I'm not sure I like who I am becoming...

Like many Peace Corps applicants I had this idealistic fantasy of moving to another country and changing it for the better.  I thought I would change the world and teach people skills that would drastically improve their lives.  I thought I could motivate students to learn and teach them how to think critically. Yet after living in Tanzania for the past year and a half, I realized that the world wasn't changing, my village wasn't changing, my school wasn’t changing, but I was.   This experience has caused me to change a lot and I am honestly not sure if I like who I am becoming. 

I remember witnessing corporal punishment for the first time at my school over a year ago and being completely horrified.  I wondered how I could have a good relationship with teachers who beat students with the same ferocity as cattle and was determined to implement other methods of punishment.  I tried implementing detention, additional assignments, physical labor improving the school environment, etc. I thought that if I led by example and was able to earn the respect of students without beating them, then the other teachers would possibly change their own behavior.   I wanted teachers to see that there was a difference between respect and fear, and that fear is not conducive to learning.  I dreamed that my students would feel comfortable enough around me to ask questions and tell me that they didn't understand something.  Most importantly, I felt that nobody ever deserves to get beaten.  Certainly a failed test or tardiness could not justify physical abuse.   I felt sympathy for the students and wondered how they could succeed in an environment without teachers or books.  If the stick was the punishment for failure and the system was designed for them to fail, then how could an education coexist with an environment free of physical abuse?

A year later, things have changed.  I have seen more beatings than I can count and am sad to say it doesn't bother me anymore.  I used to hold back tears and avoid assemblies so I wouldn't have to witness the abuse.  Teachers would warn me in advance if a student would be beaten so that I could prepare myself.  What I can only describe as a feeling of disgust, terror, and sorrow has become replaced with a cloud of numbness.   It’s as if I am completely detached from my emotions when students are being beaten.  Their looks of terror and cries of pain are met with a blank stare.  Perhaps this is some sort of defense mechanism to make working in this environment bearable, but sometimes I think the students deserve the stick.  I have tried many different forms of punishment and students continue to do bad behaviors.  Teachers have explained to me that African students are different from American students.  “They only learn from the stick,” they say.  I guess students have helped prove alternative punishments ineffective, and teachers have begun beating students on my behalf while I sit and watch. “Madame, the reason students don’t respect you or come to class is because you don’t beat them.  If you use the stick, they will change their behavior.”  If I had a dollar for every time a teacher told me that those students fail or don’t come to class because I refuse to beat them, I would be a very rich woman.  But that’s all I have left:  This moral conviction that physical violence is wrong and a constant refusal to become the abuser.

I have been able to convince myself that I am still a good person because I am not the one hitting them.  As if sitting there watching makes me less guilty.  And I wonder throughout history how many people stood by while injustice was being done.  I've always admired those people on the other side of history, those with enough courage to say “this is wrong.”  I dreamed I would be like them, but I’m not.  I am worried for myself.  I am worried that corporal punishment is becoming so normalized in my life that one day I am not going to see it as wrong or unjust.  I have already lost my emotional response to beating, how much longer before I lose my moral one.  How much longer until I become the teacher holding the stick?

Why is President Obama so thin?

This was a question that emerged after a conversation with some of my fellow teachers.  What began as a joke about an ugali eating competition quickly turned to a discussion about wealth and body fat.  In Tanzania, having a large stomach and being fat is often considered a good thing.   If you are large, it means that you work in an office, don’t have to walk everywhere, and have a constant food supply.  In other words, you aren’t poor.  You don’t have to work on a farm or do physical labor to survive. While I have seen some animosity towards large Tanzanians who take up too much room on a bus or dala, I think they are generally respected.  At my school, the Headmaster and Director are both overweight.  They are highly valued and teachers think that their size shows they are successful men.  The conversation became even more interesting when a teacher said, “Why is President Obama so thin? He is one of the most powerful men in the world; shouldn’t he have a bigger body?  His wife is also very fit.” They could not understand why the Obama family was fit even though they were extremely wealthy and did not need to do physical labor.  I explained that in America, people want to be fit because it is not healthy to be too fat.  I also told them that in America, poor people are fatter than rich people.  My colleagues were shocked! 

After this conversation, I started to think a lot about America and our obesity epidemic.  In so many parts of the world, size and body fat are linked.  People who are impoverished often do not get enough food to eat and are malnourished.  Yet, in America, those living in poverty often live off of high calorie diets. In Tanzania, many people have gardens and grow the foods that they eat.  In America, people consume more processed foods.  I am living in an extremely poor country, but I wonder if there are things the American people can learn from Tanzanians.  Obesity definitely does not seem to be a major killer here…

Subjects Taught in School: English, Math, Kiswahili, Biology, Physics, Chemisty, History, Geography, Civics, and ABUSE

One of the things about Tanzania that I have always hated is the disrespect and abusive treatment of women.  Tanzanian women are so strong and hardworking. They are often the ones working on the farm, selling fruits and vegetables in the market, carrying buckets of water, cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, taking care of children, etc.   I have a lot of respect for the women here, yet they are constantly victims of physical, emotional, and psychological abuse. It makes me so sad because I am powerless to help them.  Peace Corps warned us early on not to get involved in these matters because our own safety could become a concern. As a result, over the last year I have learned to put on headphones to drown out the screams of my neighbors being beaten at night.  And I have learned not to stare when the Momma whose shop I frequent has a black eye, busted lip, and bruises all over her body.  Witnessing abuse in the village was bad enough, but seeing it at my school crossed the line. 

