CELL-Le-Luia CELL-Le Luia Celleluia
I can not even begin to describe to you how excited our group was on cell phone day. For the week leading up to the 6th of March, we had all been counting down the days until we would travel to the capital, Windhoek, and once again become a part of society. We would be able to receive and make calls, text each other (and some lucky US loved ones with AT&T and T-Mobile), and use the internet. Yes, you heard that last part correctly...we would be able to access the internet from our phones. And all of this for fairly reasonable prices too.
The cell phone system is quite different in Namibia than it is in the States. First, it is mostly a prepay system. You initially start with about 20 Namibian dollars which is about 2 American dollars, and then you can always add additional money later at any time. Now N$20 doesn’t seem like a lot, but if you work the system right, it can go very far. Thankfully, the volunteers that have come before shared all of their tips and tricks with us, so we didn’t have to figure it out on our own. Basically, we get about a hundred texts a day for N$0.40, all incoming texts and calls are free, and internet is dirt cheap (like N$0.50 a day on average). We just sync our phones and computers through Bluetooth, and then we have full access to the World Wide Web.
You don’t know what having internet access meant to our group. It meant no more racing each other to the internet café in Okahandja during our brief lunch time, and fighting over who gets online. It meant the freedom to check email whenever we wanted. It meant “Hello world, we’re back in the 21st century with the rest of you”.
We had been without internet for what seemed like such a long period that we were starving for it. When we arrived in Windhoek, we entered the town like a pack of hungry lions. At first we were cautious, observing our surroundings. Then we proceeded to the various cell phone shops. They were our watering holes, where the cellular game gathered. We were patient, and like all good predators we observed the various cell phone models. We took mental note of which ones were low priced, thus making them easier to catch, and we also took especially fond notice to the meat of the phones, because like I said, we were especially hungry for the fat, the internet feature.
After spending several hours roaming the land of Windhoek for the most fertile watering hole, and carefully planning our attack…it was feeding time. It was a frenzy as we raced to the store Game, desperately hoping that the other blood-thirsty volunteers would not finish off the coveted prey, the Nokia 2630, before we arrived. As we rushed the store, a crowd of spectators watched as we first surrounded the phones, picked them off one by one from the herd, tore at the packages, their skin, with tooth and claw, and then finally in satisfying a deep and primal nature, devoured them completely until we had our fill, or until their blood, our talk-time was depleted.
The beast, the American in us, got exactly what it wanted that day. We are once again connected to the rest world. The game are plentiful, the famine is over, and our hunger is quelled…well…at least for now…
June 7, 2009
Frans Dimbare
So ever since finding out the language I would be learning, I had a general idea of the area I would be going to, mostly because Thimbukushu isn’t a language spoken in many parts of the country (or world). In fact, if you were to look at a map of Namibia, you would see that it’s only really spoken in the Mukwe constituency of the Kavango Region, which in terms of land area is about one percent of the country.
Other languages on the other hand, such as Afrikaans, KhoeKhoegowab, or Otjiherero had no idea where they would be placed since those languages are spoken in various random regions throughout Namibia. So on 3/5/2009 when we all found out our official site placements, those language groups were a little more surprised than I was.
In the parking lot of the training center, Peace Corps staff had made a huge map of Namibia with sand and rocks. They even had some of the major cities and site names on it to help give us an idea of where we were actually going, because we had never been outside of Okanhandja or Windhoek at that point. We stood around the border of the model country and one by one our sites were announced.
Lejeune, the Assistant Peace Corps Director, would announce the name of the volunteer and their site placement, the Peace Corps Trainee would walk onto the country, collect their site information from her while the other PCTs cheered and applauded, and then the volunteer would walk to where their site was on the map.
When my name was announced, I found out that I would be going to Frans Dimbare. I took my site information from Lejeune, shook her hand, and tried to find where my placement was on the map. It actually wasn’t on the map that Peace Corps made, nor will you find it on any map that I am aware of. That’s because Frans Dimbare is a youth centre, not a village, and it’s actually in a pretty remote and sparsely populated area of Namibia. The closest “town” is Divundu, and it is so small that depending on the detail of the map, you usually won’t find included.
I waited at the Divundu labeled stone while the other PCVs were being called. I have to admit that I wasn’t paying much attention, but when everyone’s site had been called I noticed that we were placed all over the country. I had mixed feelings about that. I was sad because we were all so far away from each other, but on the other hand it’s great if we ever get around to traveling since almost all of the major places are covered.
