It’s been a while since I’ve written – not because nothing is going on . . . mostly because I’ve had a hard time formulating my thoughts into something coherent. It has been a beautiful week though – I am feeling really comfortable here: loving my family, enjoying my job, absorbing everything I can about Ghana. It feels like everything I see (and hear, and do) moves something inside of me – in good and bad ways. So here’s a little summary of what has been occupying my mind.
I am no longer sure what it means to be poor. My family here in Ghana would certainly not be rich by North American standards. Our house has no electricity, or running water. The only toilet is a latrine behind the house (basically a big hole in the ground). We cook all our meals over a fire outside or on a small charcoal grill. We do not have glass in our windows, or insulation under the tin roof.
And yet, no one in the house goes without anything they need. There is always more than enough food (I have never eaten as much as I have in the last month!). All of the children attend fee-paying schools, everyone has enough clothing, and there is even a little
extra for small treats like new earrings or candies. My three host-sisters are eating breakfast in the photo here – the younger girls are dressed for school. Water, although not running, is readily available. Decent health care can be found at the district hospital, at the other side of town. And so, by the same North American standards, my family is not really that badly off. They have the three basic needs – food, shelter, and clothing.
This disconcerts me a little, as I look down even now to see my “Make Poverty History” bracelet on my wrist – it makes me wonder why I am here. What exactly am I trying to “develop”? I sometimes think that I would be more effective at developing Canadians to the Ghanaian way of life – of continuous hard work, constant laughter, deep faith and trust in God (or whatever higher power you choose), and intense love of and loyalty to family.
Last week, I was going “into the field” with one of my coworkers – going out into the more rural areas to meet with farmers. On the way, we stopped by the hospital, because he needed to have some stitches removed. As I sat in the waiting room, the head nurse stopped everyone for a morning Bible reading and prayer. The reading was a passage where Jesus describes how difficult it will be for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. After the reading, the nurse gave a short sermon, reminding the room full of patients that whatever they have here on Earth must be shared – that we must give to the poor, since only then can we see true happiness. I glanced around the room – I knew (with a decent amount of guilt) that I had more financial security than anyone else there. But I watched them all nod in agreement as the head nurse finished her sermon by saying that we must help the poor people in our community – the people with no homes, who are begging on the street. And so, I guess – for Ghanaians, just as for Canadians, being poor means (at the very base level) having no place to call your home.
Also while I was at the hospital that day, I was reminded (as I am more frequently than I would like) of the alarming privilege of being white. The waiting room was filled to capacity when we arrived at 9 a.m., a hundred patients at least. There were babies, elderly people, people sleeping, moaning, and clutching wounded limbs. But I was the only white person. At about 9:30, I saw another woman come in, of some European descent – tall, blonde, and pale. She didn’t even glance at anyone else in the room, and walked straight to the front. The nurses and doctors ushered her into an examination room – never questioning that she should be served immediately. I was shocked at her behaviour, but even more disturbed that no one felt the need to object.
My host-family sometimes asks why I don’t make friends or spend time with the other Westerners in town – it’s partly because each one that I meet makes me uncomfortable in the same way as the woman at the hospital. There’s an American guy I see in the internet café sometimes. He’s been travelling all over Africa as a tourist for months, and decided to stay in a town near to Damongo for a while to teach at a secondary school. Why? Because they’re giving him food and a place to stay. He’s teaching high school level math and science – but he has a degree in political science. He justified it by telling me that having an American degree makes you qualified to teach anything here. He’ll stay here a month or two and then move on – and then who will teach the class? I tried to mask my disapproval of his perspective, but I couldn’t keep quiet when he started to complain about the awful job a local woman did of washing his clothes. I just looked at him and said, “Why don’t you learn to wash your clothes yourself, then?” and turned back to my computer screen. He didn’t respond, and left after a few minutes of awkward silence.
