SO MUCH TO SAY

I think about writing to you all everyday, but the past few days have not permitted me to put the many ideas and experiences on paper. Writing as much as I have while I am here has made it so that I often thinking about how I would word what I am seeing.

I don’t have more than a half hour to check my emails and to write this and get it posted before my first appointment of the day, so let me get right into it.

Once I leave from here, I will be meeting Samed at the Goil Station Restaurant just down the street. He is an attachee at the station, which means he is getting experience, but not getting paid. He is one of the hardest working people at the station, and shows great promise. He has passion and is very articulate. He wants to be a journalist, but he did not study journalism.

I told him my own personal story, which is that I didn’t study journalism either, which was motiviating to him. I am working with him on a few informal workshops, and we will be going on to work on a story today, and we will begin another one tomorrow.

The story today will be about the Canadian Governor General visiting the Northern Region. We will be joining a convoy that will meet Ms. Michaelle Jean at the airport later this morning.

For me, that is a nice surprise, as I was unable to attend the meeting that she had with Canadians down in Accra, and the special meeting that she had with JHR. I still have not heard how that meeting went this past Tuesday, but I am glad that I was up here.

As I have mentioned, I will be moving to a placement in Accra shortly. My last days in Tamale (though I plan to visit again), will be somewhere between December 15th-20th. With that said, there is a great deal that I want to accomplish before my time here is finished.

If I had of been in Accra this week, my workshop, the meetings I held, and the stories we are working on would have been delayed. In addition, there has been a great deal happening with the young girl that I mentioned.

Her name is Rahina. She says that she has no last name. We have been spending more and more time together, as I have been bringing her to the Commission on Human Rights, to the Department of Women and Children, and to the Police Station. Simultaneously, I have been pushing to get her uncle arrested, to file a human rights complaint, and to ensure that she gets the support she needs for school fees, food, clothing and shelter. The diplomacy has sent me in circles, but we are making real progress.

A number of the right people have been made aware of her situation and are aiding in the ways that they can.

As for the police, we are still waiting to see what they do. The only action they have taken was to go and question the uncle. This was not successful, as young men from the aware assaulted the three police officers that entered their neighborhood. They have not done much more than paper work so far, but apparently, they are planning a strike on the area quite soon. I wonder how long they would delay if they didn’t have the added motivation of catching the men that assaulted their partners.

A sense of revenge is definitely in the air. As I sat with a top police official in the region discussing the issue, he hinted strongly that they would let those men have it. He then posed the question to me, whether they deserve their human rights after violating the rights of others. After quoting the police protocol on arrest which I have been studying recently, he had this grin in his mouth, that he was trying to swallow, that seemed to say, “yeah, right”. He is a very reasonable senior officer in a sensitive department for women and children. If that is his mentality, you can imagine the officers without any sensitivity training who seem to have a strong distinction between procedure and reality.

While with Rahina, her strength has been deeply touching. One moment showed me how hard this really is for her though. We were sitting with the Human Rights Regional Director, and he asked about her father’s awareness of her circumstance. Upon hearing that her father knew and was doing nothing he said, “he is a worse criminal than your uncle”. I saw something seem to snap inside. She composed herself, but that seemed to really hurt. She has been able to deal with a lot and overcome a lot. However, the neglect of her father seems to be beyond understanding for her, and seems to cut worse than any blade.

She wants to go to university though. She said she wants to study home economics, but asked if she should do accounting. I asked her if she liked words or numbers. She said words. I suggested business, but I am still trying to see what direction she will really take to.

With all that said, there is so much unsaid. We are in the dry season, and I am feeling it. The air is very dry, and cool in the evenings and mornings, while it is hot in the day. I have so much more to share, and plan to do that soon.

For now, my love goes out to everyone.

God willing, I will write again tomorrow.

“He picked me up, He turned me around, He placed my feet on higher ground", the song goes.

I am grateful, grateful, grateful.

Work is going incredibly well. All engines are going. I also have some great news; after Christmas I will begin a placement at the radio station at the University of Ghana in Accra for the rest of my time here. I will feel sad to leave my people in Tamale, but it feels like the move that is destined. I actually met some American students in Tamale who are doing an exchange program at the university and as they were leaving the restaurant we were in, I told one of the guys that I would be down there. This was before the actual decision was made, but as the words came out of my mouth, they felt true. I have learned so much this week. And I have my own pen drive. I found one with Ramadan's help for under half of the price that I thought it would be.