When the site placement ceremony was finished, we socialized for a bit, congratulating each other, talking about our sites and figuring out who was closest to us. Then the day was over and it was time to go back to our homes for the night. Some questions had been answered that day, and we had finally learned where we would be spending the next two years of our lives… but new questions arose. All we had were names and information, but until we actually saw our sites with our own eyes, there would remain an uncertainty, the mystery of what’s to come …
Other languages on the other hand, such as Afrikaans, KhoeKhoegowab, or Otjiherero had no idea where they would be placed since those languages are spoken in various random regions throughout Namibia. So on 3/5/2009 when we all found out our official site placements, those language groups were a little more surprised than I was.
In the parking lot of the training center, Peace Corps staff had made a huge map of Namibia with sand and rocks. They even had some of the major cities and site names on it to help give us an idea of where we were actually going, because we had never been outside of Okanhandja or Windhoek at that point. We stood around the border of the model country and one by one our sites were announced.
Lejeune, the Assistant Peace Corps Director, would announce the name of the volunteer and their site placement, the Peace Corps Trainee would walk onto the country, collect their site information from her while the other PCTs cheered and applauded, and then the volunteer would walk to where their site was on the map.
When my name was announced, I found out that I would be going to Frans Dimbare. I took my site information from Lejeune, shook her hand, and tried to find where my placement was on the map. It actually wasn’t on the map that Peace Corps made, nor will you find it on any map that I am aware of. That’s because Frans Dimbare is a youth centre, not a village, and it’s actually in a pretty remote and sparsely populated area of Namibia. The closest “town” is Divundu, and it is so small that depending on the detail of the map, you usually won’t find included.
I waited at the Divundu labeled stone while the other PCVs were being called. I have to admit that I wasn’t paying much attention, but when everyone’s site had been called I noticed that we were placed all over the country. I had mixed feelings about that. I was sad because we were all so far away from each other, but on the other hand it’s great if we ever get around to traveling since almost all of the major places are covered.
When the site placement ceremony was finished, we socialized for a bit, congratulating each other, talking about our sites and figuring out who was closest to us. Then the day was over and it was time to go back to our homes for the night. Some questions had been answered that day, and we had finally learned where we would be spending the next two years of our lives… but new questions arose. All we had were names and information, but until we actually saw our sites with our own eyes, there would remain an uncertainty, the mystery of what’s to come …
Currents of the Heart
On March 3rd, 2009 during the regular training day routine, as other people were falling asleep (Amelia) during the unmemorable session, I was staring around the room lost in random thought. At some point my gaze passed by the open window (AKA Amelia’s headrest) and I noticed that there were tons of white things floating in the air. I first thought it was something like the cottonwood tree (I think that’s the one?), and there were all sorts of light white fuzzy seeds floating across the street with the gentle breeze. But as I looked harder I noticed the “things” weren’t floating, they were flying. Then a few of the “things” flew by the window and I realized I was looking at the migration of hundreds of thousands, or maybe millions, of white butterflies.
I wanted to run outside and blow off the lame training class, but I knew Peace Corps wouldn’t approve me skipping training to go watch butterflies. The training, which I have already forgotten, was far too “important” to be missed; however, this migration which has no importance to any organization, including Peace Corps, is what has remained engrained in my memory.
It was a beautiful sight, even from the distant window view. And for the days following there were still tons of butterflies flying around the area, flying right in front of your face as you walk. Every day since then I swear that I have seen at the very least one butterfly each day, all sorts of different varieties and colors. It’s one of the many things I love about Namibia.
There was another migration of sorts on that day as well, Alison left to go back home to America. While she was waiting for over a year from the time she received an invitation from Peace Corps, to the time she departed to Namibia, she had met the man she felt was her soulmate. Initially, she thought her dream of doing Peace Corps was more important, but when she got over here, she realized how much she missed this man, Shane, and how much she wanted to share the volunteer experience with him.
Some people thought that she was making a poor decision, and giving up her dream for a guy she hadn’t known for that long. I didn’t see it that way at all. I believe she understood that sometimes things change, and the plans we make no longer serve to provide us our highest purpose in life. From what I know about Alison, I feel that she was following her heart, just as the butterfly flies with the wind. She had been planning for a long time to do Peace Corps, but the winds changed, a love entered her life, and instead of fighting against the wind, she surrendered to it. She opened her wings wide and allowed her heart to carry her off to a new and exciting land… the land of love.
