Fugee Football

Over 100 Rwandese, Burundian, Somali and Congolese people lined the soccer pitch last weekend to watch a game between JRS and a team comprised of refugee soccer players.  When I was told I would finally get to play some soccer after months of asking I didn’t realize my first match back would be in front of such a crowd and against such a team of organized and conditioned men.  I was a little intimidated, well maybe a lot intimidated, because as soon as we pulled up a mob of people surrounded the car and all eyes were focused on us.  The chaos was escalated when I pulled the extra large team jersey over my head sparking every man in camp to look my direction and ask curiously where I was going and if I was going to play.  “I am going to the football field and YES, I am going to play.”  In addition to being the visiting team on an unfamiliar field, a colleague and I were the only two female players which gave us a sense of duty and need to represent for women everywhere.  My feet were tired and my head rang from late night escapades on the dance floor just hours earlier but that was no excuse so I put my game face on and trotted out onto the field.    

Not even a few touches on the ball for warm-ups and the whistle blew starting the game.  Typical to Malawian style, we kicked off a hour after our scheduled start time but no one seemed to mind.  Most everyone’s fitness level held up through the first half and while some players had better ball control and passing skills than others our team of pasty white expats held their own.  Whenever the ball came into the vicinity of Clotilde or me the masses of people would hoot and holler with excitement, not familiar with seeing women on the football pitch.  By pitch I mean a large area sloping left to right fraught with ditches and uneven terrain, where in place of any green grass lay a rust colored dirt that was exceptionally good at staining our socks and shoes.  When the whistle blew at half time my mouth felt like the Mojave Desert at midday and my eyes had to squint to block the swirling dust from entering but I felt remarkably great.  Our team formed a huddle on the sideline joined by a large contingent of refugees who filled in around us, shaking hands, nodding heads, cheering, supporting and bonding with all of us.  Kids peered up at us and shoved their way through the pack to get a good spot amongst the players and onlookers.  Adults patted our backs, teammates gave pep talks and I was observing all of it.  Living it. Loving it.  The energy of the circle surrounding us was so positive.  The newly found fans were impressed with the play, entertained by the game and pleasantly surprised that Clotilde and I were heading, clearing, passing and defending alongside the men. 

Our spirits were high going into the second half only down one to zero given that we expected the score to be much more lopsided in favor of the home team.  Watching the game from the sideline at the beginning of the second half allowed me to listen to the comments coming from the crowd and shake hands with many of the kids I work with that showed up to watch the spectacle.  The opposition changed up their plan of attack in the second half with the addition of a new striker.  The striker was the same man that owns a restaurant in camp.  The same man that I sit down with on most afternoons to talk life, soccer and coaching.  Seeing Shabani outside of the restaurant and in his element on the field gave me a good feeling.  I cheered his name, clapped loudly and gawked at the size of his soccer hardened calves.

At about the 70^th minute a ball played in off of a corner kick squirted across the mouth of the goal and one of my teammates managed to put a knee on it sending it past the goalkeeper, who just so happens to be the interpreter I use every week.  Elation from the crowd, hugs, high fives, celebrations and a tie score.  With a few minutes left in the game I was playing left striker and a ball came across the middle and I had my opportunity.  It was as if I could hear the crowd holding their breath waiting for my next move.  I cocked back and struck the ball with solid force.  For a second the ball hung up in the air and was headed toward the left upright of the goal.  Slow motion anticipation. More screams. Even more wide-eyes. Another deflection.  The final whistle.

Ending the friendly match in a tie seemed the perfect way to close the game.  We had worked hard.  Sweat caused the dust to cake on our foreheads, our uniforms were dirty and everyone had a smile on their face.  We met in the center circle to shake hands and congratulate the other team.  Everyone showed great sportsmanship and I noticed a newly found respect in the eyes of many of the opposition, not to mention my coworkers who had been apprehensive about letting me play.  Small children came running up to hug us and get in on the action.  Adults shook our hands and I felt like part of a wonderful and supportive community of people sharing a moment of comradery and oneness.  It made me imagine the pride and unity a player must experience when they are part of a World Cup team uniting countries from all over the world through sport. 

A young girl I estimated to be about nine or ten approached me afterward hiding her eyes from mine.  She smiled timidly and reached out to shake my hand.  She had been watching the match and saw me walk off of the pitch.  Pride swelled up in my chest.  If I came to the field that day for no other reason I would have come for that handshake from that young girl that seemed to say, “Girls can play too.”  We challenged a lot of stereotypes and gender roles that day and had a good time doing it.  I believe that playing in the ‘fugee football’ game made us all part of a team much larger than the 22 that walked out onto the pitch.

Later in the evening I got to watch team USA dominate a sloppy looking Columbia team in the first round of the women’s World Cup soccer tournament in Germany.  I’m feeling that sports fever rushing through my veins again and it brings back glorious memories of teams past.  A few sore muscles and numerous dirty boogers the next day were oddly pleasant reminders from the game.      