Even with the young girl, she and I were laughing and catching some jokes at the office when she was trying to teach me the key Dagbani sayings which she deemed as being:

what is your name?
some basic food types
and
I will slap you (people commonly say this without any real intent to do so)

More than all of that, feeling God's hand bring me through so many hurdles to a place of grace, strenght and favour. I felt His peace through all of it, but I was wondering why so many obstacles and so much anxiety was coming at me and getting into my heart. Just as I was typing this sentence on an unsaved document (all that I wrote afer this sentence was already typed) every computer in the cafe shut off except for mine.

I know things aren't lways going to be easy, but His favour and grace is wonderful.

Thank you for your prayers, warms thoughts and warm words.

So, I have a few true and funny stories.

The other morning I woke up, and as usual Sister Saphora was getting her daughters ready for school. Usually Melimba cries when she has to wake up and does not stop until she is being fed. Sister Saphora is usually chiding Chelpong for any little thing that she is not happy with. The other day, Chelpong managed to come home from school without her socks. She didn’t have an explanation, and Sister Saphora was not happy with her. She was lecturing her in the morning and offered a threat. She said, “if you do that again, I will send you to the village. You will not be in school, you will be picking firewood from the bush and a snake will bite you and you will die”.

Chelpong, with her eyes wide open and feeling the scorning as deeply as February babies tend to feel such hurts, replied softly, “I want to go to school”.

Before seeing Chelpong’s face, I had to crack a smile. I hear her chiding the children all the time, but this was too much. I was picturing little Chelpong with the firewood, and was caught off-guard by the snake reference.

The same morning, Melimba (remember she is two years old and Chelpong is five), snuck off that same morning and headed out the door. I went to get her in her school uniform and bring her back in the house. She just pointed at the gate and started bawling. Eventually she spit out the words, “I want to go to school”.

We laughed after I told her that I had never heard a child crying because they want to go to school.

Later in the evening, I had a good conversation with Sister Saphora about Chelpong. I had wanted to speak with her, but she is very defensive and has strong beliefs about the differences in how Europeans and Africans do things.

She mentioned a proverb that says, “the breasts you don’t want are the ones you get” in reference to not liking the way that Chelpong behaves. I took some time to share with her my insight into Chelpong who reminds me of many of my February born friends. Amazingly, she just listened. Usually she counters my ideas about things, but she took it in. I had prayed about finding a way to speak with her and the prayer was answered.

The next funny story was at the post office. I have been going there quite often to check for my birthday present that has not arrived yet. I have become known there and I have access to even the restricted areas. One man, the head of the parcel and customs department has become a friend of mine. Anyway, a few days ago I went to the office and saw him wearing a t-shirt with a picture of two Ziploc bags full of weed on it. I, smiling, asked him if he knew what was on his t-shirt. He, with a blank face said, “no”. It was a gift from a friend that returned from the US. When I explained, he was shocked. I was cracking up. Imagine a supervisor in the customs office with a t-shirt sporting two big bags of weed!

We laughed about it for awhile.

Another funny part of that situation was that this warm hearted man of about 50 years or so, keeps reaching to hold my hand. Out here, men who are friends are often seen walking down the street holding hands. It’s very common, but I am not with it. I mean, he really is someone that I connect with – good hearted, but…anyway, when we walk from one part of the office to the next, he always reaches for my hand. I always find a way to kind of shake his hand and then place my hand on his shoulder or something. Can you picture me walking through the postal yard hand-in-hand with this elder Ghanaian man?
Well, time for me to go and have some dinner. Lots of news to update you all with, but when I get more time. It’s getting late and I need to eat.

I won't write much today.

I was actually feeling really good last night about everything last night.

After going to the hospital again and dealing with that illness, the camera that my family sent to me not arriving, having come to the end of my funds after a lot of unexpected expenses, I came into some new obstacles.

