The golden orb glowers at us, retreating to its lair beneath
the sky and casting cool rays upon the chipped blackboard. It’s late afternoon
on a wintery cool Friday and neither myself nor my students really feel like
still being at school a second longer. Still, I have earned a new level of
patience here in Mozambique, so instead of losing my cool, I gather myself, take
a deep breath of fortitude, and smile. My back is to the room, yet nothing
catches me off-guard. I’ve been here too many times before. I can feel the
breathy onslaught of piercing barulho (noise)
raking up my spine, and clawing over my shoulders – pedidos for money, snacks, my pen, excuses about not doing the
homework, questions about where my boyfriend is, or could I take them to live
in America? All simultaneously. All the exact same comments from the hour, day,
month, or year, before. Sometimes I
get the occasional compliment, of “Wow Teacher, you look beautiful today!” but
more often I’ve heard the muttering of “mulungo” and following wave of
tittering, giggling girls.
Ever since Cultural Week in June, when I covered the extra cost for the caplanas I purchased for them, the level of disrespect from my students has been ghastly. It’s like a bad case of the "gimmies "– you give a little charity and suddenly 200+ teenagers want something from you all the time. If you won’t give it to them, sometimes they just decide to take it. I’ve turned out enough pockets to know. That, on top of the fact that I catch kids cheating on even the most basic in-class assignments – by borrowing their friend’s notebook who has English with me earlier in the day and either copying the answers or being so bold as to hand me their friend’s notebook and claim its theirs – it’s hard to take what I do here seriously anymore.
I honestly believe too, that my friendliness with my students in an effort to build some camaraderie and meaningful mentorships has actually caused many of them to lose respect for me. That by me being too kind, they’ve lost their fear of me. Like Machiavelli’s advice to Italian lords that effective rulers are to be feared rather than loved, kindness from a position of authority here in Mozambique if often scorned as a weakness to be taken advantage of, rather than something to be respected. Kindness will make you a target. Being a female teacher in a male dominated workforce will make you the punchline. And being the mulungo, or “outsider,” I’m constantly seen as Miss Moneybags. Thus you can see why the barrage of teenage slander is flourishing. They have a lot of material to work with.
It’s hard to explain this to anyone who’s never really been to Mozambique before. I’m sure to many of you, it may seem like I’m saying that Machiavelli was onto something. Not so at all. It’s just that sadly, all these kids have grown up with violence as a deterrent to bad behavior. As I’ve explained before corporal punishment is alive and well both at home and in the classroom. Physical violence is the only thing they fear. When a boy grows up and becomes a man, if he steals he knows he can expect the whole village to come after him and potentially maul or even kill him. A husband is completely socially allowed to punish his wife with a beating. A mother may beat her child. To us, it seems a harsh system of tribal justice. To them, it’s weird that I don’t play by the same rules.
Ever since Cultural Week in June, when I covered the extra cost for the caplanas I purchased for them, the level of disrespect from my students has been ghastly. It’s like a bad case of the "gimmies "– you give a little charity and suddenly 200+ teenagers want something from you all the time. If you won’t give it to them, sometimes they just decide to take it. I’ve turned out enough pockets to know. That, on top of the fact that I catch kids cheating on even the most basic in-class assignments – by borrowing their friend’s notebook who has English with me earlier in the day and either copying the answers or being so bold as to hand me their friend’s notebook and claim its theirs – it’s hard to take what I do here seriously anymore.
I honestly believe too, that my friendliness with my students in an effort to build some camaraderie and meaningful mentorships has actually caused many of them to lose respect for me. That by me being too kind, they’ve lost their fear of me. Like Machiavelli’s advice to Italian lords that effective rulers are to be feared rather than loved, kindness from a position of authority here in Mozambique if often scorned as a weakness to be taken advantage of, rather than something to be respected. Kindness will make you a target. Being a female teacher in a male dominated workforce will make you the punchline. And being the mulungo, or “outsider,” I’m constantly seen as Miss Moneybags. Thus you can see why the barrage of teenage slander is flourishing. They have a lot of material to work with.
It’s hard to explain this to anyone who’s never really been to Mozambique before. I’m sure to many of you, it may seem like I’m saying that Machiavelli was onto something. Not so at all. It’s just that sadly, all these kids have grown up with violence as a deterrent to bad behavior. As I’ve explained before corporal punishment is alive and well both at home and in the classroom. Physical violence is the only thing they fear. When a boy grows up and becomes a man, if he steals he knows he can expect the whole village to come after him and potentially maul or even kill him. A husband is completely socially allowed to punish his wife with a beating. A mother may beat her child. To us, it seems a harsh system of tribal justice. To them, it’s weird that I don’t play by the same rules.
In any case, I’m 21 months in, and I’m just about burned out.
Clearly, there are some days that I get so frustrated and
fed-up with this country that I’ll leave tomorrow on the next express bus to anywhere else. Days where I want to
throw my hands up, chuck my bata lab
coat in the trash, and march off without ever looking back. Growing up, I
remember it was as common to hear that “kids in Africa would give anything to
go to school” as often as we were reminded to clean our plates “because kids in
Africa are starving.” Perhaps it’s been one of the most depressing things to
witness as a Peace Corps Volunteer, the lack of value most of my students place
on their education. My worst teaching days bring up various versions of the
same rant, “What good am I really doing here anyways?!” With the layers of
corruption and systemic suffering I see on a regular basis, why should I barely make ends meet each month and feel mocked, disrespected, and
belittled for having high expectations of my students when they won’t even
bring their notebooks to class, receive zeroes for entire projects, and then
ask me for extra credit afterwards? You
can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. I think the hardest
thing about being a Peace Corps Volunteer is realizing that often the people
you are trying to serve won’t even help themselves. That they are totally fine
with selling out on the long term to get a short-term kick or gratification.
The uselessness and powerlessness felt when people refuse to realize their
potential is the worst experience a Volunteer teacher can have during their
service. To know that someone is better
than their condition, yet see them fail themselves over and over again is just
morale breaking.
You can tell that I’ve finally been in Mozambique long
enough now. That the honeymoon is finally over. That it’s time to start making
sense of all this so that frustration doesn’t turn to bitterness. I have to
believe that what I’m doing here is worth it, even if I help just one young
mind start thinking outside of the multiple “boxes” that entrap them.
There are also really good days too– days that make me want to live in this country forever.
Days where I’m in love with its overwhelming optimism, the vamos ver attitude, and ability of the povos mocambicanos to live in the moment. In love with the constant
smiles, clapping hands, and incessant jokes that greet friends, neighbors, and
welcome complete strangers to their dinner tables. In love with the criancas at
my house and on the street that grab my hands with sticky fingers, tugging me
toward their new toy car made with soda cans and wire. In love with the happy
calls and waving arms to Teeeecha Karrriiiinnaaaaa across corn fields, school
yards, market stalls, and along the highway. In love with the full moon and
starry nights under the Southern Cross listening to the witchdoctor drums beat
under the ancient baobob tree.
Somewhere between “Mozambleak”
and “Mozamawesome” I’ve realized,
no matter what my frustrations, no matter whether I’m here or halfway across
the world, I’ll love this country forever.
It is the dilemma of the Peace Corps Volunteer.