If we allow ourselves to be lead by our hearts, the wind, it will carry us where we need to be. On the other hand, if we fight against it, we’ll struggle in life and then eventually come crashing down. That’s because we were never meant to go against our hearts. The decisions we make, our wings, were designed to catch the currents of the heart and effortlessly follow them to happiness. I truly believe that life is only difficult when we try to oppose the natural flow of these heart currents.
So spread your wings to their fullest, let go of the expectations of where you think you “should” go, let go of your attachments to commitments and plans and what is merely comfortable, let go of the fear of the unknown that holds you back from taking risks and leaves you only with regrets, and let the currents of the heart take you not to where you think you need to be, but rather where you were meant to be. Soar in the freedom of the heart, in the beauty of the wind, like the miraculous creation you are, like the butterflies on their liberated journey into the wonderful unknown.
I wanted to run outside and blow off the lame training class, but I knew Peace Corps wouldn’t approve me skipping training to go watch butterflies. The training, which I have already forgotten, was far too “important” to be missed; however, this migration which has no importance to any organization, including Peace Corps, is what has remained engrained in my memory.
It was a beautiful sight, even from the distant window view. And for the days following there were still tons of butterflies flying around the area, flying right in front of your face as you walk. Every day since then I swear that I have seen at the very least one butterfly each day, all sorts of different varieties and colors. It’s one of the many things I love about Namibia.
There was another migration of sorts on that day as well, Alison left to go back home to America. While she was waiting for over a year from the time she received an invitation from Peace Corps, to the time she departed to Namibia, she had met the man she felt was her soulmate. Initially, she thought her dream of doing Peace Corps was more important, but when she got over here, she realized how much she missed this man, Shane, and how much she wanted to share the volunteer experience with him.
Some people thought that she was making a poor decision, and giving up her dream for a guy she hadn’t known for that long. I didn’t see it that way at all. I believe she understood that sometimes things change, and the plans we make no longer serve to provide us our highest purpose in life. From what I know about Alison, I feel that she was following her heart, just as the butterfly flies with the wind. She had been planning for a long time to do Peace Corps, but the winds changed, a love entered her life, and instead of fighting against the wind, she surrendered to it. She opened her wings wide and allowed her heart to carry her off to a new and exciting land… the land of love.
If we allow ourselves to be lead by our hearts, the wind, it will carry us where we need to be. On the other hand, if we fight against it, we’ll struggle in life and then eventually come crashing down. That’s because we were never meant to go against our hearts. The decisions we make, our wings, were designed to catch the currents of the heart and effortlessly follow them to happiness. I truly believe that life is only difficult when we try to oppose the natural flow of these heart currents.
So spread your wings to their fullest, let go of the expectations of where you think you “should” go, let go of your attachments to commitments and plans and what is merely comfortable, let go of the fear of the unknown that holds you back from taking risks and leaves you only with regrets, and let the currents of the heart take you not to where you think you need to be, but rather where you were meant to be. Soar in the freedom of the heart, in the beauty of the wind, like the miraculous creation you are, like the butterflies on their liberated journey into the wonderful unknown.
Where Has All of the Hot Water Gone?
So I had come to assume that the Kupembona house had no hot water. The assumption was due to the fact that every night for weeks, when I went to take my bath, no matter how far I turned the hot water nozzle, all I would get was cold water. Wishful thinking was apparently not enough to warm it up. I began to feel that having a separate hot water nozzle was merely a cruel joke.
The typical bath compromised of me filling up the tub about an inch or two, kneeling down in the center and hunching over in a fetal-like position, and using a wash cloth and the splashing method to do the majority of the cleaning. It was really a sight to see as I would contort my body into all sorts of positions (some might have even been yoga postures) in an attempt to avoid prolonged contact with the cold water. Depending on the day and how exhausted I was, I would also consider using the hand sprayer. But I was typically too tired, so there were rarely any times when I would willingly spray the cold water all over my body. At the end of the few minutes it took to clean myself, I would usually be kneeling down in a puddle of murky brown water.
I finally started to accept and adjust to this new way of life until one fateful afternoon. I had decided to take my bath earlier than usual so I could go to bed at a decent time. It just so happens that I went into the bathroom right after Marina finished bathing. I could instantly tell that something was different. The room was practically a sauna. The temperature was many degrees higher than the rest of the house and probably most of Africa. I felt like I could hardly see through all of the steam and was practically choking on the air it was so heavy and humid. The mirrors were fogged and dripping with condensation. All of this and the window was open, which means a good amount of heat and moisture had even escaped.
