Malaria, Fasting, Field of Dreams, and Standing in Solidarity

These women were returning from doing laundry at the river. Dad noticed the task had taken them all day. I noticed their loads included uniforms from the choir that had welcomed us at the airstrip.

So I Skyped with my parents last night and found out that Dad is down with malaria again. He’s sweating it out on the living room couch in Plainfield, Indiana and stubbornly not seeking professional medical attention because he says local doctors would overreact (translation: he doesn’t want the medical bills). He hadn’t been taking any anti-malaria meds on our recent trip to DR Congo, but I’d made sure that Mom had some extra pills, so we at least talked him into taking a couple Mefloquine tablets yesterday.

I mention this because, while my father and I agree on many things, there are ways in which we differ. I, for example, take my anti-malaria pills because I’m no good to the team if I’m sick, and I’ve got a young daughter who needs her mommy. Dad, on the other hand, takes the solidarity approach. If the Congolese members of our team don’t have the luxury of taking anti-malaria meds, then neither will he. Dad’s primary mode of transportation in Congo is bicycle; I tend to ride in/on machines with engines while there. Some of our methodological differences are philosophical, but mostly they are related to age and gender (a young mother is more at risk than a crazy grandpa).

The question of how to live in solidarity with our colleagues in Congo is complex. Back in 2005 when I was living in Kamina, there was one day that hit me hard. I had spent the afternoon with two Congolese friends, and they were escorting me back to my house so I could have the dinner the bishop’s cook had prepared for me. They knew I had promised to play with the kids at the orphanage after my meal, so they said they would just wait outside for me. “You must be famished too,” I said. “Why don’t you go home and eat with your family?” They gave each other the do-we-tell-her? look and replied that there was no point walking home because the food money for the month had already finished and the household was fasting until the next payday.

They explained to me the system commonly practiced by families in the community: when food supplies run short, you divide the household into two and teams eat one meal every other day. The ones who have eaten more recently are in charge of doing the labor-intensive work for those who are hungrier. Food is consumed before bedtime so one gets a better night’s sleep and still has energy for morning chores.

As you can imagine, this put me off my appetite, and I felt too guilty to eat the abundant meals being made for me. After a couple days, my energy levels dropped, and the cook started panicking. “You must eat more! If you become thin and sickly the bishop will blame me and I’ll lose my job!” he pleaded. He was right. My solidarity fast was helping no one and stressing out those tasked with keeping me safe and healthy. As the bishop has pointed out numerous times over the years, while sickness, accidents and death are a regular occurrence in Congo, when it happens to an American volunteer it makes international headlines and creates huge problems for the hosts who failed to protect their guests.

This mother (stripes) gave birth by candlelight with the help of this graduate of FPM's El Dorado Nursing School (left) who had received a scholarship from this donor (top right)

I don’t think there is an easy answer on how to live in solidarity with others. I could fast with my Djiboutian neighbors during Ramadan and some might appreciate the gesture, but I still wouldn’t really know what it’s like to enter into a long religious fast when there’s labor-intensive work to do and no air-conditioning. I could start wearing a hoodie when I’m state-side, but I’m still never going to know the experience of people suspecting me of being a criminal just because I’m not wearing my Sunday best. Even if I gave away everything I owned and made a vow of poverty, I wouldn't know the fear, anxiety and depression that accompany involuntary poverty.

All this to say that while attempting to live in solidarity with others is good, we must not romanticize our actions. I am now a member of the North Katanga Conference, and I have pledged to do my utmost to stand in solidarity with my colleagues. And while in some ways we are now in the same boat, I still have advantages that shelter me from the risks and difficulties they face (I have health insurance through my husband's job, for example).

We can pray and strive for the leveling of the playing field, but those of us born into privilege should never forget that God’s primary concern is for the less fortunate, and that means that as much as we may yearn to unite all of God's people and have the Beatitudes be about us too, sometimes the Gospel isn't talking to us.  Sometimes we aren’t invited.

 

(My father raised me on Field of Dreams. Just because God calls you to do something big doesn't mean it's all about you.) 

Note: In this post I leave several key things unsaid hoping that the reader will connect the dots.

