Kiswahili

I Am Asking for Help; A Cycle Less Vicious

Story

I am asking for help.

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In writing my first novel, multiple dreams have converged. I dream of communities that do not need to depend so strongly on tourism to sustain themselves financially. I dream of a world that understands people and places whom I love in a way that goes deeper than headlines. I dream of setting a higher standard for outsiders (particularly white ones) who want to tell local (particularly non-white) stories. These dreams lay dormant in my mind until I committed to writing this novel. Then, they awoke. They began as feelings, evolved into questions, and are now possibilities.

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Unusual Sounds

Story

Normally, sounds atop the roof of Chavda Hotel include squawking crows, rumbling motorbikes, and jangling church bells from Minara Miwili nextdoor. The wind also rattles silverware and rustles tablecloths on especially blustery days. Sitting at a rooftop table, we earned wi-fi with purchase of chipsi and chai. Waitstaff tolerated our lengthy visits because we made them laugh, and we said not Hello but Hamjambo. Proper greetings matter.

Proper goodbyes also matter. This is part of why hundreds of Muslim Zanzibaris gathered at a mosque near the market that day. They wished to pray together and feel a sense of community after a deadly disaster. They wished to say goodbye. Just two days before the beginning of Ramadhan, a massive ferry sank near Chumbe island. The international media reported “at least 68” dead. However, Mnazi Mmoja soccer field and Maisara became an impromptu morgue for suspiciously more than 68 bodies. Families nervously entered tents to look for missing loved ones. Anyone unable to make it to Mnazi Mmoja watched the local news, on which–quite shocking to view–video panned over drowned faces hourly. Wailing pierced the darkness that night.

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Human Beings

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This story took place a little over two years ago, but it has been on my mind today. Being good friends with the poet, Haji Gora Haji, my program’s resident director was invited by him to visit his hometown on the island of Tumbatu. Excited about the opportunity, she asked if we four students could also come along, and Mzee Haji Gora agreed. To understand the gravity of this invitation, I should explain that outsiders are typically never allowed on Tumbatu without having been invited and granted permission by a local sheha. I am sure that it is the most isolated place I have ever been. To my knowledge, there are no cars on the island; though, there is an inexplicable, yellow phone booth without any sort of phone in it. We didn’t know what we would see or do there, but if there is anyone better to travel Zanzibar with than Haji Gora, I am not sure who it would be. He speaks in riddles, recounts oral histories of ancient times, and commands more respect than a president.

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Barka la Mvua

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In Swahili culture, it is said that when a guest comes with the rain, it is a sign of blessings. Additionally, when a guest is trying to leave but the heavy rains are delaying them, that is supposed to be a good sign, too. Especially when the rains cause so much damage, and even death, this belief is certainly tested. However, I still heard it many times this year even after the devastation in Dar and Unguja. People know that despite the damage and no matter how unpleasant, rain will also bring life in the form of plants, crops, and natural balance. This belief first had meaning for me when I walked to my first day of work as an intern in Stonetown two years ago.

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Zanzibar Njema Atakaye Aje

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“Zanzibar njema, atakaye aje” is a saying in Swahili that means something like “Zanzibar is great, come whoever wants to” in English. When I was living with a host family just over two years ago, my younger brother would say it often. Because of the hefty grammar, it was one of the things that I mostly pretended to understand for a long time. Both in grammatical and practical meaning, I think I get it now.

Walimu: The Teachers

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        For the last three days of my Zanzibar visit, we went to Pemba, the second largest island in the archipelago. It’s a beautiful place: eternally green, with roads that wind through hills and valleys–drastically different from its big sister, Unguja. Fittingly, in Arabic it used to be known simply as “The Green Island,” or Al-Jazeera Al-KhaDraa’. I’ve been to Pemba once before, and loved it then, too.

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      I could write twenty blog posts about Pemba, but for now I’ll focus on one topic. For this trip, it seemed like everyone we met there was introduced either as someone’s teacher or someone’s student.
      First, a great old friend who lives in Wete, the largest town by population, picked us up in a minivan from the airport near Chake Chake. He teaches secondary English nowadays. Currently, his students are reading a book about Ugandans living with HIV. We arrived at the airport exactly at prayer time, so we waited a few minutes until our friend’s own former teacher, turned boss, drove up. We took off down the road, and along the way picked up three more teachers.
      First, a man waved us down and then hopped into the back seat. Soon after, we saw two women and scooped them up, too. Everyone squeezed in, and the fatter of the ladies was given the spacious front seat (it was explicitly under these terms, I promise I’m not being rude). Among the teachers, topics of raucous, passionate discussion ensued; such as poetry, borrowing words from English, and the difference between enh-henh and eh-heh (I promise I’m not making any of that up, either). The next day we met half a dozen more teachers or former teachers. Even store owners introduced us to their former teachers, who happened to be passing by or just hanging out in the vicinity. I began to think that something was lost in translation, because there just could not be this many teachers all around us. In fact, being a teacher is so respected in Tanzania that I have heard friends or coworkers refer to each other as ‘teacher’ before (Mwalimu or Maalim), so I thought this might be going on in Pemba.
      Each time we ran into these teachers and their students the modus operandi was always respect and inclusion. Pembans are known jokesters, so conversation was never boring, but still thoughtful and tempered when teachers were around. Teachers hold sway there. For example, when we didn’t know the way to a certain part of town, but our Wete-based teacher friend was busy, he summoned up a former student who served as our guide for the day without asking for anything in return.
      Finally, on our last day in Pemba our friend’s father (who is also a retired teacher) explained the situation to us. He said that in Pemba there isn’t much employment, but there have always been schools and plenty of opportunities to teach. While everyone can agree that having a diversity of jobs–and lots of them–is better for many reasons, I have to say that having an abundance of teachers is not the worst of situations. In my opinion, a nation without a place for teachers is in a lot of trouble. These teachers initiated and facilitated discussions all around us in Pemba. Especially as such respected men and women, they build communities, and in turn a society.