I shouldn’t condemn – I know that all development workers have the best intentions – I know that the way I am living this experience is most likely not ideal either. But when people call “kubrunchi!” (meaning white lady) after me as I walk down the street, when small children ask me for money, when men tell me I am more beautiful than all the women in Ghana (which, incidentally, could not be further from the truth – Ghanaians are the most beautiful people I have ever known) I feel a mixture of emotions. On the surface, I am annoyed at being treated like an object – as if there was nothing important or interesting about me besides the colour of my skin, and all that it implies. I am frustrated that their impression and treatment of me prevents me from really trusting people and making close relationships. But mostly, I feel ashamed – for what generations of white people have done to Ghanaians, allowing them to assume that all white people are richer, more intelligent, more civilized, and more powerful than them . . . that we are the standard they should be trying to reach. And so I try to be different somehow – I try to integrate.
Integration takes many forms – and is never really complete. It can’t be complete, because I can never really be a Ghanaian. I will always be Sarah – a very pale Scottish girl who lives in Canada. I suppose what I am trying to achieve, then, is some kind of understanding – not by just watching, but by doing. By avoiding fancy guest houses, North American food, Land Rovers, toilets, and anything else reminding me too much of home (including, of course, white people!).
It’s pretty difficult to become integrated, though – mostly because it’s not expected of me. People laugh and whisper w
hen they say, “Good morning”, and I respond “Enshuma”. They stop and stare when I walk by in my Ghanaian dress. (ps the computer turned this photo sideways and I can't seem to fix it, so just . . . tilt your head? Sorry!) They pull over on their motorbikes to offer me a lift to work, astonished that I am happy to walk (admittedly, this is more because I like to walk than because I want to integrate!) They comment with surprise on the clarity of my English, because I have tried to adapt to their accent and manner of speaking. I fight every week with my family when I wash my clothes, just so that they will allow me to do it on my own. They still won’t let me carry water from the borehole.
The hope of all this is to get a better idea of what Ghana is really like – to understand the joys and the challenges of a Ghanaian’s life. But as I said before – any method of development work is subject to heavy criticism, and I struggle with my self-criticism every day. Sometimes, being in Ghana, trying to integrate and understand, feels like a cruel joke. It’s all very well for me to think, “Oh, this isn’t so bad – you don’t really need electricity or water, as long as you are well adapted to live without them”. But I get to go home in two and a half months. This is not my life. As much as I can embrace Ghanaian clothing, hairstyles, language, food, etc. – when my
host mother calls me “Awu-Nya” (meaning – whatever you have, God has given you) I know that really, I am still Sarah. I know that at the end of August, I will go back to Canada – I’ll eat Shepherd’s Pie and take hot showers and sit on a toilet to take a poo (although my squatting muscles are getting pretty strong!). So, no – living in Ghana doesn’t feel so bad . . . and it’s that exact feeling that makes me wonder if I’m playing a game – if maybe by trying to integrate I am actually on some level mocking or demeaning their way of life.
I don’t know if I’ll ever come to a conclusion about any of this – I do know that I am even more aware of how many uncertainties there are in development work, and I keep reminding myself that I could never have answered these questions (to my satisfaction) if I hadn’t come to Ghana and at least given it a shot.
I am no longer sure what it means to be poor. My family here in Ghana would certainly not be rich by North American standards. Our house has no electricity, or running water. The only toilet is a latrine behind the house (basically a big hole in the ground). We cook all our meals over a fire outside or on a small charcoal grill. We do not have glass in our windows, or insulation under the tin roof.