Mary, Martha and Malaria

Some years back my ballroom dance coaches invited me to work at their studio. I helped them mostly in office admin and hospitality tasks, but then started teaching some beginner private lessons. I wasn't a popular teacher at first. I thought the underlying problem was that I was still just a student myself, but my coaches recognized it was that I lacked awareness of what the clients really wanted when they handed over their credit cards. They thought they were purchasing fantasy, praise and a sense of accomplishment. What they got from me was 50 minutes of pointing out all the mistakes they were making. The tragedy of it was that even though I too yearned for what they wanted, I was driving people away from the very activity I loved.

So what’s this have to do with malaria? I care a lot about malaria. I have many loved ones who have suffered from malaria and good friends who have lost children to it. I know what the forehead of a toddler with malaria feels like. I live in a malaria zone and fret over every mosquito bite my own daughter gets. I know first hand that even treated bed nets and bug spray are no match for some of those stubborn devils. I care, and I want the whole world to care.

Therefore, I’m hesitant to say anything that would discourage any efforts that address malaria. Goodness forbid that I whisper a word of critique about Nothing But Nets, Imagine No Malaria, or other campaigns. It would be better to put a millstone around my neck and throw me into the sea! And yet… I do have critiques. The folks running those initiatives haven't asked for my feedback, so should I still offer it? (Ballroom etiquette is to not give coaching unless it is requested; otherwise you just look like a jerk)

I suppose I could blog about what I might say if they did ask me, but that’s not actually what has been eating at me today. This week I saw advertisements for a new HBO movie called Mary and Martha. United Methodists were encouraged to host parties to watch the film, which was publicized as something that would raise awareness of malaria. I clicked on the website and watched the trailers. Ugh. My stomach felt sick. Please don't be another Great White Savior film. I clicked to read the reviews, since I don’t have access to the movie here. Sigh. “The malaria story, it seems to say, is filmable only if the central figures are white and it is larded up with the kind of button-pushing that television dramas thrive on. The Africans in this film are largely props for Ms. Swank to hold; we learn little about them beyond the happy choruses of welcome songs they shower on white visitors.” (New York Times)

If the movie critics at the New York Times can instantly see what is fundamentally racist about this movie, why can't the folks leading Imagine No Malaria?  Perhaps they do, but they think such an approach is the only way to open the pocketbooks of middle America (I'd rather believe this than think they are completely blind).  Many years ago I took a class in grad school called NGOs and Development led by a former higher-up at World Vision. He talked about the tension that exists in the big development organizations between the fundraising department and the folks working out in the field. Experience has taught them that there is a huge chasm between what development approaches are effective (supporting local agency, for example) and what generates donations (campaigns that play to the savior fantasy).

I want you to understand that you, the "First World" public, are being played. I'm not hating; I'm just saying.

Thus far, most of what I've seen in terms of anti-malaria campaigns play to our fantasies.  Just like financially successful ballroom dance studios understand what their clients really want, these campaigns understand that the more we can visualize ourselves as praise-worthy saviors of the less fortunate, the more we will contribute.  Some argue that this approach is only truly problematic when the organization isn't consciously pulling a bait and switch.  Even our team at Friendly Planet Missiology has gone round and round on whether using what we know to be "more effective fundraising approaches" would be an ethical compromise.

I am beginning to think, however, that it is time for us all to stop being amateur do-gooders.

Let's jump back to my example of what my days at the ballroom studio taught me; I left out something very important. When I made the switch from being a regular student to being on staff, the nature of the coaching I received switched too.  They went from fluffy feel-good to hard work with expectations that I put in real effort and start mastering the material. This didn't mean that lessons were no longer enjoyable (although some felt miserable at the time); the joy came from an accelerated rate of advancement in my dancing--the thrill of viscerally experiencing a figure done well. The difference between an amateur dancer and a dance teacher, my coach insisted, was not about skill level but a matter of mindset. A teacher does not pay his/her coach for coddling but assistance in refining the craft.  A professional values correction over compliment.  

So I am issuing a challenge to all who are interested.  Consider making the switch from amateur to professional do-gooder.  The world's problems are too big and the opportunities for growth too many for us to continue to be content with false praise and slow progress.  Want to explore what would really make a difference in this world? Are you willing to grow thicker skin and be ready to critique every method you've ever tried?  Then let's get started. 

Because, quite frankly, if you want me to smile and say "Great job! You're my hero!" then you'll have to start paying me.     

Taylor