabweans, and some even fear them. “They’re lazy… they’re stupid… they’re thieves… they’re stealing all of our jobs…” are some of the things I hear. It sounds exactly like what the racists in Los Angeles say about the Mexicans, not to mention what those in Italy say about Romanians (the gypsies).
Over the first couple months of meeting and interacting with people from Zimbabwe, I discovered I was forming my own stereotypes. They’re some of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, resilient and hard-working. They’re so kind that I’ve become much closer to my Zimbabwean neighbors than the Batswana.
One day, on my usual walk along the river, I met a man named Dube. Less than a minute after I met this man and we walked together, a little boy, maybe 2 years old, way up ahead on the path screamed, “HELLO!” looking right at me. His voice was filled with the type of playful enthusiasm that took me back to youthful days of innocence for a second.
The moment we caught up with him, he grabbed Dube’s hand. I pointed at the child and asked, “This one, is he yours? Is he your son?” The little guy grabbed my pointing finger and then held on to my hand, walking in between Dube and I. He soon realized he could jump and swing, using the two of our arms as a jungle gym.
The three of us walked that way for the next 15 minutes on the way to my house. I discovered they’re from Zim and moved here about a year ago with one of their relatives.
A couple weeks later, I stopped to speak to an older woman who was walking down a sandy path using a thick branch as a walking stick. Fluttering around her like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon was an energetic youngster whose name I would learn was Lesego, which means ‘Lucky’ in Setswana. The older woman, Mma Gonyora, and her whole family moved here almost 10 years ago from Zimbabwe. I’ve stopped by their house several times since we’ve met because I so enjoy their company. Every time I walk by their gate, I hear Lesego screaming “Kabo! Kabo! Uncle Kabo!”
Others from Zim I’ve met, Munya at Love Botswana, Isabelle at Jump Street Lodge and Fatima with Damsel Catering, among many more, have all been equally wonderful. They’re sewn from the type of thread that is vibrantly different from that of the Batswana.
Perhaps it is the great turmoil their country has gone through, Mugabe tearing apart their economy over the decades. I remember reading an article in the Economist a couple years ago about Zim and gasping at the 253% inflation rate. It’s surreal to have been here, right next door, when their inflation rate rose to 9 million % and to read about a can of Coke costing 58 billion Zim dollars.
Part of the problem, in a nutshell, at least the way one of my good friends from Zim, Rra Mahopolo, explains it to me, is the way Mugabe handled the land. Zimbabwe used to be the breadbasket for all of Southern Africa, rich in commercial farms and ranches that were well-managed. Zimbabweans, historically, are extremely hard workers. In order to 1) remove his citizens who didn’t support him and 2) play a hack-job game of Robin Hood, he kicked out all of the successful farmers and ranchers and gave the lands to poor folks who were his supporters. These people had no idea what they were doing with the farms and ranches, so they completely destroyed the industry.
The people in Botswana have never really had to struggle. They’ve always been at peace, a democratic government and no history of war. For the most part, they are laid-back and calm, both good qualities, but it can be a challenge when there is a real conflict or problem to be solved and no one seems to notice or want to do anything. It still boggles my mind that the HIV/AIDS crisis hasn’t really woken them up. It’s partially a result of their dependence of government, not having to struggle in the past and therefore little community initiative to solve it.
The people from Zim never ask me for money, none of them. They ask me for work, and when I tell them no and explain why, they accept it and keep looking. Most of the Batswana who are used to the government providing so much, ask me for money and beg me for work. In other countries where the people might start their own businesses, struggle and find ways to create their own income, many people in Botswana who are poor wait and beg for someone to provide. Why work when the diamond-fed government and economy will give you a food basket if you’re a destitute?
The stereotypes I’ve formed bother me. I’m open to admitting that. However, the longer I work here, and the more Zimbabweans and Batswana I meet, the greater the contrasts become and the stereotypes enforced.
I remember the first moment I met Zimbabweans in my neighborhood. I was hanging my laundry out to dry on the fence when 2 young men came through my gate.
“Dumela,” I greeted them with a smile, eager to meet people.
“Hello, sir. We’re looking for Peace…” they trailed off, speaking slowly and shyly. I didn’t quite understand what they were saying.
“I’m a Peace Corps. Ke bidiwa Kabo. O bidiwa mang?”
They looked at me, a bit confused. “We’re from Zimbabwe. We don’t speak Setswana.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” feeling a bit guilty for assuming, but wait, I’m in Botswana, why wouldn’t I assume?
“They call me Kabo. What are your names?”
“I’m James, and this is Masimba.”
“Masimba! That’s a great name. What does it mean?” I asked with my unabashed enthusiasm.
“It means strength or power,” he replied with a smile, starting to open up from his shell. “We’re looking for piece jobs. We just came here last week from Zim with our brother and sister, and we are looking for work.”
Of course. Everyone’s asking the lekgoa for work. Not a week goes by that some new person doesn’t come to my yard offering to clean my house or wash my clothes. Then they walk away very confused by the white guy doing his own laundry. “I’m sorry. I’m a volunteer. I only get enough money for food, and the organization I work for pays my rent and bills. . .”
“Oh…” James and Masimba respond, looks of disappointment washing over their faces. Their “Oh” was heavy, carrying a burdensome weight. Translated, it meant: rejected... we’re poor... we’ve traveled all this way to find work... this sucks... our country’s a mess... how will we eat...
I proceeded to give them advice on where they might find work. I know some neighbors I’ve met have their own construction businesses and have recently started some projects. I also pointed out where to find some of the wealthier folks living in their non-traditional riparian homes. They seemed somewhat appreciative, but quickly left so they could continue their search.
My heart went out to them. I could have cried in that moment. They were so sweet, earnest and unaggressive. We had a brief conversation, they accepted my answer, and they went on their way. At that point, I had just moved to this place, so I was only beginning to see how bad things were here, but I still wanted to be able to give them something. Little did I know that some new person from Zimbabwe would come to my house asking me for work at least once a week, each time with the same earnest plea, the brief look of disappointment painting their faces with the colors of years of struggle and hardship, and walking away quickly with hopeful optimism that they’ll find something.
A few days later, just as I was about to walk up the long hill of deep sand that ends at my house, I heard someone screaming my name. I turned around to find Masimba running toward me. He was eager to say hello and fervent to talk about God. We had a brief conversation about some crackpot pastor from Indiana who had written some pamphlets on Christianity that he wanted me to read. It was still a lovely conversation, and I accepted the booklets he gave me with a smile. At this point, I had just made plans with Phaketse to go to church together the following day, so I invited Masimba with me. He was thrilled since he hadn’t been to church in Botswana yet.
