Week Twelve: Here and Now

By: Amanda Knipple

To start out the week, we had our Community Meeting on Sunday evening. Grace and I were this week’s community leaders and we (okay well, mostly I) requested that everyone come dressed as a political figure of their choice. This combined some of my favorite things about our group: our knowledge of and willingness to discuss politics, and of course our sense of humor. With very short notice and very limited wardrobes, our group pulled together a lovely hodge-podge of political figures. It’s been a running joke among our group that I’ll be running for president in 2044 so we all laughed when Grace showed up dressed like me.

Left to right: Former Presidents Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter
and George W. Bush, Future President Amanda Knipple.

We’ve reached that point in the semester where we’re beginning to look towards home. Obligations call us away from Windhoek as we busy ourselves with picking next semester’s classes and housing, and as we try to apply for spring or summer jobs in the ever competitive US job market. It’s a struggle to remember to be present in the here and the now when life so constantly demands that you keep moving forward. Among the barrage of 'what’s next for you', there lies the pressure to constantly know where life is taking you and what your next step is. But there’s a beauty in not knowing and a peace in admitting that you don’t need to know right now.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the future, but I am convinced that this trip has changed the way I see it, and the way that I approach it. I’ve had all my power taken away while at the mercy of my rural homestay parents, in an unfamiliar environment surrounded by a language that I don’t speak. I’ve seen problems that have no easy solutions, as well as well-meaning solutions that not even begin to address the true problems. I’ve learned that it’s not always my place to have an answer. I’ve become content with not knowing.

One of the highlights of this week was a panel that our lovely internship teacher Linda put together for us. She searched all over Windhoek for Americans that are living and working here and rounded them up so they could tell us their stories. What they had to say really solidified the idea that there is no right or wrong way to go about living your life. Everybody on that panel had a different story, took a different path, and wound up doing amazing things over the course of their life (and are still going!) Sometimes a normal course of action won’t be the one that fits into your life. It’s okay to chase that outrageous dream you have. It’s okay to not go down the road that you are expected to. It’s okay to not know what’s next, because you still have now.

It’s a topic that has come up a few times before this: being present in what you’ve been given and not taking things for granted.  We all know how lucky we are just to be here.  It’s an opportunity that we will most likely never have again. Many of us don’t know what we’re doing next. Of course, we could probably tell you what classes we’re taking next semester, and that we plan to graduate college, but that’s probably about it. We have issues that we care about, and I can tell you that we’re all passionate people, but the paths that we are going to embark on are still a mystery.

But that’s okay.

In 2044, you might see me running for president. Maybe I’ll be married with kids. Maybe I’ll follow the lead of the panelists and work overseas somewhere. The world is full of possibilities and I’m glad that we’re choosing not to limit ourselves. Let me tell you, this group is going to do amazing things. They’re change makers.

But for now, we can’t focus on that. We can’t lose sight of the small amount of time that we have left together. There are projects to finish, conversations to be had, places to go, and jokes to be made. Windhoek will be here forever, but we won’t. In the wise (or not so wise-you decide) words of our resident philosopher/advisor Attila: “this is the future.”  With only three weeks left, I plan on living out every moment and not letting anything go to waste. Next semester can wait. The rest of my life doesn’t have to be planned. I’m content to just pass the time with these amazing people that I’m surrounded with.

Week Nine: A Canvas of Understanding

By: Annie Dierberger

She had deep wrinkles that ran asymmetrically through her face like a thousand roads on a map, but the destination came together like a meticulous work of art. Each line etched into her skin seemed to hold a story or a memory that I desperately wanted to understand. Her eyes were lulled in the shape of half moons but held a sharp glint of youthfulness wherever she happened to look. Her name was Meme Albertina. She was the village headman, and yes, I had no idea what that meant and maybe I still don’t, but I thought of her like Yoda, full of wisdom and perfectly executed one liners. Now that last part I may have fabricated a bit, seeing that I actually had no idea what she was saying and it was evident from the start we had a language barrier. I spoke English, she spoke none. She spoke Oshiwambo, I knew how to say the How are you? and the word snake, making our conversation limited beyond the context of “the snake is good”, which it ultimately never is. The woman I am describing was my host mom for the week in the town of Outapi, a rural community about nine hours north of Windhoek. All of the students were living with various families and this was to be mine.