After that night, everyday was a race to beat Marina to the bathroom (literally, we would get up from the dinner table and run to our rooms to get our things first). Although many a time was I defeated by my opponent, the clever little one started taking baths in the early afternoon, sometimes before I even came home from training. She would walk out of the bathroom with a huge smile on her face (and I swear, slightly short of breath as well from the minor heat exhaustion). I would stare right at her, knowing exactly what had just taken place in there, imagining gallon after gallon of the scarce hot water filling up the bathtub until there was none left. Then in my mind I could picture her playing around in it, splashing, swimming, spitting out water like those fish fountains. And in each little mental scenario she turns to me cackling and laughing away to mock me and my cold, muddy puddle.
You may have won this one little girl, so enjoy the water while you can…but know this, you will rue the day that you crossed me…
The typical bath compromised of me filling up the tub about an inch or two, kneeling down in the center and hunching over in a fetal-like position, and using a wash cloth and the splashing method to do the majority of the cleaning. It was really a sight to see as I would contort my body into all sorts of positions (some might have even been yoga postures) in an attempt to avoid prolonged contact with the cold water. Depending on the day and how exhausted I was, I would also consider using the hand sprayer. But I was typically too tired, so there were rarely any times when I would willingly spray the cold water all over my body. At the end of the few minutes it took to clean myself, I would usually be kneeling down in a puddle of murky brown water.
I finally started to accept and adjust to this new way of life until one fateful afternoon. I had decided to take my bath earlier than usual so I could go to bed at a decent time. It just so happens that I went into the bathroom right after Marina finished bathing. I could instantly tell that something was different. The room was practically a sauna. The temperature was many degrees higher than the rest of the house and probably most of Africa. I felt like I could hardly see through all of the steam and was practically choking on the air it was so heavy and humid. The mirrors were fogged and dripping with condensation. All of this and the window was open, which means a good amount of heat and moisture had even escaped.
After that night, everyday was a race to beat Marina to the bathroom (literally, we would get up from the dinner table and run to our rooms to get our things first). Although many a time was I defeated by my opponent, the clever little one started taking baths in the early afternoon, sometimes before I even came home from training. She would walk out of the bathroom with a huge smile on her face (and I swear, slightly short of breath as well from the minor heat exhaustion). I would stare right at her, knowing exactly what had just taken place in there, imagining gallon after gallon of the scarce hot water filling up the bathtub until there was none left. Then in my mind I could picture her playing around in it, splashing, swimming, spitting out water like those fish fountains. And in each little mental scenario she turns to me cackling and laughing away to mock me and my cold, muddy puddle.
You may have won this one little girl, so enjoy the water while you can…but know this, you will rue the day that you crossed me…
40 Days and 40 Nights
The desert, to me, is a place of purification, a place of retreat. Metaphorically, it’s where one goes to remove the distractions in their life, to regain focus, to center oneself and reconnect with his or her soul. A person leaves behind the things of the outside world to discover what lies within. Because, it’s when the physical world becomes barren, that the oasis of the spirit can begin to flourish.
Before all of this happened, back in the months before I even found out that I would be going to Namibia, I prayed that God would send me to the desert. I meant metaphorically, but the universe is not without a sense of humor and I was sent to a literal desert as well. I had reached a point in life where I felt I had learned a lot and grown so much in so many ways. I wanted to go to a place mentally where I could turn within and solidify at the core of my being, the person I choose to be.
I was reminded of this prayer on Sunday, March 1, 2009, when I was attending Mass with my host family at a Catholic Church in Okahandja (where I was the only white person). It actually happened to be an Ash Wednesday Mass (but on a Sunday), which adds to the whole desert theme overlaying my experience here in Namibia. Ash Wednesday, for those that aren’t familiar, marks the beginning of lent, a period of sacrifice, a time when we go to a metaphorical desert by giving something up, usually a bad habit, in remembrance of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights.
It wasn’t really the sermon or the readings that reminded me of my long forgotten prayer, mostly because the Mass was spoken in five or so alternating languages, and I couldn’t follow along. It was the spirit of the church, the soul with which they prayed that reminded me. I sat there in a cramped, hot, simple cement building without air conditioning, and without fans even because the power was out. The church was a desert, but the congregation was an oasis. They sang with so much soul and passion and love for God. I have never in my life heard singing as incredible as what I have heard in that tiny Okahandja church. They don’t have much, but at the same time, they have everything. Their soul, their song, will endure forever.