Masimba was ready to go at 8AM sharp Sunday morning, wearing his best clothes and his black shoes freshly polished. I met him at his home, a tiny trailer held up by cinder blocks, sitting in an abandoned plot of land. I greeted James, met the aforementioned sister, Joyce, and we went on our way. During out walk to church at service and afterwards, we continued to have great conversations, and I was touched by how kind and compassionate this young man was.
Several weeks went by without seeing Masimba, but I would say hello to James and Joyce as I walked by. Strolling along the river, on my way home from work, per usual, I met another new person. I felt his presence close behind me, and I grew a bit wary until he introduced himself. “My name is Teach, I’m Joyce’s husband.” He’s one of the four that moved here with Masimba.
Months later, on the 1st of November, my counterpart and I were picking up some consultants we’re working with at the Jump Street Lodge to take them to the airport to catch their flight back to Gabs. I was surprised to see Teach walk out of the gate carrying their bags. He started working at the Lodge a few weeks back helping them expand the complex, building some new rondavals. I was so happy for him that he found good work. Coincidentally, his wife Joyce found some work earlier that same day, at my house.
The past few weeks have been busy at work, the Trainer of Facilitators for GLOW, visiting the GLOW chapter in Shakawe, the workshop to go over the draft of our Gender-Based Violence manual. I haven’t had a day off in a while since I’ve been so busy. My house is a mess, and my laundry is piling up. I’ve never had a maid in my life, so the idea of hiring someone to wash my clothes and clean my house is a bit uncomfortable to me. It also feels weird since I’m a volunteer, I’m frugal, and I get paid so little: US$250 per month. But I caved. I need the help, and labor here is cheap. Remembering the countless number of people who have come to my house looking for work, I tried to think of someone I could trust. When I thought of the right person, it was someone who had never even asked me for work, Joyce, even though her brothers did.
For 3 hours of labor, cleaning my house and washing my clothes, I paid her P50 (US$7), which in this country is a bit generous. She did a fantastic job. She got stains out of clothes I didn’t know were possible to remove, and my house has never been this clean. Not to mention the incredible speed with which she did a thorough and detailed job. It wasn’t weird to have her here like I thought it would be. What was strange was that I’ve never felt wealthier. What a bizarre contrast. I’m a volunteer surviving on a tiny stipend who came here with only two big suitcases of belongings, yet I’m in a place where I can afford to hire someone to clean my house, someone who has so much less than I do.
On the day I met Teach, Joyce’s husband, I asked how Masimba was doing, and I was told that he had to go back to Zimbabwe.
Knowing how bad things are in Zim, just after the height of the political violence, my heart leapt a bit. They told me he would be back in a month, but to this day, he has not returned, and I wonder how he is, still thinking about him from time to time.
Teach walked me back to their trailer and told me Masimba had left something for me. It was another religious booklet, but this one had a message for me complete with phone numbers and an address:
“I went home, my friend Mr. Kabo. I thank you for all what we have shared together. Going to church together was nice and charming. When you get to your homeland, pliz don’t forget me.”
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Two important discoveries I’ve made on my walks are 1) there is trash collection in my neighborhood, and 2) there is a recycling facility somewhere in Maun that pays 1Pula for glass bottles and 50thebe for cans. Since many of my neighbors still burn all of their trash, and, well, it’s Africa, I was surprised these developments exist. I’ve since begun dividing my trash into 5 segments:
1) biodegradables to throw behind the house
2) bones for the stray dogs
3) paper products for Teach, James and Joyce to use as kindle for the fires that cook their food
4) Cans and bottles for Tiny or Dube to recycle for money
5) All other trash for pick up
Beginning of September, walking by several houses burning piles of trash, during my usual commute, I arrived at the river to discover it had flooded the path. This was the beginning of an entirely new saga in my commute. I know there are many people who take this route to and from work, and since the river probably floods the path annually this time of year, I figure the community probably has a solution to this challenge. If I wanted to, I could walk through the gate before the river, and come out on the other side of Maun Secondary School just north of the Lodge, but that would add 15 minutes to my already excruciatingly long walk. I assume there are others who think similarly.
Stepping stones was the answer. Every day, there was a new array of different types of stepping stones: rocks, bricks, pieces of chairs, a smashed watering can and anything else people could find to throw in this large puddle blocking the path between the river and the barbed wire fence of Maun Sec. This worked for a while, but the river continued to get higher and the stepping stones lost traction in the mud.
At this point, I, along with my fellow community members, would traverse this part of the path over the river by holding onto the fence while lightly stepping on the objects in the river. Packing my water proof hiking boots for my stint in Botswana was a very wise choice, but that didn’t stop my other extremities from occasionally getting cut on the barbed wire.
Like everyone else, I persevered. This was the reality, it was a solution, and it got me to the rest of my path. A week later, someone cut holes in the fence, so for a while, I would crawl through the hole before the large puddle and then crawl through the other side. It wasn’t until the security guard stopped me, and the heat became unbearable, that I was forced to find a completely different direction of travel.
It was time to become familiar with the combi routes; they’ve been my saving grace from an hour and 15 minute walk in temperatures that have reached 112F by the end of October. Summer is only beginning. I hate talking about the weather, and even when making small talk with others, I used to despise discussing something so trivial. These days, sweating 24/7 with no air-con at home or in the office, I am constantly talking about and dreaming of more comfortable climes.
The combis are old, rickety minivans with 3 or 4 rows of seats made for 12 people, but in Botswana, they always find a way to squeeze in 20, plus 2. After the driver is ready and 20 passengers have become quite close to each other, the conductor makes room for himself to stand just inside the sliding door and hover over people as he collects everyone’s fare. Where taxis charge P3.60, the combis charge P3.00. More than any profession in Botswana, I have admiration for the combi workers in Maun. They do their work with such precision, systematically, reliably and they stop wherever you want on the route, whenever you’re ready, since there are no specific stops.
In Maun, there are 10 combi routes. No one in my office takes the combis, so it took me a while to explore and understand all of the routes. I walk for 15 minutes from the office to the combi rank at old mall. From there, I can take route 2 to Kwena road where I walk for 20 minutes to get home. Route 5 takes me within an 8-minute walk of my house. Route 2 runs quite frequently, but route 5 runs about once an hour, so which one I take depends on the day.
On my way to the office, I’ve discovered that hailing a taxi from Kwena road is much easier than the road by the lodge. So, in the morning, my new route is walking for 20 minutes to this main road and getting a cab that takes me directly to the office. At the end of the day, I take a combi since getting a taxi from the office to my house is practically impossible in such a sparsely populated area around the office. Once I settled into this new commute, I was so much happier and relaxed about my daily routine.