What inside the homestead looked like. Various huts for
different purposes surrounded by an endless maze of sticks.

After a few minutes of exchanging confused facial expressions and hand gestures, I ended up in a truck bumping along the gravel until a fenced off home came into view. Once inside the gate, I was given a tour around the homestead by one of the eldest daughters in the family who knew a few words of English. She led me outside the gate towards a tall circular enclosure of sticks and stopped just before to also show me where the pigs slept. To say it nicely, these pigs would not have been cast in the next Charlotte's web sequel as Wilbert. I saw them as beasts that wouldn’t hesitate to destroy me. My eyes stayed glued on the pigs until I was nudged by the daughter to indicate the bathroom beside them, which consisted of a pile of bricks in the shape of a triangle. I kept my face composed but I will readily admit that internally I was whispering, “oh dear god.” The next stop was the shower which was again an enclosed circle of sticks with a bucket inside. Now, at this point, I was extremely nervous that there wouldn’t be enough water for me to shower and that an eyoka (a snake) was going to bite me in the bathroom. I was out of element in a state of discomfort and I knew it, so I decided to do the only thing I could, which was to completely embrace it. To not only look at these lines that ran like roads on the face of my host mother but to travel them just as she had lived them.

Very quickly within the next couple of days I fell into a routine. I would wake up around 6:45am by either one of the children shouting, “Annie, wake up!” or a rooster sounding like it was violently choking. As I stumbled outside into the bright light one of the children would point to the shower and say, “Wash.” I not only learned that a bucket of water was more than enough for a shower, but doing so outside while peering over a fence into the dry abyss was wonderful. I loved being woken up to cold water and the smell of fire already circulating through the cool morning air. After the shower, I would make my way through the maze to the place where we ate our meals. My Meme would see me and say, “Wa­lelepo nawa?” which translates to “Good morning, How are you?”, to which I would reply, “Eeya, ove walelepo tuu?!” and then we would both exhaust ourselves with multiple “eeye’s”, which means “good” and is what I learned to be the key to the Oshiwambo language. When it doubt, just say eeye. People will either mockingly laugh or be extremely impressed with you, sometimes both.

As midday approached, so did the blazing heat. Almost every day the temperature would hit 100 degrees or higher. Shade became your close companion, and water was your new best friend. I was fortunate that my classmate Henrik lived close by, so most afternoons, we would meet up and endure the heat together. We would find a nice spot of shade that wasn’t overpopulated by donkeys and sip, no, chug on ice cold coke from one of the local shebeens.

Henrik, avoiding malaria at all costs.

When 6 o'clock approached, all of the neighboring children began running towards the soccer field for the nightly game. This, I got the impression, was my young host brother’s favorite part of the day. The goal posts were made up of two sticks with a line of cans strung together at the top and very rarely was there a goalie, if lucky a toddler sat distractedly inside the goalposts drawing pictures in the dirt. Some nights I played and other nights I preferred to just sit on the side and watch with amazement. The Namibian sunset would begin to fill the sky with a canvas of reds, oranges and yellows like something I had never seen before. The children would be laughing and doing hilarious after-goal dances and then there would be Henrik, passing out high fives and cheering enthusiastically in English like an elementary school gym teacher. The kids had no idea what he was saying but loved it anyway. Moments like these are what would bring tears to my eyes. Moments where we didn’t need a language to communicate because we had so many other things, things that didn’t need to be vocalized. As the sun completely vanished my host brothers and sisters held hands and walked home together, singing songs. It was a powerful connectedness of pure happiness and enjoyment of one another’s company.

At 8:00 pm the whole family would gather around the fire and watch enticingly as dinner was prepared. The little kids would climb on my lap and sing Amazing Grace repeatedly until flying into one of their own songs and dances. When we weren’t singing or dancing, I had my notebook out and was learning Oshiwambo from Tina, one of the eldest kids who was in school. I would write words or phrases, she would translate and then laugh at my pronunciation. Without any electricity or lights, the world would turn dark and to see my hand in front of my face I would take out my flashlight. There was one night when I took out my light to see where I was stepping and my grandmother looked at me and shook her head repeatedly. She then began speaking in Oshiwambo and pointing up to the bright stars that littered the sky magnificently. She kept pointing up to the stars and then took my flashlight and turned it off. We both smiled in understanding and looked up at the stars together.