And yet, no one in the house goes without anything they need. There is always more than enough food (I have never eaten as much as I have in the last month!). All of the children attend fee-paying schools, everyone has enough clothing, and there is even a little
extra for small treats like new earrings or candies. My three host-sisters are eating breakfast in the photo here – the younger girls are dressed for school. Water, although not running, is readily available. Decent health care can be found at the district hospital, at the other side of town. And so, by the same North American standards, my family is not really that badly off. They have the three basic needs – food, shelter, and clothing.This disconcerts me a little, as I look down even now to see my “Make Poverty History” bracelet on my wrist – it makes me wonder why I am here. What exactly am I trying to “develop”? I sometimes think that I would be more effective at developing Canadians to the Ghanaian way of life – of continuous hard work, constant laughter, deep faith and trust in God (or whatever higher power you choose), and intense love of and loyalty to family.
Last week, I was going “into the field” with one of my coworkers – going out into the more rural areas to meet with farmers. On the way, we stopped by the hospital, because he needed to have some stitches removed. As I sat in the waiting room, the head nurse stopped everyone for a morning Bible reading and prayer. The reading was a passage where Jesus describes how difficult it will be for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. After the reading, the nurse gave a short sermon, reminding the room full of patients that whatever they have here on Earth must be shared – that we must give to the poor, since only then can we see true happiness. I glanced around the room – I knew (with a decent amount of guilt) that I had more financial security than anyone else there. But I watched them all nod in agreement as the head nurse finished her sermon by saying that we must help the poor people in our community – the people with no homes, who are begging on the street. And so, I guess – for Ghanaians, just as for Canadians, being poor means (at the very base level) having no place to call your home.
Also while I was at the hospital that day, I was reminded (as I am more frequently than I would like) of the alarming privilege of being white. The waiting room was filled to capacity when we arrived at 9 a.m., a hundred patients at least. There were babies, elderly people, people sleeping, moaning, and clutching wounded limbs. But I was the only white person. At about 9:30, I saw another woman come in, of some European descent – tall, blonde, and pale. She didn’t even glance at anyone else in the room, and walked straight to the front. The nurses and doctors ushered her into an examination room – never questioning that she should be served immediately. I was shocked at her behaviour, but even more disturbed that no one felt the need to object.
My host-family sometimes asks why I don’t make friends or spend time with the other Westerners in town – it’s partly because each one that I meet makes me uncomfortable in the same way as the woman at the hospital. There’s an American guy I see in the internet café sometimes. He’s been travelling all over Africa as a tourist for months, and decided to stay in a town near to Damongo for a while to teach at a secondary school. Why? Because they’re giving him food and a place to stay. He’s teaching high school level math and science – but he has a degree in political science. He justified it by telling me that having an American degree makes you qualified to teach anything here. He’ll stay here a month or two and then move on – and then who will teach the class? I tried to mask my disapproval of his perspective, but I couldn’t keep quiet when he started to complain about the awful job a local woman did of washing his clothes. I just looked at him and said, “Why don’t you learn to wash your clothes yourself, then?” and turned back to my computer screen. He didn’t respond, and left after a few minutes of awkward silence.
I shouldn’t condemn – I know that all development workers have the best intentions – I know that the way I am living this experience is most likely not ideal either. But when people call “kubrunchi!” (meaning white lady) after me as I walk down the street, when small children ask me for money, when men tell me I am more beautiful than all the women in Ghana (which, incidentally, could not be further from the truth – Ghanaians are the most beautiful people I have ever known) I feel a mixture of emotions. On the surface, I am annoyed at being treated like an object – as if there was nothing important or interesting about me besides the colour of my skin, and all that it implies. I am frustrated that their impression and treatment of me prevents me from really trusting people and making close relationships. But mostly, I feel ashamed – for what generations of white people have done to Ghanaians, allowing them to assume that all white people are richer, more intelligent, more civilized, and more powerful than them . . . that we are the standard they should be trying to reach. And so I try to be different somehow – I try to integrate.
Integration takes many forms – and is never really complete. It can’t be complete, because I can never really be a Ghanaian. I will always be Sarah – a very pale Scottish girl who lives in Canada. I suppose what I am trying to achieve, then, is some kind of understanding – not by just watching, but by doing. By avoiding fancy guest houses, North American food, Land Rovers, toilets, and anything else reminding me too much of home (including, of course, white people!).