Additionally intriguing is that every day, I walk for 2 kilometers, uphill both ways, in the deep sand near my house. I can’t wait for the opportunity to tell this story to my grandchildren. And I sincerely love the combis. The people are always so nice and often entertaining. I don’t mind having to be squished up against everyone in the packed vehicle. Sadly, it’s the most physical affection I get here. (Batswana aren’t huggers).
In the combi, I get this feeling that “we’re together.” That’s the thought that goes through my mind at least, “It’s sweltering hot, none of us make enough money to have a car, we live far away from where we work, but we’re in this together.”
I suppose it’s almost how Teach, James and Joyce feel about the long journey they’ve taken. Far away from home, just to find work, living on so little, but at least they have each other.
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Life is beautiful.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
That Which Shall Not Be Named (Part 2): Botswana in the Closet
As soon as he approached me, he grabbed my hand, interlocking each of his fingers between each of my own. We walked side by side like this for a few moments as we talked. This wasn’t a date on a Friday night in West Hollywood. This was during my walk home from the office in Maun, Botswana. This man was a complete stranger, someone who was a bit confused to see a white guy walking through his ward. His sole intent was to greet me and welcome me, so he did just that.
Batswana men, completely oblivious to homosexuality amongst their own people, are openly affectionate with each other, signs of brotherly love, free of hesitation or shame. It’s common to see men holding hands or putting their arms around each other, with no sense of personal space. It’s a beautiful part of their culture, so different from America where we disconnect ourselves from one another.
I remember the surprise and comfort I felt when I saw the way the male facilitators at training interacted with each other and with me. After I hugged Tsepo to say hello in the morning, he would keep his arm around my waist holding me next to him casually as he continued the conversation I had briefly interrupted. I just stood there in his embrace for a couple of minutes until his arm loosened naturally, as if he didn’t even realize his arm was still around me.
One day after lunch, Keamogetse and I were talking to each other as we walked to the bus. While we ambled, he clasped my hand in his as if it were a natural instinct. I resisted the slight urge to pull away, felt relaxed and let the Motswana take the lead, as I’ve learned to do most of the time in the process of adapting to this foreign culture.
During my 11-hour bus ride up to Maun from Molepolole, I had a conversation with Chris, a straight guy and fellow PCV, about these signs of affection. We talked about how quickly the culture is changing and the country is developing. Generation after generation, things change and the Batswana are losing parts of their history and traditions. I wondered, with more exposure to and outing of homosexual behavior, would they lose this comfort in male affection? If there were a greater acceptance of the possibility that some of the men might be gay, would they be so openly affectionate with each other? Or would they disconnect themselves out of fear and prejudice, losing another wonderful aspect of their culture?
As you ponder this with me, dear reader, let me be clear that people in Botswana are well aware that there are many gay people in the world and that homosexuality exists. The problem is their denial that it happens within their country’s borders. Allow me to use television as an example.
In Botswana, a country more developed than most of Africa, many people have TVs in their homes. I still laugh every time I see another tiny, one-room, cinderblock house with a satellite dish mounted to the side of it. Back in Moleps with my host family, BTV, the country’s most popular channel, was almost always on. Watching snippets, night after night, it wasn’t uncommon to see gay people on BTV. Gay people were interviewed on talkshows, a gay boy coming out was a major story line in a popular sitcom, and a set of lesbian parents were the main characters in a movie about a custody battle. But all of these people were white, and the scenes were filmed and set far away from Botswana. The evening news had no hesitation to cover the story of and show footage of the recent California Supreme Court ruling legalizing same-sex marriages, and to do so without judgment, but this was pure information and entertainment from the fascinating world outside of Botswana, not a part of their own country.
In this country, it’s illegal to be gay. These types of laws exist in many countries all over the world, and were even on the books in many States in America until as recently as 2004 when the Supreme Court struck them down. Still, it’s an odd and funny concept to me: illegal to be who you are, illegal to exist, illegal to be alive. Punishable by up to 7 years in prison and a part of the constitution, that’s the reality here.
It’s quite a stark contrast to my previous working environment. Not only had I been out since the age of 16, but I had dedicated the following decade to working on gay issues; I fell into politics after college, working against anti-gay ballot initiative campaigns for a national gay organization for 4 years. But I lost motivation for the cause. I didn’t feel the urgency anymore. Fighting for marriage equality was and still is important to me, but it pales in comparison to the plights of the developing world, fighting against AIDS, hunger, poverty and violence. I wanted to do something so different that I didn’t care if I needed to be in the closet for a couple of years. It seemed like such a small sacrifice to follow another passion of mine.
Since I’ve been out for a while, and I’m completely comfortable with who I am, I don’t feel the need for any type of local support system or contact with other gay people to get through the day. If I was in a stage of questioning my sexuality, I think this phase would be much more difficult. I’m also reminded that there’s a lot more to me than being gay, and I get to focus on all of those other things, now that I’m away from gay politics and often restrained from even talking about the issue. I just thank God there’s no gaydar here or that would make things much more complicated.
The stereotypical signs we see in the States that would usually make us wonder if someone were gay don’t apply here. My three brothers in my host family were a great example of this. The eldest is a fashion designer, the middle child is obsessed with Celine Dion, and the youngest wears his favorite sweater adorning Hello Kitty almost every day.
I worried how difficult it would be, not being able to talk about my work experience, possibly having to lie about myself and my relationships. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we all struggle with a lot of things in order to do work here and adjust to the culture. I’ve learned in my short time here that my struggles as a gay person aren’t any more severe than those that straight volunteers face. The most difficult part is being in my dating prime and not being able to search for my husband. I’ve learned from my straight PCV friends that they don’t feel like they have dating options either, so most of them are in the same boat of a 2-year hiatus from romantic life.
The gay issue has come up several times at work in the past couple of months, not very often, but more than I had anticipated. A week after starting my job at WAR (Women and men Against Rape), I was asked to be an adjudicator for the SAR (Students Against Rape) interschool debates, organized by some of my co-workers. Over two days and several rounds, delegates from 8 different schools were to debate a variety of topics including marital rape, the right for HIV+ women to have children, abortion and, much to my surprise, sexual orientation.
I have never witnessed a formal high school debate, so a lot of what I saw was new to me. It was structured quite similarly to the way I think it would be in the States, but I can’t say for sure. Regardless, the most entertaining and inspiring part of the entire spectacle is difficult to describe. Imagine awkward teenagers in Africa debating controversial topics in front of a large audience of their peers and having to do so in English, their second or even third language.