Trying to make friends with the donkeys and not succeeding.

That night I sat studying everything like a priceless work of art, absorbing everything that I had grown to love so passionately in a week: the kids, their bright smiles as we played tag throughout the home, and how later they could help cook dinner or carry a baby on their backs with the strength of a teenager; my host mother, despite being at least seventy years old, dancing freely without care like she was a child again; the sky and all of its unity of contrast, completely defying everything we think we know in color and clouds; the stars and gazing up at them in awe, and an hour later realizing you are just as lost as you were before, and feeling content with that. During my rural homestay week, I have lived modestly in material but lavishly in everything else. It was a week that seemed like a year in what I saw and learned. I found richness in simplicity. I found love in silence. I found sacred art in normality. A picture that is worth a thousand words but remembered as a thousand moments.

Week Eight: Fitting in

By: Henrik Weber

Ah yes, the mid-semester weeks. The novelty of Windhoek has subsided, and the normal routine of morning class and afternoon reading has returned full force. Possibly the most noteworthy event of the week is that our beloved inflatable shark, Seymour, popped and had to be laid to rest. People fail to get excited about weeks like this as the anticipation of our trip to the North continues to overshadow the daily experiences we have here. As we reach the second half of the semester, our comfort in the local community has developed more thoroughly. 12,000 miles from home, we are able to find our way around and freely explore unknown places. Friends have been made. Relationships have formed. And that has left me in an interesting place. How do I, or any of us, fit in here?

Amanda and Seymour relaxing
in the pool in Windhoek.

We often venture out of the gates to the CGEE house to some local businesses. We go to get chocolate at Tom Thumb, pizza at the Crazy Crust Inn, beer at the Cardboard Box, and for about everything else we take a hike over to Pick’n’Pay. The sense of security in the neighborhood is nice and having a known familiar setting allows for us to embraces fully the Windhoek West culture. The more we feel like we live here the harder some questions become. What is my role in this community? How do we continue to care for this place after we leave? As we get to belong to this community, it forces me to consider my place in the world. 

One of my favorite parts of class here has been our guest speakers. This week we had one speaker who sparked lots of questions within me. Herbert Jauch, is an activist currently working with issues of income inequality in Namibia. He is also the former director of the Labour Resource and Research Institute (LaRRI), the place where I am doing my internship. We have read articles by him for class before and I have read lots of his papers and reports for work. He came to talk to us advocating for different anti-poverty measures. Many of us liked his ideas and were very supportive, but he makes me wonder if this is my place. We have spent much of the semester learning about how colonialism and the influence of Western ideas have negatively affected Namibia. When is it appropriate for us to step back and say 'this is not my role as an American' and when is appropriated for us to step forward and say 'as a well educated community member who cares, I stand for this'? I feel simultaneously as if I belong and as if I am an outsider.

Henrik and a friend in Windhoek.
It is nice to get out and interact
with the locals.

Where do we fit in? In a short time, we will be back at our home universities. We fit in there. We currently fit in at the Cardboard Box and the Crazy Crust Inn. But more than the physical location, where do our ideas fit in? How do we share our experiences to create a positive impact? At this point, I realize that these are all questions without answers, but these are the questions I think about. Even with no answer, just taking the time to think about them provides a certain level of understanding.

With our new understanding of ourselves, of the world, of poverty, and of each person’s place in the global community, choosing how to think is key. We are still outsiders here, but at times it is easy to forget. Now, as we prepare to spend three weeks on the road in the rural north, at Etosha National Park, and over spring break, our comfort zone will again be pushed. Part of what the trip is about is, as a group, talking about the unanswerable questions. Pushing each other to think in new ways is a positive for everyone. Figuring out life in Windhoek, in the US, and on the road remains a challenge, but it is not meant to be easy. I am grateful to the group for being with me through these struggles of self and struggles of fitting in.

So here we sit. From our house in Windhoek, we look out over a few block radius we consider to be our home. We learn much from our classes and even more from our adventures. Yet, we still know it is incurably temporary. We won’t stay at 5 Simpson Street forever. But the lessons we learn, the experiences we have and the bonds we make are sure to last us a lifetime.