    

Inspiration From All Directions

Yesterday after the birthday crew had all gone back to Lilongwe I decided to stay behind by myself at the lake to do some reflection.  I have always enjoyed time on my own to listen and address some of the thoughts that run around my head at Olympic speeds.  The free time plus freshly cut papaya fruit at an arm’s reach, Lake Malawi next to me, bougainvillea blossoms surrounding me and local kids running through the water in what’s left of their faded underwear in front of me is a great creative bubble in which to write.  Inspiration comes from all directions here. Even the beer rushing down my throat seems to send warm incentives to my stomach.  Firing on all cylinders I say.   

Twenty years from now when my memory has shoved all of these wonderful moments deep into the back of my brain matter I want to be able to read these entries in hopes they will send the memories hurling forward into recall inciting a satisfying and joyful state of nostalgia. Dear future self, you’re welcome.   Justice would not be served if these brilliant memories were simply stored away in the cabinet that is my brain without first sharing them with all of you.  I hope my words can embody the spirit and life of this place so that you can be here with me to experience this.  Right here.  Right now. 

I want to tell you about ten things all at the same time.  I want to tell you about how just last week I was sitting in front of a support group graduation with all of the adolescents from my group.  They all walked in wearing clothes you know were saved for a special occasion, finely pressed with charcoal heated irons.  I addressed the group and sat down to listen to a young man give a speech we had practiced together the day before.  Nervous beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and although he struggled to get some words across he did a great job.  He delivered the speech standing in front of a bright window with sunshine flooding in around him.  When he moved from that place I could still see the outline of his body, like when you stare at the sun too long and dark spots appear on the inside of your eyelids that you can’t get rid of.  Not only did the celebratory moment leave marks on my eyes but I knew it would leave lasting marks on my memory.    

I want to tell you about the full moon eclipse I saw last week as our volleyball team lost yet another game under the lights at The Shack Bar.  I want to tell you about the traditional, provocative dance I was taught, the same one village girls are taught before they become married women.  I want to tell you about how much mental energy is required to design a community training.  Before you can even begin to put pen to paper you have to consider the language: Kirundi, Kiswahili, French, Kirwanda or English, the culture, the gender roles, the age appropriateness, the existing tribal conflicts, whether or not the audience is literate, the power and influence of religion not to mention the 70 different churches and mosques in camp and then, and only then, you can start.  I want to tell you how for my birthday one of my colleagues from Rwanda made me a necklace out of beads only to show me three days later the cuts it left on her fingers.   “You are worth it,” she said.  I want to tell you about the government induced fuel crisis that has people angry and cars lined up for days to fill their cars up with petrol.  I want to tell you how gratifying the feeling was when I saw the expressions on the faces of the refugees when I told them I would be staying for six more months and how big and crooked my smile was when they started to joke around and call me professor.  I wouldn’t dwell on it but I would want to tell you how I feel the need to do 107 different things all before I leave with work and living and future stuff and to keep it all straight I have created an intimidating and stress inducing to-do list.  If I had even more time I would tell you in great detail about how, for the next six months, I will be teaching a course with the ‘Higher Education at the Margins’ or HEM program about psychosocial counseling and case-management to various stakeholders and refugees in Dzaleka while at the same time counseling and facilitating trauma trainings.  I would take the time to tell you that every year on June 20 the UNHCR celebrates World Refugee Day and how I told myself that World Refugee Day and my 30^th birthday falling on the same day is more that just a coincidence but designed by fate.  I would tell you that a fellow ginger and friend of mine that I find to strangely akin to me has asked me to move into her quaint apartment and I have a great feeling it will work out so well.   I would tell you all of these things so you could get a small glimpse into my world and I could express to you just how much your support means to me and the work I am doing and will have the fortune to continue to do. 

DF:  Every morning I wake up, get ready for work and walk out the door shortly after 7 a.m. to take the 20-minute walk to the office over a footbridge, along a dirt path and out of area 14, beside the main road and into area 47, Sector 3 across from a string of bars known as Bwandillo.  During my first days of travel to work many months ago I did not know the most direct path so I attempted various routes to find the quickest way.  Days went by and I began to recognize the same group of young local woman passing by me.  After a few weeks they became familiar faces and we began to wave to each other in passing.  As more time wore on we began to vocalize a Chechewa good morning plus a wave.  Last week as I walked alone down the paved road passed the Jehovah’s Witness compound I made a breakthrough with the group…High fives.  That was nice.  Today, on this sun shiny morning I saw my girls from afar.  With the light in my eyes I could only make out the brilliantly white teeth on their grinning faces.  I too found myself smiling.  As we approached one another they spread their arms wide and we had our first good morning hug.  Imagine hugging strangers in the States for no good reason at all other than to wish them well on their individual journey’s to work.  Once they started to raffle off a conversation in Chechewa and I had this dumbfounded look on my face we realized that we could not communicate with one another beyond the general greeting but who needs verbal language when you have hugs?  Honestly.