A vivacious 14-year-old woman was one of the gems, an anomaly in the group of mostly shy adolescents. As part of a re-match, she took the floor a second time in round 3:
“Ladies and gentlemen, hello ladies and gentlemen, let me show my respect and thank everyone, again, for being here, ladies and gentlemen, protocol observed, ladies and gentlemen. They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, ladies and gentlemen, but here I am and I’m back with a bang, ladies and gentlemen. And now, to my beautiful work, ladies and gentlemen. The statement reads: Everyone has a right to sexual orientation…”
The debaters repeated similar phrases when they took the stage, and everyone said “ladies and gentlemen” a countless number of times out of nervousness. For this particular topic, the way it was phrased was already a bit confusing.
The arguments given against the issue were a lot of the similar ones I hear anywhere, mostly based in religion, procreation, culture and tradition. The more concerning part for me was to listen to those who supported the motion because many of their arguments were not so great or convincing. They talked about human rights, the right to personal choice and that having more people adopt children instead of procreating could be a good thing. One debater simply said “Elton John is gay,” as if naming a popular musical artist of a particular identity convinces people of the right to be who they are.
It was clear that these students had little access to information about the topic. It was, however, still great to hear the issue being discussed and to hear the words of support from the youth, whether they believe them or not.
After the last round on day 2, one of my colleagues, Phaketse, and I were conversing about the student’s performances. She’s one of the people at WAR who I’m closest to, and I’ve always enjoyed our conversations. She’s smart, with a great sense of humor, so we usually laugh a lot together.
“I used to really like Elton John,” she said to me.
“What happened?” I asked, fully knowing where this was going.
“I just couldn’t listen to him anymore when I found out he was gay.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, “Why is that?”
“I don’t know, I just…. It just made me uncomfortable. I don’t like that he made that choice.”
“Ok…” I was afraid to say anything more about the subject. Not only am I in the closet here, but I’ve been paranoid to even bring up the topic.
Our conversation was cut short when the owner of one of the lodges in town, David Ngami, took the microphone to give an inspirational speech to close the event. Throughout the day, David was sitting at the judges table, so we were getting to know each other between rounds. He’s a very bright man, moved to Botswana from Kenya, started two of his own businesses, involved in a lot of youth programs and loves politics. I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know him in our brief, friendly exchanges.
When David took the stage, the first thing he did was tear down all of the students’ arguments on the issue of sexual orientation. He started spewing hate and myths about gay people and said “We shouldn’t let ourselves go down in immoral peril like those in South Africa who have stepped into darkness.” He then went on with the rest of his speech, which, to his credit, was indeed quite inspirational, and I agreed with a lot of it, minus his intro of course.
During David’s speech, something awoke within me. I had been speaking to this vivacious and sociable man. He wanted me to come to Kenya and work there after my time in Bots. He spoke of great life philosophies, and I connected with him. Then he stood up, and anti-gay rhetoric flooded the hall. It was the first time I ever felt true compassion and kind feelings toward someone who said such things. He’s the one who’s living in the darkness. How can I fault him for where he grew up, his culture, the information he’s been given and lack of exposure to these issues?
My thought process went further. What does it mean to build relationships with these people with good hearts, spirits and who are so giving and thoughtful, yet they happen to live in a place that has instilled these conservative views? Before these moments, if someone was anti-gay in any context, I couldn’t even give them the time of day. But being in a completely different culture has opened my eyes to seeing the other beautiful parts in these people, the parts that lie beyond their ignorance.
Later, in my work for GLOW, I would have to call David asking him for a discount to host one of our events at his lodge. More than any other lodge we asked, he gave us the best deal. I have to admit that the idea, at first, made my stomach turn. I would never want to do business with someone spewing anti-gay ideas in the States. But here, in a different world, it’s just part of my job. If I decided not to work with or talk to anyone here who was ignorant on gay people, I wouldn’t have many people to work with.
Until these debates, the topic hadn’t come up in the first 2 and a half months I was here. Outside of conversations with other Peace Corps Volunteers, all of who are completely supportive, it hasn’t been talked about.
After the debates wrapped up, Phaketse wanted to finish our conversation. She asked me “Do you have a girlfriend?” I laughed, “No.” I thought about saying ‘Yes’ and using this as a cover story, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then she asked “Are you gay or hetero?”
Well, shit, was she really asking me this? I froze. My brain stopped working.
“I can’t answer that question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why does it matter whether I’m gay or straight?” I felt like an idiot. What was I doing? Why couldn’t I stick to my story about Cyndy and having a fiancé? If I had said yes to the former question, that would have saved me a lot of trouble. I hate lying, absolutely despise it. I’ve been out of the closet for almost 10 years, and I spent most of that time working on LGBT causes. I’m not used to having to do this.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I just want to know,” she said, determined to have an answer.
I was still calm at this point, and I laughed, saying “and I just don’t think it matters.”
At that moment, our conversation was again interrupted as her ride arrived and she left. When I got home, for the rest of the evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about this predicament. My mind was in a panic. I rehearsed my story and gave it to her the next day as we walked to work together.
I gave her an elaborate story about Cyndy and I, being engaged, she’s the love of my life, etc. She is one of my best friends, so 90% of the story was true and easy to tell, about the history of our relationship and how it’s grown and changed over time. The 10% lie was the part about her being my fiancé. Phaketse bought the entire story.
I didn’t end it there though. Phaketse opened a door by asking me these questions, and I wasn’t willing to close it. I went on to tell her that I have some gay friends in the States and that “some” of the work I used to do was for gay causes. I made up another story about many of my friends being upset that I was going to work for a homophobic country, and out of respect to them, I don’t like to answer that question, because it really doesn’t matter to me if someone is gay or straight. She bought that too.
Phaketse continued to surprise me when she said, “Well, I hope you know that even if you were gay, I wouldn’t think any differently of you. I admit that I probably am a bit, how do they call it, ho-mo-phobic, but I don’t judge people.” I let the conversation end there. The topic didn’t come up again for another month, but this time, I was the person who raised the issue.
I got an email from one of my close friends in Los Angeles telling me that her and her girlfriend broke up. Heather was staying in the house, and Annie was moving out. Knowing the saga they’ve been through, my heart went out to Heather, and I was thinking about her a lot that day. I decided to bring this up to Phaketse on our walk home to see how she would react. Afterwards, I was glad I did because I got a much more honest opinion than I did in our previous conversation.
“Phaketse, I’m very saddened today by an email I got from one of my friends.”
“Oh, no. Why’s that? What happened?” a look of sudden and genuine concern wiping across her face.
“My friend and her partner just broke up, it’s a mess, and her partner is moving out of the house…”
“Oh, that’s terrible. But she gets to keep the house and he’s moving out?”
“No, she’s moving out.”
“Wait, who’s the man and who’s the woman?”
“Well, they’re lesbians, so they’re both women.”