Week Seven: To Swim in the Storm

By: Annie Dierberger

The view from standing on the dock.
The desert lying just beyond the ocean in the distance.

It was the first Thursday we arrived in Swakopmund, a beautiful city on the coast of Western Namibia, and our frantically absorbing eyes matched the tapping excitement of our feet. For the previous two weeks we had been daydreaming about our trip to Swakopmund, an escape from classes and a routine that we had yearned for at the start of the trip but now craved the absolute abruptness of adventure. That night for dinner we sat in Jetty 1905, a restaurant that sat on the edge of a long wooden dock amidst the ocean. Through the glass of the wall behind us the waves crashed violently below a sky of grey that seemed to disguise itself into the ocean. The weather was dark and ominous and being seated in the middle of the mayhem while classical music played around us felt like someone picking flowers in a warzone. I followed by gaze back to the murmur of conversation within the guests and then up to the bustling movements of the waitresses and waiters. There was a different kind of pandemonium happening inside, a one thickly veiled in misconception. The bright lighting and clinking of glasses seemed to assure me that the roaring ocean just below us was just a figment of my imagination. I swiveled behind me and sure enough, there it was. I looked around the room to see if anyone else was noticing what was happening just outside of the thin glass but there eyes seemed stuck within the confines of the luxury around them. It wouldn’t be until Sunday afternoon until I thought of this night again.

Within the next couple of days we would take full advantage of our fleeting vacation around us. Many people in Windhoek had told us about the town’s stunning beauty but seeing the startling contrast of the vast ocean on one side and the blazing desert on the other was truly magnificent.

Us climbing Dune 7

On Saturday we ventured out and climbed Dune 7, no let me rephrase that, we crawled like confused infants up Dune 7 and then continued to act like children at the top. As we all tumbled down as ungracefully as possible and acquired what seemed to be most of the sand of the desert in our hair and mouth, life at the moment was playing our own sorts of classical music. Sure it was mixed with our shrilling shrieks and belly flopping grunts, but it was a song of bliss nonetheless. As I looked around and saw all of my friends, once tentative strangers in the airport but now close companions, all laughing with giant grins on all of their faces, I couldn’t help but feeling fortunate for our friendship. The tune continued playing as we went ATV’ing the next day in the dunes. All eight of us traveling in a line through miles of sand, and our R.A. Attila trailing dangerously far behind with his scarf billowing through the wind, his upright posture and slow speed making him look like an elderly person on a motorized scooter, weaving through the streets of Paris.

That night we all went to bed smiling from a satisfactory day, a day that was filled with events offered on the front page pamphlet of Swakopmund. The following day we would experience things that weren’t commercialized for the average visitor, things that required a detour off of the main road. It began with a tour through Modesa, the main township in Swakopmund. For those who are unaware what a township is, I will regretfully inform you that they are a commonality throughout Africa. Townships were segregated areas of living for basically everyone who didn’t have white skin during the Apartheid era and yes, they still exist today. The houses consist of three or four rooms and the farther in the township you venture, the smaller the houses become till your eyes are squinting from both the sun and the reflecting tin of shacks. SWAPO flags fly proudly and people greet you warmly, but viewing the conditions that were emplaced forty years ago still continue in the present brings a certain sadness that melts into anger. We were shown the empty houses that sit in the distance, substantially larger and according to the people, substantially so far more expensive that no one can even afford to live in them. How cruel that an empty promise can be your next door neighbor and how different the music can begun to be heard. Unfortunately, throughout this trip, it’s been the same realization: that while there is beauty that surrounds us, there is immense despair in both the history and the present. That here, like in life, you can choose to ignore the harsh reality of things if you wish, and listen to that classical music while completely avoiding the storm outside. And that the sad truth is... many people do.

That Sunday afternoon I thought back to the first Thursday we arrived in Swakopmund, sitting in the restaurant we sat stretched on a long dock amidst the ocean. I thought about people and how they differ. How there are those who choose to ignore the storm that is roaring just beside them. How there are those who intensify and add havoc, and those who see it but only talk about it. William Blake once said, “Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.” I believe it’s a bit like sitting amidst the ocean studying the waves and their intricacies and then doing the same within the scorching desert. They are there to show the gap of difference between their existence and it’s up to us to bring these places that act as two different worlds together. That instead of having one road that shows the pleasant and another which shows the pain, we must walk the same one together. That there is a song that all should hear and it is the song of justice, so please excuse me while I stop talking, unplug the classical music from the wall and dive headfirst into this ocean instead.

