A St. Paddy's Day Like No Other

This week was a week to mourn death and a week to celebrate life while discovering everything in between.  I am feeling less and less like an outsider in a foreign place and more and more like a member of the Dzaleka community.  It is gratifying to wander about camp and see familiar faces light up when they see you coming.   The bonds I am creating and the relationships I am forming make me feel very connected to these people and this place. 

This week during my women’s support group I asked them to draw a specific moment in their lives when they were the most scared.  These drawings depicted horrific moments and traumatic events emblazoned on the memories of these women.  The stories shared in the discussion were unspeakable.  Unspeakable because the memories and flashbacks were things so terrifying the women could not bring themselves to speak them out loud before today.  One of the women had just finished breaking her silence when another one of our group members walked through the door.  She was physically shaken and was walking in slow motion as if in a dream.  As soon as she sat down you could visibly see all the life rush out of her body.  Her head lowered and rested on the table as tears rolled down her cheeks.  She shared the news that her one-week-old infant daughter had passed away.  Complications from malaria compounded by an understaffed clinic brought the babies life to an end before it had a chance to get started.  The stories of the past were now being highlighted by a woman experiencing real pain and suffering right here and now.  She gathered herself, stood up and walked out of the room with all the strength she could muster. 

The group made a decision to travel to the woman’s home after our group.  Together we walked through the rows of small mud brick homes, past children playing sporadic games of futbol and amongst the roving chickens until we arrived at the small one room house.  Eleven women and a sprinkling of young children huddled inside the dark, dank room. We sat together, to mourn together and to carry the heavy weight of her burden and loss together.  It was a very powerful moment.  Our support group was digging in and embodying the very thing it was put in place to do.  The silence stirred many sad emotions inside of me but I also felt honored and privileged to be a part of something larger than myself.

The loss of life was balanced by the celebration of a new life.  The wife of one of the counselors I work with just had a baby boy and I traveled to camp on Saturday to greet him and celebrate his life.  Six hundred Kwacha, three over crowded mini buses and a ramshackle, prehistoric Toyota later, we arrived.   Camp on Saturday has a laid back feeling to it.  JRS, UN and government services are not available so the hum of official business has died down and people go about other dealings and trades.  We came bearing gifts and left with stomachs full of hot chapatti, home-grown maize and a new love for Daniel Hope.  The hours spent with the family were wonderful and though the prayer before we left might have been the longest ever recorded, its meaning was genuine and brought tears to my eyes. 

I realized I have not made contact since St. Patrick’s Day so I believe a brief update on that matter is necessary.  

Don’t fear…I found the only celebration in town, danced a bit of freestyle jig with an Irish band flown in by the Irish Embassy, drank multiple beers and made a large roast beef dinner.  I don't think corned beef exists in this hemisphere.  

  

The real celebration however came when I had the opportunity to accompany a refugee I was working with to the airport.  He was being resettled to Australia after four years of living in Dzaleka.  To give you an idea of the fortune this man has, he represents one of 100 or so refugees that will be granted resettlement this year out of approximately 11,000 refugee and asylum seekers.  I was invited to see him off so I took my seat or rather my section of a seat large enough for half a cheek.  Laughter and singing erupted in the packed vehicle amongst uncertainty and apprehension.  All were excited for their brother but the expressions on the faces of the five young foster children told another story.  Legal circumstances will not allow the children to travel with him so they will be left behind in camp to live on their own. 

We parked the Land Cruiser and unloaded along with two other vehicles including an open bed truck full of people.  Photos, hugs, photos, goodbyes, more photos and then we walked inside.  In absence of a passport the man had a single page document with his picture and an official seal.  ‘Good for one-way travel to Australia only’.  Permanent.  This was it.  We arrived at the airline counter and he was not aware of the personal space rule so he proceeded to pull within inches of the man in front of him despite the ample space provided.  I found the act so innocent and charming that I choose not to say anything.  Just as soon as he was through immigration I turned to leave only to realize the group sat waiting on a viewing platform that overlooked the single runway of the small international airport in Lilongwe.  This was not just a simple flight, it was a life-changing journey and we were going to watch it from start to finish. 

An hour and half later he was visible on the tarmac waving both hands side to side.  In return thirty of us stood up and waved both hands.  Again, when the bus took him to the plane and he began ascending the stairs he paused in the distance and waved a final goodbye.  When the plane finally took off and was visible over the forest of trees lining the runway everyone clapped and waved one last time.   ‘Safe travels my friend’, ‘God bless you’, and ‘Goodbye’ could be heard in multiple languages.  A great moment.  Never before had I watched a plane off the ground and shared such an experience with a group.  It was a St. Patrick’s Day celebration unlike any other.  My Irish pin and green attire come out every year for the holiday but the Malawian twist on my tradition made it that much more special.  May the luck of the Irish be with you always Claude*. 

Dome’s Favorites:  Made in Malawi: ‘Garlic Nali’ might be the best hot sauces ever produced.  The flavor beats that of Saracha, a former favorite, and the heat is just right.  I am generous with the liquid delight, so much so that I am asked it I would like food with my Nali? Thank you, I shant.