Her mouth formed the shape of an O in utter shock. “Oh... uh… I see…”
“Yeah, I’m very sad for her. And she says she wants to come visit. I don’t know if it would happen, but I hope that it does.”
“Well, if she comes, I hope she doesn’t bring her with her.”
Chuckling, I responded, “Well, since they broke up, I doubt they would come together.”
“Well, I hope she finds a nice man to make her happy.”
I laughed some more, “No, she’s quite happy with women.”
And the truth came out when she exclaimed, “But that’s demonic! It’s an abomination! Why would she want to do such a thing? She needs to find a man and learn what real love is.”
I could physically feel the rage fomenting in my body, and I did my best to stifle it. “How can you say what she had wasn’t real love? How would you feel if someone told you that the love you felt for someone wasn’t real or good enough? Tell me, have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She was getting upset. “I just know what the Bible says.”
I laughed again and retorted, “The Bible says that you are sinning by wearing those clothes.”
“It does not,” she said, clipped.
“Leviticus, Chapter 19, ‘Do not wear clothing of mixed textiles.’” I’ve had this argument far too many times. “and Corinthians chapter 11 says that you should wear a head scarf in public. If not, you should have your head shaved, so don’t try to tell me you follow the Bible. Jesus said nothing about homosexuality. He preached love. You, on the other hand, have called my friends demonic. How is that love?”
Her expression softened, and she spoke quietly, “Kabo, I can see you’re very upset, and for that I am sorry.”
I could tell she was being sincere. “I appreciate that, Phaketse, but I want you to understand something. We may have a lot of disagreements because of the different environments we lived in and because of things each of us were taught, but no matter what differences we have in culture, I would never say hateful things about your friends.”
“I’m very, very sorry,” almost pouting.
“Did you say you were going to church this evening?” I asked, having heard her talk about it earlier.
“Yes…”
“Well, when you go to church, I want you to pray about this, and I hope that God will open your eyes.”
“Uh… well…” a bit surprised, “I… I hope so too.”
“Are you upset with me?” I asked sincerely, knowing how heated I can get when I argue.
“Not at all. You were honest with me about how you felt. With that honesty, you’ve proven that we are friends.”
The next morning, in the office, Phaketse and I had a meeting about forming some protocols for the GLOW camp. It was work as usual as if nothing happened. She was professional, unreserved, and we continued to laugh together as we always do.
I wonder if her view will ever change, and if there’s anything I can do. However, I have learned that sometimes simply being honest with people I care about can change hearts and minds. Some people take much longer than others. It was some of my high school friends who helped to teach me that.
When I came out in high school, I lost several of my close friends due to conservative religion. Two of them, several years later, tracked me down to apologize as they changed their mind on the issue, and my friendship was more important to them than they realized. Just a few months ago, the dearest friend that I lost found me on Facebook. Her name is Chastity, how religiously appropriate. She was deeply apologetic for what she had done so long ago. It took me a while to respond. I cried because her message was so sincere, heartfelt and nostalgic. After I finally wrote back, this is part of the email she sent:
“... I am so relieved I cried while reading this. I can't believe you're in Botswana. I mean, it's just so exotic compared with our humble Western PA. Reading this little message...hearing your tone of voice come through the words made me realize how much I've missed you. I tend to truly connect with only a very few people and the connection I had with you left a lasting impression; one that's been vacant for a long time.”
Change takes time and patience, but how can we expect change if we don’t talk about things and if we’re not honest? And how much can I expect Phaketse, or any other Motswana for that matter, to be enlightened when they live in such a different world? All due patience aside, reflecting on the conversation with her that evening made me angry, but it was only one factor in a culmination of items that made me angry with concern that day. Earlier, I was reading some recent news and reports about MSM (Men who have Sex with Men) studies in Africa.
HIV/AIDS is known as mostly a gay epidemic in the States. In Africa, it’s spread mostly through heterosexual contact, and the media claims it has been far disconnected from any MSM activity. Just recently though, international organizations are waking up to the idea that MSM may actually be one of the driving forces of HIV in Africa.
Over the past few years, several African nations and other developing countries conducted their first ever research on MSM transmission of HIV. The results were shocking to many.
“Globally, MSM are on average 19 times more likely to contract HIV than the general population. At one end of the spectrum, MSM in Bolivia are 179 times more likely…
The clandestine existence that gay communities are forced to hide away in exposes them not just to the risk of HIV, but the rest of the population too: because they are unable to live openly as gay men, many MSMs also have sexual relations with women, or are even married…
Many MSM told us they were sure that there was no risk of infection with anal penetration”, said Yves Jong, coordinator of Alternatives Cameroun’s sexual health and prevention unit…
In Mali, “the majority of [MSM] – 88 per cent according to a study – are bisexual, which increases the spread of the disease”, said Dabo…”
Botswana is one of the countries that took copious amounts of persuasion and pressure from international health organizations before they would do a similar study. Right now, health workers near the capital are gathering their first statistics on MSM transmission.
Collecting this information can be extremely difficult in countries like Botswana where homosexuality is illegal. Most people don’t want to talk about it for fear of being arrested, and that’s what drives the epidemic. Since it’s not talked about, many African men don’t even know unprotected anal sex can spread HIV. They spread HIV amongst themselves and then go home to have unprotected sex with their wives.
To think, this could possibly be a significant factor spreading HIV in Africa, contributing to the loss of millions of lives, and too few people are willing to accept it.
There are glimmers of hope in these studies and in the leadership and people of Botswana. At the recent International AIDS Conference in Mexico, Festus Mogae, the former president of Botswana, spoke out and said “African leaders must end the discrimination against gay people.”
Last week, the Director at WAR, told me that a couple of the boys in their counseling sessions have disclosed they’re having unprotected anal sex with other boys, and that they didn’t know it could spread HIV. It’s real. It’s right in front of them.
The next day, at our morning meeting, she addressed the staff, “There has been some gay rights stuff in the news lately, and some new studies are coming out. I just want people to know, that no matter what people do or who they are, and no matter what our personal beliefs and judgments are, let’s not let it affect the support we need to give our clients. Now, moving on…”
At the end of the work day, I walked home with Tumelo, Phaketse’s nephew. He’s 21, recently hired, and of course no one talks about the nepotism that’s common in Botswana, yet against WAR policy. When we were only 10 minutes away from his home, walking along the river, he asked me, “How do you feel about gay people?”
Not wanting to influence him, knowing how his Aunt feels, and wanting to hear his unbiased thoughts first, I responded, “Well, how do you feel about gay people?”
“Aish. They should not be discriminated against. I do not like when people judge them. They are people just like anyone else. I think it should be legalized.”