Week Six: Unifying a Separated World

By: Grace Corbin

I am sitting here trying to figure out what to write for this blog post, because I have too many topics I want to/could write about and I can’t make up my mind.  For goodness’ sakes, I should just pick one, right?  Unfortunately, I’m very indecisive.  For starters, this was a regular week (if you could ever call spending a week in a foreign country regular) of classes, going to Zumba, hanging out with each other and people we have met in Namibia, and finishing the reading and homework we have been procrastinating on until the night before. A pretty regular week.

This is what it looks like to be trapped in a world of separation.

Well, during this “regular week” of classes, I found myself reflecting on divisions between people quite often. Learning and discussing about apartheid and race all of the time has me bogged down about how people perceive differences to be bad. And I continue to ask questions, because, as my classmates in Namibia have learned, I love to ask questions. Questions I ask do not have an easy answer, but I will discuss them anyway because they are important. These are some of the questions I have been dwelling on.  What causes divisions?   Why do we focus on our differences?  Why can’t we see that everyone has similarities, but we are not the same, and that our differences are beautiful anyway? 

One thing I’ve noticed is that we like to put things into boxes or categories. White, black; red, blue; good, bad, etc. Apartheid put people into boxes, for example. During apartheid, people were forcibly put into different areas based on the perceived color of their skin. White Europeans got away with separating people of different skin colors into sectioned off places of the world, hoarding what they could, and leaving the leftovers for people of color. People were put in one of three categories: black, colored, or white.  But, as we know, there are not only three skin colors. Putting people into racial categories allowed people of white skin color to say that they are better. Apartheid legally enforced divisions, but skin color is not just black, white or colored. The world is much more fluid than some people perceive it to be or try to make it.

There are many things in this world which are not black and white (I would argue that most things are not), but sometimes it seems like the world is insisting that things are black and white. Class, gender, religion, ethnicity, are some examples of labels that are imposed on people either by themselves or others; labels that are treated as if you can only be one or the other, but that is many times not the case. Things are much more fluid.  An example of fluidity in religion is a woman we met this last week for classes who is a traditional healer and a Christian. For those of you who do not know, a traditional healer is someone who is a doctor and pastor to a sick person. Traditional healers call on their ancestors for help to cure the sick person. The woman we met with, Lesego Edith Movshosi, is, what I consider, a strong Christian woman whose love for Jesus radiates through her. She relied on Jesus to help her call her ancestors who would then show how to find a solution for her patients’ problems. She also believes prayer is an integral part of healing for her patients. This beautiful way in which she unites two religions together shows that there is no need to compartmentalize ideals or beliefs into boxes. Why do we put things like religion into boxes? Why do we put things in boxes when they only separate us further?  

My attempt at an answer is this: it’s easier. Associating with people who look, speak, act just like you is easier than truly getting to know someone who doesn’t have the same characteristics, or beliefs as you. I think of a story Annie told after she came back from her urban home stay. She was walking around with her host family at a mall, and they found people looking at them. Her host family told her that it’s weird for a white girl to be walking around with black people. In many places here, I have felt that segregation between race is still very present. Segregation by differences is easier for people.

Now, how do we overcome that? My answer comes from my experience in yoga class. Yoga, for those of you who do not know, is not only the act of stretching your body in crazy ways, but also, and mostly, a spiritual practice. Yoga is about unity of your body, the Earth, and the Divine. Isn’t that beautiful? I believe the goal of yoga is to realize that we are not separate bodies, but energy connected to the whole universe. We are all one: one with each other, one with the universe, one with the Divine. Even if you do not agree with that statement, I hope you appreciate the beauty of it. How can differences separate us if we are all one?

Laughing: something that happens every night in the CGEE house.

You might be thinking, ‘that’s nice, Grace, but come on, that won’t happen.’ But I’m allowed to dream, aren’t I? Even if it’s hard to see ourselves all as one, I know that I find glimpses of unity in everyday life at the CGEE house. We’ve had many nights here spent laughing and laughing at each other, without a care in the world. We find solidarity in each other: a small group of U.S. students who look similar, but who have all walked very different paths in life, and if we can come together, maybe, just maybe, the world will find unity someday too.