It’s pretty difficult to become integrated, though – mostly because it’s not expected of me. People laugh and whisper w
hen they say, “Good morning”, and I respond “Enshuma”. They stop and stare when I walk by in my Ghanaian dress. (ps the computer turned this photo sideways and I can't seem to fix it, so just . . . tilt your head? Sorry!) They pull over on their motorbikes to offer me a lift to work, astonished that I am happy to walk (admittedly, this is more because I like to walk than because I want to integrate!) They comment with surprise on the clarity of my English, because I have tried to adapt to their accent and manner of speaking. I fight every week with my family when I wash my clothes, just so that they will allow me to do it on my own. They still won’t let me carry water from the borehole.The hope of all this is to get a better idea of what Ghana is really like – to understand the joys and the challenges of a Ghanaian’s life. But as I said before – any method of development work is subject to heavy criticism, and I struggle with my self-criticism every day. Sometimes, being in Ghana, trying to integrate and understand, feels like a cruel joke. It’s all very well for me to think, “Oh, this isn’t so bad – you don’t really need electricity or water, as long as you are well adapted to live without them”. But I get to go home in two and a half months. This is not my life. As much as I can embrace Ghanaian clothing, hairstyles, language, food, etc. – when my
host mother calls me “Awu-Nya” (meaning – whatever you have, God has given you) I know that really, I am still Sarah. I know that at the end of August, I will go back to Canada – I’ll eat Shepherd’s Pie and take hot showers and sit on a toilet to take a poo (although my squatting muscles are getting pretty strong!). So, no – living in Ghana doesn’t feel so bad . . . and it’s that exact feeling that makes me wonder if I’m playing a game – if maybe by trying to integrate I am actually on some level mocking or demeaning their way of life.I don’t know if I’ll ever come to a conclusion about any of this – I do know that I am even more aware of how many uncertainties there are in development work, and I keep reminding myself that I could never have answered these questions (to my satisfaction) if I hadn’t come to Ghana and at least given it a shot.
3 comments:
Dear Sarah,
I hear you. These questions don't appear to ever have answers... I certainly haven't stumbled upon any definite ones. :o) Sometimes I feel, like you mention, that we're poor here in Canada in a way that your family in Ghana isn't. I try not to romanticize either kind of poverty (the one that comes from a lack of material goods and the other that comes from an overabundance of them?)... yet, I cannot help feeling that the material inequity is simply unfair. Who are these "poor in spirit" that are blessed in the Beatitudes? Those who recognize their dependence on God? Does that have any necessary connection with material possessions (having them or lacking them)?
I come back often (perhaps because I'm still working on my thesis on JPII's idea of development!) to this quote from one of JPII's encyclicals:
It is not wrong to want to live better; what is wrong is a style of life which is presumed to be better when it is directed towards "having" rather than "being", and which wants to have more, not in order to be more but in order to spend life in enjoyment as an end in itself.
Love,
Tara
I only started feeling comfortable in Canada, and with Canadians, when I stopped saying 'them' and started saying 'we'. You musn't be too harsh on yourself when trying to integrate with the local culture, because no matter how you change you hairstyle, how many 'white people' you avoid, you are Sarah from Canada. Appreciating another way of life is not a crime, and it is unnecessary guilt to feel like you are 'acting' for 3 months. You will start to enjoy life there so much more when you just let it be. See how far you can go. Kisses xx
I agree that white privilege is shockingly not what it is made up to be. Out of curiosity, though, is it possible the white girl was actually a volunteer there, just was not wearing her white smock thing?
So many things I have thought & felt are expressed by you here. Very nice to read and refreshing, considering most EWB blogs I have read in the past have left a very bitter taste in my mouth.
My hope is that having gone that one time, you have returned again since; allowed yourself to fully integrate and help Ghanaians make the change that they truly require.
http://obibinibruni.org/
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