For the next ten minutes, I didn’t talk about myself, but I talked about my gay friends in the states and some of the work I’ve done on gay issues. I told him about marriages in California, about the civil rights battles, about couples with kids, and about several reasons gay people should have equal rights. He was in agreement with me on everything, and he seemed both enlightened and happy to hear about a place that’s much more open-minded than where he lives.
When we got to his place, before I left to continue my journey home, he smiled at me and said “Thank you, Kabo, for the great conversation.”
I was the one who felt grateful to be able to talk about such things so openly to a supportive Motswana. “Thank you, Tumelo. We’ll have many more conversations like this, I’m sure. This is only the beginning.”
Batswana men, completely oblivious to homosexuality amongst their own people, are openly affectionate with each other, signs of brotherly love, free of hesitation or shame. It’s common to see men holding hands or putting their arms around each other, with no sense of personal space. It’s a beautiful part of their culture, so different from America where we disconnect ourselves from one another.
I remember the surprise and comfort I felt when I saw the way the male facilitators at training interacted with each other and with me. After I hugged Tsepo to say hello in the morning, he would keep his arm around my waist holding me next to him casually as he continued the conversation I had briefly interrupted. I just stood there in his embrace for a couple of minutes until his arm loosened naturally, as if he didn’t even realize his arm was still around me.
One day after lunch, Keamogetse and I were talking to each other as we walked to the bus. While we ambled, he clasped my hand in his as if it were a natural instinct. I resisted the slight urge to pull away, felt relaxed and let the Motswana take the lead, as I’ve learned to do most of the time in the process of adapting to this foreign culture.
During my 11-hour bus ride up to Maun from Molepolole, I had a conversation with Chris, a straight guy and fellow PCV, about these signs of affection. We talked about how quickly the culture is changing and the country is developing. Generation after generation, things change and the Batswana are losing parts of their history and traditions. I wondered, with more exposure to and outing of homosexual behavior, would they lose this comfort in male affection? If there were a greater acceptance of the possibility that some of the men might be gay, would they be so openly affectionate with each other? Or would they disconnect themselves out of fear and prejudice, losing another wonderful aspect of their culture?
As you ponder this with me, dear reader, let me be clear that people in Botswana are well aware that there are many gay people in the world and that homosexuality exists. The problem is their denial that it happens within their country’s borders. Allow me to use television as an example.
In Botswana, a country more developed than most of Africa, many people have TVs in their homes. I still laugh every time I see another tiny, one-room, cinderblock house with a satellite dish mounted to the side of it. Back in Moleps with my host family, BTV, the country’s most popular channel, was almost always on. Watching snippets, night after night, it wasn’t uncommon to see gay people on BTV. Gay people were interviewed on talkshows, a gay boy coming out was a major story line in a popular sitcom, and a set of lesbian parents were the main characters in a movie about a custody battle. But all of these people were white, and the scenes were filmed and set far away from Botswana. The evening news had no hesitation to cover the story of and show footage of the recent California Supreme Court ruling legalizing same-sex marriages, and to do so without judgment, but this was pure information and entertainment from the fascinating world outside of Botswana, not a part of their own country.
In this country, it’s illegal to be gay. These types of laws exist in many countries all over the world, and were even on the books in many States in America until as recently as 2004 when the Supreme Court struck them down. Still, it’s an odd and funny concept to me: illegal to be who you are, illegal to exist, illegal to be alive. Punishable by up to 7 years in prison and a part of the constitution, that’s the reality here.
It’s quite a stark contrast to my previous working environment. Not only had I been out since the age of 16, but I had dedicated the following decade to working on gay issues; I fell into politics after college, working against anti-gay ballot initiative campaigns for a national gay organization for 4 years. But I lost motivation for the cause. I didn’t feel the urgency anymore. Fighting for marriage equality was and still is important to me, but it pales in comparison to the plights of the developing world, fighting against AIDS, hunger, poverty and violence. I wanted to do something so different that I didn’t care if I needed to be in the closet for a couple of years. It seemed like such a small sacrifice to follow another passion of mine.
Since I’ve been out for a while, and I’m completely comfortable with who I am, I don’t feel the need for any type of local support system or contact with other gay people to get through the day. If I was in a stage of questioning my sexuality, I think this phase would be much more difficult. I’m also reminded that there’s a lot more to me than being gay, and I get to focus on all of those other things, now that I’m away from gay politics and often restrained from even talking about the issue. I just thank God there’s no gaydar here or that would make things much more complicated.
The stereotypical signs we see in the States that would usually make us wonder if someone were gay don’t apply here. My three brothers in my host family were a great example of this. The eldest is a fashion designer, the middle child is obsessed with Celine Dion, and the youngest wears his favorite sweater adorning Hello Kitty almost every day.
I worried how difficult it would be, not being able to talk about my work experience, possibly having to lie about myself and my relationships. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we all struggle with a lot of things in order to do work here and adjust to the culture. I’ve learned in my short time here that my struggles as a gay person aren’t any more severe than those that straight volunteers face. The most difficult part is being in my dating prime and not being able to search for my husband. I’ve learned from my straight PCV friends that they don’t feel like they have dating options either, so most of them are in the same boat of a 2-year hiatus from romantic life.
The gay issue has come up several times at work in the past couple of months, not very often, but more than I had anticipated. A week after starting my job at WAR (Women and men Against Rape), I was asked to be an adjudicator for the SAR (Students Against Rape) interschool debates, organized by some of my co-workers. Over two days and several rounds, delegates from 8 different schools were to debate a variety of topics including marital rape, the right for HIV+ women to have children, abortion and, much to my surprise, sexual orientation.
I have never witnessed a formal high school debate, so a lot of what I saw was new to me. It was structured quite similarly to the way I think it would be in the States, but I can’t say for sure. Regardless, the most entertaining and inspiring part of the entire spectacle is difficult to describe. Imagine awkward teenagers in Africa debating controversial topics in front of a large audience of their peers and having to do so in English, their second or even third language.
A vivacious 14-year-old woman was one of the gems, an anomaly in the group of mostly shy adolescents. As part of a re-match, she took the floor a second time in round 3:
“Ladies and gentlemen, hello ladies and gentlemen, let me show my respect and thank everyone, again, for being here, ladies and gentlemen, protocol observed, ladies and gentlemen. They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, ladies and gentlemen, but here I am and I’m back with a bang, ladies and gentlemen. And now, to my beautiful work, ladies and gentlemen. The statement reads: Everyone has a right to sexual orientation…”
The debaters repeated similar phrases when they took the stage, and everyone said “ladies and gentlemen” a countless number of times out of nervousness. For this particular topic, the way it was phrased was already a bit confusing.