As a teacher, I am not only trying to teach my students English, but also discipline and respect for each other.  I was horrified today when I found out that one of the male students was being punished for beating a female student over a disagreement about the cleaning schedule.  I am the only female teacher at the school, so I was happy to see that the male teachers thought the student should be punished.  However, they didn’t seem too upset about it.  Beating girls was a normal thing for boys to do.  I know that abuse is common in this culture, but it seems like I am the only one upset about it.  I remember a few months ago a boy in my class slapped a girl in the face and the class was SHOCKED that I was upset about it.  The students just laughed and could not seem to understand why the boy was being punished.  The saddest part was that the girl did not understand why a boy slapping her was unacceptable.  My students think I am a weird American, but they are aware of the things that make me angry.  This was the one and only time a boy hit a girl in front of me, and they know that I won’t tolerate it.  Unfortunately, they don’t understand why this behavior is wrong.  How can I teach them abuse is wrong when they go home and see their father beating their mother?  It is so normal in this culture that my students are desensitized to it in the same way corporal punishment doesn’t seem to affect them.

I am fighting a losing battle against corporal punishment at this school.  There is too much teacher turnover for me to convince anyone that students shouldn’t be beaten.  Yet, when it comes to boys beating girls in school, I think they deserve corporal punishment.  I didn’t even cringe when this student was hit with a stick.  I suggested to the teacher that the next time they should let the girl who was abused give the boy his punishment under the supervision of teachers.  They liked that idea.  But I know that people who are abused often become abusers themselves and I wonder if corporal punishment is teaching my students physical abuse is okay.  If anyone has any suggestions on what I can do to stop this trend, I am all ears. 

The Man at the Hotel

Every month, PCVs like to meet up in our banking town and eat food that is not the typical Tanzanian cuisine we find in the village.  In my case, this means no ugali and beans.   One of our favorite places is a really nice hotel that we are too poor to stay at.  They have a lounge/bar with wireless internet, a television, outlets to charge all of our electronic devices, and good food. The staff is nice to us.  They know that we are poor volunteers and don’t mind us sitting for hours on the computer while ordering the cheapest items on the menu. 

On Saturday, I was sitting with a group of other PCVs in this hotel lounge when another “mzungu” walked in.  “Mzungu” usually refers to a white foreigner (or in my case a pigmentally challenged foreigner) and the man who walked in upheld every negative stereotype one might have a white foreigner.  He made his entrance known by yelling at all the waiters and staff for a menu.  Although the staff speaks pretty good English, I think it took them a second to comprehend why they were being yelled at. So of course this made the man yell louder.  I have never quite understood why people think that yelling in English will make someone understand them better, especially if their native language is different.  I know that Tanzanians yelling at me in Kiswahili makes no difference.  Whether they are whispering, speaking normally, or screaming, I still have no idea what they are saying.  I imagine it is the same with English.  I am not sure which country this man was from, but he was an ASSHOLE!  He kept yelling at the waiters for no reason and was extremely disrespectful.  He asked for salt and then when they brought the salt, he yelled at them for not bringing pepper.  When he was finished he yelled for the bill.  I don’t understand why he couldn’t ask for things politely and felt the need to treat the staff like worthless animals.  I imagined I was in South Africa watching an Afrikaner disrespect the black servants during apartheid.  This man was clearly racist and I watched the pained faces of once happy staff members.  They looked almost afraid of this man and I was horrified, disgusted and embarrassed by his behavior. 

I soon realized that Tanzania was becoming that older brother who you don’t always like but secretly love. I found myself becoming protective and defensive.  It’s okay if I spend my days frustrated and criticizing Tanzanians because I live here, but how dare you come into this country and act as if all Tanzanian people are inferior to you.  It made me sick to watch.  I can understand why the staff and waiters don’t mind us sitting in the lounge for hours. We treat them with respect and even try to communicate with them in Kiswahili.  I found this man’s behaviour extremely embarrassing because he made all foreigners look bad, but I wasn’t as embarrassed as the white PCVs I was with.  This was one of those moments where I was extra proud to be an African American.  This wasn’t a cultural difference, the man was a racist asshole and I was not about to claim any similarity to him.  Besides, if I was his waitress I’m sure I would have received the same disrespect. Our eyes met as he stood up to leave and I saw a look of disgust as if he was asking himself, “Why is this colored girl surrounded by white people?” I laughed at myself as he walked out of the hotel.