Week Five

By: J.D. Mechelke

As commanded by our week’s community leader Amanda, we were all wearing our PJ’s. I had this yellow and hole filled shirt, sporting a “Life is Good” logo and the phrase, “Remember where you came from.” The smell of pizza permeated the room. It was pretty good except for the vegan pizza, which tasted like old cigarettes (God bless Emily for her ethical decisions). We had just gotten back from our Urban Homestay. It was good to be together. We had become a family of sorts. The seven of us sprawled in a circle across the living room floor along with Attila, our mother hen. Amanda had shuffled a deck of cards and spread them out in between all of us. I picked up the first card, not really understanding what the heck was going on. I laid my card out in front of everyone; an ace. Amanda picked up her notebook and found the question associa ted with the ace: “What fulfills you the most in life currently?” While I’m definitely one of those people who likes to speak before thinking, this time I really had no idea what to say.

The day before, my host brother Donovan drove his siblings and I to a farm outside of Windhoek. It was hilly like South Dakota combined with the dryness of New Mexico. There was a big army tent set up across from this towering tree. It reminded me of all the trees mentioned in Genesis: the places where death and life happened, an orienting place, a place of reunion. Under this tree was where the people in my host parents’ generation cooked food all day long. The farm was, for today, the setting of a first of its kind family reunion. The matriarch of the family hadn’t yet seen all of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren in one place. So for her 72nd birthday, she wanted a family reunion.

At first I was very conscious of difference. I was the only white guy around, the only one with a full beard, the only one whose first language was English, and the only one who was comfortable burping and farting in front of old people. It was about 10 in the morning when the assembly of young and old clustered under the old army tent. Great-grandma sat on the long side of the tent in the very middle. Everyone found a seat in a semi-circleish thing around her. My host-mom grabbed me. She had me sit next to her so she could translate form Afrikaans into English. Someone could’ve turned her speech into a cliche “trip down memory lane.” But even for a foreigner, it was easy to tell that this was something different. You could tell from the look in her eyes as she smiled down at her great-grandchildren. “Remember where you came from,” she said, like a mother spreading a blanket over her new-born.

She told us the story of her life. She had walked through a land ravaged by Apartheid. She had raised her children through Apartheid. She had seen the liberation struggle. She had seen the revolution. Though these statements are all true, Apartheid was not the main subject of her reflections: it was family.

The week away from the Center on Simpson Street was a week immersed in difference. But it was also, for me, a time to remember where I come from. The time spent accepting the hospitality of strangers reminded me less about difference and more about our universal desire to belong. I saw this struggle to belong with the little girl who’s complexion was lighter than the rest. This struggle was also evident with a gay man who was constantly denied respect and responsibility from family elders. And I saw this struggle with myself, not quite sure where I was supposed to stand.

It was Sunday evening when we got dropped off from our homestay’s. That night our unconventional family of seven plus mother hen was sprawled across the floor in a circle. Amanda read me the baffling question: “What fulfills you the most in life currently?” There’s a lot of ways I could’ve answered the question. And most of them would have been truthful. But being with each other, laying around in our pajamas and our communal breath of pizza smells, made me realize that I belong.

Week Four: Getting Acquainted with Windhoek

By: Amanda Knipple

We had the weekend to get settled into our new home in Windhoek, but after that we were constantly out and about to get a feel for the city. I could feel the excitement of the group when we talked of all the potential that Namibia had to offer. For some of us, the new landscape brought the realization that we still had so much to learn and as far as we had come, our journey was nowhere close to being completed.