The arguments given against the issue were a lot of the similar ones I hear anywhere, mostly based in religion, procreation, culture and tradition. The more concerning part for me was to listen to those who supported the motion because many of their arguments were not so great or convincing. They talked about human rights, the right to personal choice and that having more people adopt children instead of procreating could be a good thing. One debater simply said “Elton John is gay,” as if naming a popular musical artist of a particular identity convinces people of the right to be who they are.
It was clear that these students had little access to information about the topic. It was, however, still great to hear the issue being discussed and to hear the words of support from the youth, whether they believe them or not.
After the last round on day 2, one of my colleagues, Phaketse, and I were conversing about the student’s performances. She’s one of the people at WAR who I’m closest to, and I’ve always enjoyed our conversations. She’s smart, with a great sense of humor, so we usually laugh a lot together.
“I used to really like Elton John,” she said to me.
“What happened?” I asked, fully knowing where this was going.
“I just couldn’t listen to him anymore when I found out he was gay.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, “Why is that?”
“I don’t know, I just…. It just made me uncomfortable. I don’t like that he made that choice.”
“Ok…” I was afraid to say anything more about the subject. Not only am I in the closet here, but I’ve been paranoid to even bring up the topic.
Our conversation was cut short when the owner of one of the lodges in town, David Ngami, took the microphone to give an inspirational speech to close the event. Throughout the day, David was sitting at the judges table, so we were getting to know each other between rounds. He’s a very bright man, moved to Botswana from Kenya, started two of his own businesses, involved in a lot of youth programs and loves politics. I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know him in our brief, friendly exchanges.
When David took the stage, the first thing he did was tear down all of the students’ arguments on the issue of sexual orientation. He started spewing hate and myths about gay people and said “We shouldn’t let ourselves go down in immoral peril like those in South Africa who have stepped into darkness.” He then went on with the rest of his speech, which, to his credit, was indeed quite inspirational, and I agreed with a lot of it, minus his intro of course.
During David’s speech, something awoke within me. I had been speaking to this vivacious and sociable man. He wanted me to come to Kenya and work there after my time in Bots. He spoke of great life philosophies, and I connected with him. Then he stood up, and anti-gay rhetoric flooded the hall. It was the first time I ever felt true compassion and kind feelings toward someone who said such things. He’s the one who’s living in the darkness. How can I fault him for where he grew up, his culture, the information he’s been given and lack of exposure to these issues?
My thought process went further. What does it mean to build relationships with these people with good hearts, spirits and who are so giving and thoughtful, yet they happen to live in a place that has instilled these conservative views? Before these moments, if someone was anti-gay in any context, I couldn’t even give them the time of day. But being in a completely different culture has opened my eyes to seeing the other beautiful parts in these people, the parts that lie beyond their ignorance.
Later, in my work for GLOW, I would have to call David asking him for a discount to host one of our events at his lodge. More than any other lodge we asked, he gave us the best deal. I have to admit that the idea, at first, made my stomach turn. I would never want to do business with someone spewing anti-gay ideas in the States. But here, in a different world, it’s just part of my job. If I decided not to work with or talk to anyone here who was ignorant on gay people, I wouldn’t have many people to work with.
Until these debates, the topic hadn’t come up in the first 2 and a half months I was here. Outside of conversations with other Peace Corps Volunteers, all of who are completely supportive, it hasn’t been talked about.
After the debates wrapped up, Phaketse wanted to finish our conversation. She asked me “Do you have a girlfriend?” I laughed, “No.” I thought about saying ‘Yes’ and using this as a cover story, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then she asked “Are you gay or hetero?”
Well, shit, was she really asking me this? I froze. My brain stopped working.
“I can’t answer that question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why does it matter whether I’m gay or straight?” I felt like an idiot. What was I doing? Why couldn’t I stick to my story about Cyndy and having a fiancé? If I had said yes to the former question, that would have saved me a lot of trouble. I hate lying, absolutely despise it. I’ve been out of the closet for almost 10 years, and I spent most of that time working on LGBT causes. I’m not used to having to do this.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I just want to know,” she said, determined to have an answer.
I was still calm at this point, and I laughed, saying “and I just don’t think it matters.”
At that moment, our conversation was again interrupted as her ride arrived and she left. When I got home, for the rest of the evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about this predicament. My mind was in a panic. I rehearsed my story and gave it to her the next day as we walked to work together.
I gave her an elaborate story about Cyndy and I, being engaged, she’s the love of my life, etc. She is one of my best friends, so 90% of the story was true and easy to tell, about the history of our relationship and how it’s grown and changed over time. The 10% lie was the part about her being my fiancé. Phaketse bought the entire story.
I didn’t end it there though. Phaketse opened a door by asking me these questions, and I wasn’t willing to close it. I went on to tell her that I have some gay friends in the States and that “some” of the work I used to do was for gay causes. I made up another story about many of my friends being upset that I was going to work for a homophobic country, and out of respect to them, I don’t like to answer that question, because it really doesn’t matter to me if someone is gay or straight. She bought that too.
Phaketse continued to surprise me when she said, “Well, I hope you know that even if you were gay, I wouldn’t think any differently of you. I admit that I probably am a bit, how do they call it, ho-mo-phobic, but I don’t judge people.” I let the conversation end there. The topic didn’t come up again for another month, but this time, I was the person who raised the issue.
I got an email from one of my close friends in Los Angeles telling me that her and her girlfriend broke up. Heather was staying in the house, and Annie was moving out. Knowing the saga they’ve been through, my heart went out to Heather, and I was thinking about her a lot that day. I decided to bring this up to Phaketse on our walk home to see how she would react. Afterwards, I was glad I did because I got a much more honest opinion than I did in our previous conversation.
“Phaketse, I’m very saddened today by an email I got from one of my friends.”
“Oh, no. Why’s that? What happened?” a look of sudden and genuine concern wiping across her face.
“My friend and her partner just broke up, it’s a mess, and her partner is moving out of the house…”
“Oh, that’s terrible. But she gets to keep the house and he’s moving out?”
“No, she’s moving out.”
“Wait, who’s the man and who’s the woman?”
“Well, they’re lesbians, so they’re both women.”
Her mouth formed the shape of an O in utter shock. “Oh... uh… I see…”
“Yeah, I’m very sad for her. And she says she wants to come visit. I don’t know if it would happen, but I hope that it does.”
“Well, if she comes, I hope she doesn’t bring her with her.”
Chuckling, I responded, “Well, since they broke up, I doubt they would come together.”
“Well, I hope she finds a nice man to make her happy.”
I laughed some more, “No, she’s quite happy with women.”
And the truth came out when she exclaimed, “But that’s demonic! It’s an abomination! Why would she want to do such a thing? She needs to find a man and learn what real love is.”