It made me reflect on what’s missing in the churches in the states. Most of those churches have everything they could ever want or need. They have really beautiful buildings, pretty decorations, perfectly regulated temperatures, expensive sound equipment and musical instruments, and all sorts of other various experience “enhancing” resources, but they are sadly lacking soul, at least to the degree that I’ve experienced here in Africa. What happens when you strip down the American church, when you take away the bake sales, the fancy trimmings, the comforts, the equipment, etc? Does much substance remain?
Similarly, I think that the problem a lot of times with people in the states is that we start to rely upon or identify ourselves with outside factors. We identify ourselves with the way we look, with what others think of us and how we are viewed, with our “failures” and accomplishments, and sometimes with an image we want to be associated with. But take away the beauty products, the lotions, the gel, the makeup, the cologne, the designer clothes, the trendy sunglasses, the expensive jewelry, the job title, the degree(s), the work, the money, the material possessions, your good looks, your friends, your relationship with your significant other, your family even…and what endures? Who are you when you’re standing naked and alone in the middle of the desolate desert?
That’s what I’m here to find out. You take everything away and what’s left? … So far, my truth, what I shout from the center of the desert, mentally stripped of everything ever associated with me from this fleeting world, including my physical body. What I cry with an undiminished voice and an indestructible essence is, “ME!!!…I remain, I endure…the desert strengthens me, reminding me that I am spirit…and I endure”…
Before all of this happened, back in the months before I even found out that I would be going to Namibia, I prayed that God would send me to the desert. I meant metaphorically, but the universe is not without a sense of humor and I was sent to a literal desert as well. I had reached a point in life where I felt I had learned a lot and grown so much in so many ways. I wanted to go to a place mentally where I could turn within and solidify at the core of my being, the person I choose to be.
I was reminded of this prayer on Sunday, March 1, 2009, when I was attending Mass with my host family at a Catholic Church in Okahandja (where I was the only white person). It actually happened to be an Ash Wednesday Mass (but on a Sunday), which adds to the whole desert theme overlaying my experience here in Namibia. Ash Wednesday, for those that aren’t familiar, marks the beginning of lent, a period of sacrifice, a time when we go to a metaphorical desert by giving something up, usually a bad habit, in remembrance of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights.
It wasn’t really the sermon or the readings that reminded me of my long forgotten prayer, mostly because the Mass was spoken in five or so alternating languages, and I couldn’t follow along. It was the spirit of the church, the soul with which they prayed that reminded me. I sat there in a cramped, hot, simple cement building without air conditioning, and without fans even because the power was out. The church was a desert, but the congregation was an oasis. They sang with so much soul and passion and love for God. I have never in my life heard singing as incredible as what I have heard in that tiny Okahandja church. They don’t have much, but at the same time, they have everything. Their soul, their song, will endure forever.
It made me reflect on what’s missing in the churches in the states. Most of those churches have everything they could ever want or need. They have really beautiful buildings, pretty decorations, perfectly regulated temperatures, expensive sound equipment and musical instruments, and all sorts of other various experience “enhancing” resources, but they are sadly lacking soul, at least to the degree that I’ve experienced here in Africa. What happens when you strip down the American church, when you take away the bake sales, the fancy trimmings, the comforts, the equipment, etc? Does much substance remain?
Similarly, I think that the problem a lot of times with people in the states is that we start to rely upon or identify ourselves with outside factors. We identify ourselves with the way we look, with what others think of us and how we are viewed, with our “failures” and accomplishments, and sometimes with an image we want to be associated with. But take away the beauty products, the lotions, the gel, the makeup, the cologne, the designer clothes, the trendy sunglasses, the expensive jewelry, the job title, the degree(s), the work, the money, the material possessions, your good looks, your friends, your relationship with your significant other, your family even…and what endures? Who are you when you’re standing naked and alone in the middle of the desolate desert?
That’s what I’m here to find out. You take everything away and what’s left? … So far, my truth, what I shout from the center of the desert, mentally stripped of everything ever associated with me from this fleeting world, including my physical body. What I cry with an undiminished voice and an indestructible essence is, “ME!!!…I remain, I endure…the desert strengthens me, reminding me that I am spirit…and I endure”…
O Brother Where Art Thou
“Are you my brother? …You look like my brother…Yes, you are my brother”
Those were some of the words that Marina, my host sister, said as she hugged me when I returned home in the afternoon following the cultural food event. They were small words, uttered by a small child, but they meant a lot to me. I had felt the same way (leave it to a child to say out loud what we adults sometimes fear to), that these people were like family to me. No genetics or bloodline (maybe thousands of years ago, since we are all connected) bound us to each other. They didn’t have to take me in, to look out for me, to care for me, and I in return didn’t have to stay with them, to spend time with them, or take interest in their lives. But the beautiful thing is that even though we didn’t have to, we chose to. We chose to reach beyond blood, beyond culture, beyond race, beyond all the unknowns…to unity, humanity, and to love, the one true known.
