"When I am not numbed by depression and my complete lack of ability to do anything to change the lives of people in Tanzania, I feel angry. Not at anyone in particular, just in general. I think of that bumper sticker in America that says, "If you are not outraged than you are not paying attention." I feel too greatly. I inherited this from my mom, who makes big changes in the world with small acts of love. We can't watch violence, we hurt for people and animals- probably the main reason why my whole family is vegetarian. But I thought that unlike my mom, I had learned like the Holocaust Museum says "Thou Shall Bear Witness", I felt like I was getting pretty good at that. That is more my Dad's approach, who is sensitive but able to detach himself. In Tanzania, I thought I had achieved this. It sounds stupid, but the first time I separated myself from the chickens and realized this is a different life- it was a big deal. (I still don't eat them or watch them get slaughtered, but I understand that they will be.) Now I realize that most of the time without realizing it there is a weight on my shoulders. If you know me well, you know I am sort of addicted to news radio, NPR was part of my daily life in America and BBC is here. I listen every morning to how many bombs have gone off, how many people have AIDS/Malaria and other weird tropical ailments, who is fighting who, which dictator is killing their country, how many people died... and I think about those people. Not as numbers or strangers, but people with eyes and voices, their own thoughts and ideas, their own dreams uncompleted."
Peace Corps Volunteer "Brie in Tanzania" writes: Am I Fearless Yet?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Am I Fearless Yet?
"There is only one of you for all time. Fearlessly be yourself." -Anthony Rapp
September 30, 2009
We had a village wide discussion about how I am different than when I came. According to Stan, "I walk like if you touch me, I will kill you. But still somehow come off as friendly." Basically, according to my villagers I am pretty tough, which is good, because appearing fearless is something I work hard at.
I know I am not fearless at night. I have a re-occurring dream of loss. Usually I don't know who I am losing or how, but the few times I have known, it has been one of my parents and once a little white cat, known as Angel Baby. I wake up with a weight on my chest and unable to breath, a few times my own crying has woken me up. The sense of loss is so real and debilitating that I wonder how I will go on- the depression so crushing. And I wonder what is wrong with me that a grown woman wakes up crying in the night about nothing but an illusive dream. It occurs so often that I wonder what I am actually losing. The loneliness leaves an empty zone inside me that is there all the time now. And I wonder as I go fearlessly through my village life, what will fill it?
When I am not numbed by depression and my complete lack of ability to do anything to change the lives of people in Tanzania, I feel angry. Not at anyone in particular, just in general. I think of that bumper sticker in America that says, "If you are not outraged than you are not paying attention." I feel too greatly. I inherited this from my mom, who makes big changes in the world with small acts of love. We can't watch violence, we hurt for people and animals- probably the main reason why my whole family is vegetarian. But I thought that unlike my mom, I had learned like the Holocaust Museum says "Thou Shall Bear Witness", I felt like I was getting pretty good at that. That is more my Dad's approach, who is sensitive but able to detach himself. In Tanzania, I thought I had achieved this. It sounds stupid, but the first time I separated myself from the chickens and realized this is a different life- it was a big deal. (I still don't eat them or watch them get slaughtered, but I understand that they will be.) Now I realize that most of the time without realizing it there is a weight on my shoulders. If you know me well, you know I am sort of addicted to news radio, NPR was part of my daily life in America and BBC is here. I listen every morning to how many bombs have gone off, how many people have AIDS/Malaria and other weird tropical ailments, who is fighting who, which dictator is killing their country, how many people died... and I think about those people. Not as numbers or strangers, but people with eyes and voices, their own thoughts and ideas, their own dreams uncompleted.
Yesterday a baby died. It came too soon. I held her. She lived for a few moments, eyelids like tissue paper and a small mouth. Then she left this world. I pictured her using her tiny shoulder blades, like a baby bird's wings, to fly away from us. I named her Lark as I felt her spirit soar away. And I cried over her, until Jessica (my village nurse) finally asked me if I had lost a child because I was crying like a woman who had. No, I tell her. Why can't they understand me!?! Finally I pick myself up off the ground and say in English, which no one there understands, "I want my mom." Lark has already flown, and I think, like her, I might also be too afraid, too fragile for this world.