I could physically feel the rage fomenting in my body, and I did my best to stifle it. “How can you say what she had wasn’t real love? How would you feel if someone told you that the love you felt for someone wasn’t real or good enough? Tell me, have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She was getting upset. “I just know what the Bible says.”
I laughed again and retorted, “The Bible says that you are sinning by wearing those clothes.”
“It does not,” she said, clipped.
“Leviticus, Chapter 19, ‘Do not wear clothing of mixed textiles.’” I’ve had this argument far too many times. “and Corinthians chapter 11 says that you should wear a head scarf in public. If not, you should have your head shaved, so don’t try to tell me you follow the Bible. Jesus said nothing about homosexuality. He preached love. You, on the other hand, have called my friends demonic. How is that love?”
Her expression softened, and she spoke quietly, “Kabo, I can see you’re very upset, and for that I am sorry.”
I could tell she was being sincere. “I appreciate that, Phaketse, but I want you to understand something. We may have a lot of disagreements because of the different environments we lived in and because of things each of us were taught, but no matter what differences we have in culture, I would never say hateful things about your friends.”
“I’m very, very sorry,” almost pouting.
“Did you say you were going to church this evening?” I asked, having heard her talk about it earlier.
“Yes…”
“Well, when you go to church, I want you to pray about this, and I hope that God will open your eyes.”
“Uh… well…” a bit surprised, “I… I hope so too.”
“Are you upset with me?” I asked sincerely, knowing how heated I can get when I argue.
“Not at all. You were honest with me about how you felt. With that honesty, you’ve proven that we are friends.”
The next morning, in the office, Phaketse and I had a meeting about forming some protocols for the GLOW camp. It was work as usual as if nothing happened. She was professional, unreserved, and we continued to laugh together as we always do.
I wonder if her view will ever change, and if there’s anything I can do. However, I have learned that sometimes simply being honest with people I care about can change hearts and minds. Some people take much longer than others. It was some of my high school friends who helped to teach me that.
When I came out in high school, I lost several of my close friends due to conservative religion. Two of them, several years later, tracked me down to apologize as they changed their mind on the issue, and my friendship was more important to them than they realized. Just a few months ago, the dearest friend that I lost found me on Facebook. Her name is Chastity, how religiously appropriate. She was deeply apologetic for what she had done so long ago. It took me a while to respond. I cried because her message was so sincere, heartfelt and nostalgic. After I finally wrote back, this is part of the email she sent:
“... I am so relieved I cried while reading this. I can't believe you're in Botswana. I mean, it's just so exotic compared with our humble Western PA. Reading this little message...hearing your tone of voice come through the words made me realize how much I've missed you. I tend to truly connect with only a very few people and the connection I had with you left a lasting impression; one that's been vacant for a long time.”
Change takes time and patience, but how can we expect change if we don’t talk about things and if we’re not honest? And how much can I expect Phaketse, or any other Motswana for that matter, to be enlightened when they live in such a different world? All due patience aside, reflecting on the conversation with her that evening made me angry, but it was only one factor in a culmination of items that made me angry with concern that day. Earlier, I was reading some recent news and reports about MSM (Men who have Sex with Men) studies in Africa.
HIV/AIDS is known as mostly a gay epidemic in the States. In Africa, it’s spread mostly through heterosexual contact, and the media claims it has been far disconnected from any MSM activity. Just recently though, international organizations are waking up to the idea that MSM may actually be one of the driving forces of HIV in Africa.
Over the past few years, several African nations and other developing countries conducted their first ever research on MSM transmission of HIV. The results were shocking to many.
“Globally, MSM are on average 19 times more likely to contract HIV than the general population. At one end of the spectrum, MSM in Bolivia are 179 times more likely…
The clandestine existence that gay communities are forced to hide away in exposes them not just to the risk of HIV, but the rest of the population too: because they are unable to live openly as gay men, many MSMs also have sexual relations with women, or are even married…
Many MSM told us they were sure that there was no risk of infection with anal penetration”, said Yves Jong, coordinator of Alternatives Cameroun’s sexual health and prevention unit…
In Mali, “the majority of [MSM] – 88 per cent according to a study – are bisexual, which increases the spread of the disease”, said Dabo…”
Botswana is one of the countries that took copious amounts of persuasion and pressure from international health organizations before they would do a similar study. Right now, health workers near the capital are gathering their first statistics on MSM transmission.
Collecting this information can be extremely difficult in countries like Botswana where homosexuality is illegal. Most people don’t want to talk about it for fear of being arrested, and that’s what drives the epidemic. Since it’s not talked about, many African men don’t even know unprotected anal sex can spread HIV. They spread HIV amongst themselves and then go home to have unprotected sex with their wives.
To think, this could possibly be a significant factor spreading HIV in Africa, contributing to the loss of millions of lives, and too few people are willing to accept it.
There are glimmers of hope in these studies and in the leadership and people of Botswana. At the recent International AIDS Conference in Mexico, Festus Mogae, the former president of Botswana, spoke out and said “African leaders must end the discrimination against gay people.”
Last week, the Director at WAR, told me that a couple of the boys in their counseling sessions have disclosed they’re having unprotected anal sex with other boys, and that they didn’t know it could spread HIV. It’s real. It’s right in front of them.
The next day, at our morning meeting, she addressed the staff, “There has been some gay rights stuff in the news lately, and some new studies are coming out. I just want people to know, that no matter what people do or who they are, and no matter what our personal beliefs and judgments are, let’s not let it affect the support we need to give our clients. Now, moving on…”
At the end of the work day, I walked home with Tumelo, Phaketse’s nephew. He’s 21, recently hired, and of course no one talks about the nepotism that’s common in Botswana, yet against WAR policy. When we were only 10 minutes away from his home, walking along the river, he asked me, “How do you feel about gay people?”
Not wanting to influence him, knowing how his Aunt feels, and wanting to hear his unbiased thoughts first, I responded, “Well, how do you feel about gay people?”
“Aish. They should not be discriminated against. I do not like when people judge them. They are people just like anyone else. I think it should be legalized.”
For the next ten minutes, I didn’t talk about myself, but I talked about my gay friends in the states and some of the work I’ve done on gay issues. I told him about marriages in California, about the civil rights battles, about couples with kids, and about several reasons gay people should have equal rights. He was in agreement with me on everything, and he seemed both enlightened and happy to hear about a place that’s much more open-minded than where he lives.
When we got to his place, before I left to continue my journey home, he smiled at me and said “Thank you, Kabo, for the great conversation.”
I was the one who felt grateful to be able to talk about such things so openly to a supportive Motswana. “Thank you, Tumelo. We’ll have many more conversations like this, I’m sure. This is only the beginning.”
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