They had seen something special in me, and I in them. If I were to leave and come home this very day I would feel proud of the work I did here in Namibia. I may not have anything to put down on a report, nothing that will look good on paper to headquarters in Washington D.C., nothing really tangible or measurable, and I’m sure nothing that will impress too many people. But I have a special relationship with at least five Namibians, and that’s something incredibly magnificent. Wherever I go in life I know that there is a little girl, my sister, and my wonderful newly acquired family that know there are people just like them in American that care about them. And I know that Namibians, like all the other inhabitants of this planet, are good, wonderful people, waiting for us to rediscover just how wonderful they truly are.
Together, me and the Kupembonas have built a bridge, a link of humanity. They are being built all across the world as we speak, by people willing to give of their time and resources to others, to show them that they aren’t alone, that there are people who care about them. When they do this, the illusion of separation, of differences, of inequality, the illusion that allows us to hate and kill one another instantly dissolves and we remember that we are one, that we are all the same, that we are members of one big family… and that we are loved. When enough bridges are built, when enough people once again remember the great truth that we are all brothers and sisters, then we can finally learn to live together in harmony, war and conflict can end, and World Peace can at long last begin.
This is the work that I am part of, the work we can all be a part of. All we have to do is go back to the innocence of our childhood, the time before we learned how to hate, before we learned to close off our emotions, before we started fearing what people thought, before we began to believe we were better than others, the time when the world hadn’t yet clouded our souls. We have to look at our neighbors, the ones in house next door, the ones in the bordering country, in the shelter down the street, in the mud hut thousands of miles away…and we have to ask ourselves, “Are you my brother?” Then with the freedom and unbound spirit of a child, allow ourselves to believe, to remember, to know that, “Yes, you are my brother.”
Those were some of the words that Marina, my host sister, said as she hugged me when I returned home in the afternoon following the cultural food event. They were small words, uttered by a small child, but they meant a lot to me. I had felt the same way (leave it to a child to say out loud what we adults sometimes fear to), that these people were like family to me. No genetics or bloodline (maybe thousands of years ago, since we are all connected) bound us to each other. They didn’t have to take me in, to look out for me, to care for me, and I in return didn’t have to stay with them, to spend time with them, or take interest in their lives. But the beautiful thing is that even though we didn’t have to, we chose to. We chose to reach beyond blood, beyond culture, beyond race, beyond all the unknowns…to unity, humanity, and to love, the one true known.
They had seen something special in me, and I in them. If I were to leave and come home this very day I would feel proud of the work I did here in Namibia. I may not have anything to put down on a report, nothing that will look good on paper to headquarters in Washington D.C., nothing really tangible or measurable, and I’m sure nothing that will impress too many people. But I have a special relationship with at least five Namibians, and that’s something incredibly magnificent. Wherever I go in life I know that there is a little girl, my sister, and my wonderful newly acquired family that know there are people just like them in American that care about them. And I know that Namibians, like all the other inhabitants of this planet, are good, wonderful people, waiting for us to rediscover just how wonderful they truly are.
Together, me and the Kupembonas have built a bridge, a link of humanity. They are being built all across the world as we speak, by people willing to give of their time and resources to others, to show them that they aren’t alone, that there are people who care about them. When they do this, the illusion of separation, of differences, of inequality, the illusion that allows us to hate and kill one another instantly dissolves and we remember that we are one, that we are all the same, that we are members of one big family… and that we are loved. When enough bridges are built, when enough people once again remember the great truth that we are all brothers and sisters, then we can finally learn to live together in harmony, war and conflict can end, and World Peace can at long last begin.
This is the work that I am part of, the work we can all be a part of. All we have to do is go back to the innocence of our childhood, the time before we learned how to hate, before we learned to close off our emotions, before we started fearing what people thought, before we began to believe we were better than others, the time when the world hadn’t yet clouded our souls. We have to look at our neighbors, the ones in house next door, the ones in the bordering country, in the shelter down the street, in the mud hut thousands of miles away…and we have to ask ourselves, “Are you my brother?” Then with the freedom and unbound spirit of a child, allow ourselves to believe, to remember, to know that, “Yes, you are my brother.”
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