Now in Namibia, I finally started my internship at Friendly Haven Shelter for abused women and children.  Friendly Haven is one of the oldest and best functioning shelters in Namibia, as well as a model often used by similar organizations. I’m grateful for the opportunity to meet all the amazing people behind the operation. Working with issues of gender-based violence can be very taxing, but they’re there day in and day out, constantly pushing for change in the community while educating and empowering the women staying at the shelter.  My role at the shelter will mostly be within the realm of raising awareness of gender-based violence and the existence of the shelter itself. I’m excited to try to take on this role because gender-based violence is so prevalent in Namibia and throughout the world. While reading up on Friendly Haven’s work, I came across a statistic from the Legal Assistance Centre that claims that 1 in 5 women in Namibia is in an abusive relationship. One shelter is nowhere near enough to combat such widespread violence. Raising awareness and educating the community can be such powerful forms of outreach in order to inspire more people to take action.  Gender based violence is so normalized that some people might not recognize the signs until they are explained. If more people can be equipped with the knowledge of gender-based violence and how to recognize the signs, perhaps we can move towards a more equal and peaceful society.

A guided tour of Windhoek was one of the first things we did as a group in Namibia. The intention was to get a broader view of the cultural and economic realities of the place we shall call home for the next three months. The group was driven around the city with a local guide. We saw all kinds of things, from shopping malls and busy streets to the informal settlements that house a large portion of Windhoek’s population. We weren’t mainly concerned with tourist attractions, but rather with the lesser known areas that have been shaped by the country’s history and the organizations that are working to create positive change.

Embroidered vest from
Penduka Village

One of the places we visited was called Penduka Village, which aims to provide jobs for women and teach them skills so they can provide for themselves. Projects included sewing, embroidery, and jewelry making. Lots of their products are made from recycled goods in order to make the operation more sustainable. I was very touched by the organization and all its efforts to help women; it reminded me of the fair trade cooperatives that I’m so fond of. Empowering women, giving them the confidence and tools to make a living can be one of the most important things you can do for a society.  Their organization is combating a variety of important issues in Namibia and the world today: unemployment, lack of skills, a large amount of waste, and a poor local economy.  The women of this village are able to support themselves and their community in a sustainable way that deserves much more recognition. We learned that unemployment is rampant in Namibia, and that it doesn’t affect solely women. In an attempt to find work, many jobless men line the streets in the hopes of being hired for a day job or some kind of manual labor. At first this seemed ridiculous and confusing to me, but what’s even more ridiculous and confusing is that the Namibian government has legitimized it.  You can now become a registered MSR (man on the side of the road) to try and be linked to work opportunities.

At this point in my journey through Southern Africa, I probably should not have been surprised by the poverty that I’ve encountered.  But yet again I was struck by the conditions that part of the population are accustomed and subjected to. I don’t yet fully understand the system, so it is possible that my criticism may be unfounded, but it seems to me that more should be done than just allowing people to sit on the side of the road all day hoping that something comes your way. And of course, when we made our way out to the informal settlements, we were again faced with vast fields of small, tin shacks much like in Alexandra and in the Cape Flats (mentioned in previous blog entries). I just remember standing from a distance, overlooking hundreds of shacks tucked neatly between the sandy hills. 

Overlooking the informal settlements

Learning about Apartheid for these past few weeks has rendered me very conscious of how privilege has been abused in history. I think it’s very important to be aware of what privileges you do have in your life so you can check how you use them. The intersectionality of privilege cannot be ignored. There is no way to talk about privilege and oppression without looking at all of the ways that they affect people’s lives. Being on this trip has exemplified this idea. One of my favorite things about the CGEE so far is that dialogue is constantly flowing and there’s a lot of opportunity for contact with ideas that differ from your own. It has helped me a lot to see things through the framework of other people’s thoughts. In one of the many relevant and enriching discussions our group has had, I was introduced to ideas about class and privilege that I hadn’t considered before and I felt grateful for the opportunity to listen to this new perspective. I learned that “class” isn’t just a measure of someone’s wealth. Too often, I considered my socioeconomic privilege to be a product of my family’s income, but there are more that goes into it. Class can also be determined by experiences. Education, travel, exposure to culture, etc. can be a huge part of where you see your place in the world. Not everything is as cut and dry as we’re led to believe. The glaring inequality is everywhere. Standing on that hill above the shacks in the informal settlement in Katutura, I had a hard time reconciling my place in all of this. I realized that I am deeply privileged in the simple fact that I can be here, thousands of miles from home, learning about all of this injustice.  I don’t know where we go from here, or how these inequalities can be rectified, but acknowledging their existence is an essential first step.

Week One: Unpacking South Africa

By Henrik Weber

We finally made it! After months of waiting, planning, and paperwork the seven of us arrived in Johannesburg ready for a semester learning about Nation building, Globalization and Decolonizing the mind.  From the first time we all met at Dulles International Airport in Washington DC, it was clear this was a group ready to ask the difficult questions and be receptive to the heavy truth.

Picture of Hector Pieterson's death.
Hector's body is being carried by another protester,
while his sister runs alongside.
Photo by Sam Nzima, 1976.

On the very first day we dragged our jetlagged bodies out of bed. Diving right into the atrocities of apartheid, we listened in horror as we heard Hector Pieterson’s sister tell the story of the day she witnessed the transformation of her brother from a young protesting school child to a martyr.

As we explored the Hector Pieterson museum we found ourselves astonished by the accomplishments of the students. They stood up to the apartheid Government despite being tear gassed and shot. 1976 student protest’s resulted with a change in social attitudes that toppled apartheid less than two decades later. Seeing this brought out the groups sense of student activist pride. These students had such a tremendous impact on the world because they chose to act, as students we felt overjoyed to see the youth had taken a stand for what they believed in.

Our journey then took us to Regina Mundi Church. As you walk around the inside of the building it is impossible not to feel the historical importance of the space. As the largest Roman Catholic Church in South Africa, Regina Mundi served as a gathering space for community leaders to meet during apartheid. Even when gatherings of three or more blacks were ban, the apartheid Government still let people congregate in Churches. This made the pulpit all the more important. Community leaders, at a great risk to their families and themselves, would make political speeches until warning came that police were in the area. At this point ministers would take the pulpit to give the illusion that worship was all that was happening in the building. Hearing stories and standing in the same spaces that have been occupied by the likes of President Clinton, First Lady Michelle Obama, Chancellor Merkel, and native heroes Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela, drives home the rich history that the building holds inside.  The bullet holes intentionally left in the wall and windows serve as a reminder of the tragedies that occurred and that no space was sacred to the authorities.

On our third day in South Africa we journeyed to Orange Farm. This experience was the “Classic Africa” many Americans have the image of. The power lines loose in the street and the tin houses smashed together like sardines greeted us as we got out of the van. Shock set in. We saw the living conditions that had been allowed to develop. The area has been deemed “temporary housing” since 1997. People are attempting to live in uninhabitable conditions whilst being met with empty promises from the Government about how they will be relocated to permanent structures. As we reflected on what life would be like if there was one fresh water spigot for the block, we recognized the difficulties of attempting to balance current needs with long term solutions to systematic issues. No one expects poverty to be eliminated now, but to walk around extremely impoverished area and recognized the realities of everyday life for such a large population was challenging for many of us. And that is the point of this journey. To challenge our world views and to expand our knowledge of the real world is the reason we traveled to the opposite side of the globe.

Photo of our group at one of the homestay houses in Soweto.

By the time the weekend reached us we felt as if we had known each other a year not a week. We said goodbyes and split into three groups to do homestays in Soweto. Soweto is made up of 30 or so townships. Under apartheid the townships were developed as housing areas for blacks, little was invested into them. To this day many live in hostels that could easily be mistaken for jails. Just over a hill and around a corner however, you start to see houses that resemble middle upper class American ones. This is the area we stayed. One group spent time with younger children, while another toured the neighborhood with a pair of teenagers, while another stayed with students of university age. Some groups spent a lazy Saturday at the mall while others volunteered within the community. On Sunday all the groups went to Church and gathered in the afternoon for a meal. The time in Soweto helped everyone to grasp the similarities and differences in day to day life between our respective home towns and this community that adapted us for a weekend. We all pushed ourselves to feel uncomfortable and at the end of the homestay came out better for it. 

Coming to terms with Soweto remains a challenge. To experience living in a poor neighborhood in comfort leaves an uneasy feeling of complacency. Leaving Church to a parking lot of BMW or Mercedes makes it easy to see those who are doing alright. It rapidly shifts how I view the world. More and more I find it to be true that we only see what we are looking for. Soweto is a place where you can see people doing well for themselves or others in desperate need of help. I’ve stared to see the bonds of economic apartheid that still exist today. Thinking critically about the types of obstacles in the way of equality leads down a road with no clear answers. Thinking, learning, and responding, to these experiences is something we are all eager to do.