With the health issues, I have been contemplating an option to switch to Accra, but I don't want to leave Radio Justice stranded and to give up on Tamale. Not knowing what my health issue really is (as tests show nothing), this decision is really difficult to make.

Then after following some hearsay, I found out that I was the only person working for JHR in the country left out of meeting with Michaeal Jean, Canada's Governor General who will be in Ghana next week. I found about it through word-of-mouth. It was not discussed with me and no effort was made to contact me or to explain the situation. When I inquired I was told, "honestly, you've missed enough time already".

I did the math though and accounted everything: factoring in weekdays I have missed outside of illness and extra days that I have worked, I have missed a total of 8 days (much of which I can make up through continued work on weekends, though I am permitted a week and a half over my eight months). While I have missed nearly 5 weeks of four months due to illness, I didn't think that would be held against me. All that said, a decision had been made. When I decided to discuss it with my supervisors based in Toronto, I was surprised at how the conversation went.

I was clear about where I stood on the issue and after all of that, I felt better. I felt peace in knowing I said what I needed to say. I was also disturbed that we seemed to be on such different pages. While I feel that it was not right, they know where I stand. In addition, I remain committed to the bigger goals. All around, we want to make the most of this posting and will stand and build on that common ground. As the date approaches, there are a lot things that remind me of the situation, but as the day passes, the situation will also pass.

That seemed like the climax of the storm, that was now passing - and I was stronger for it.

With that said, I was back on the job at 8am the next morning. After collecting some documents on the station pen drive, I got to the office to find that I didn't have it with me. I realized that I had not gotten back from the woman in charge. When I went back, it was gone.

That hit me hard.

After being told a lot of things about myself yesterday that I am not going to repeat, which stung even more because the reality is the opposite, I still felt good. But losing the pen drive the next day, it hit me harder than it should have. I just felt really lousy, like I am here to add on to the station, and here I am losing something that will be difficult to replace. I am going to try and see if I can buy another one, but I will see how soon I can do that, as they need it immediately.

I was wondering to myself why all these things are happening to me. My friend Fatimah said something to me that rang with truth in my spirit. She said, "it's not what happens to people that define them, it's how they respond that shows who they are".

You see, this morning, before losing the pen drive, I felt like, I am past this storm, and things can go smoothly for ahwile. That just made me wonder, "why".

I didn't worry too much as I am doing what I can, but I started to question myself. I just want to be excellent at what I do, and I am trying, but it doesn't seem good enough. I know that is a lie. I know it's not true. Yet, my heart was heavy fighting to overcome those thoughts and feelings.

Through it all, I thank God, I have been able to walk in love. I have been tried in that regard, but I have seen, through these hurdles, warmth permeate through.

Still finding my smile and pushing through to do work I really did not feel like doing, my day ended with clips from a segment on Oprah. It was about survivors of the holocaust and the legacy of "Never Again". I always think about the things that people are going through around the world whenever I feel that "why me" question coming on. It gives perspective.

One student spoke about an essay he wrote on the show saying that reading about a survivors story told him that he also could survive.

I then turned off the TV and headed downstairs. I met Ossei, the station technician, who informed me of a human rights issue he was absorbed in at that moment.

After filling me in on some details, he brought me downstair to meet a young woman. There she stood, with marks from razor blades all over her arms. I was told that they are also all over her body. Her uncle inflicted them upon her when she, at the age of 15, refused to marry a much older man, as she wants to finish school. She has been beaten and tortured over this. When Ossei went with the police to have him arrested, a group of about 10 men hit her with a stone, and began to fight them off. They had to leave, and will return with soldiers tomorrow.

And there she stood, with these marks on her arms. She was really still and matter of fact in her answers. She was going to stay with a friend, and we will find somewhere else for her when the family finds out where she is, as her father and brother's are supporting this abuse.

As heavy as my heart was today, and while all of what I was dealing with is not to described as nothing, it is placed in the perspective that I was being led to all day.

I can see the marks. She will always have them. She is 15. She just wants to go to school. Who are these people that they would seek to kill her today, after calling the police for these atrocious abuses? Who are these people that would fight the police to defend a man with such cruel hands, and such monstrousities in his heart?

We will stand by her through this and are treating the issue very seriously.

I can see the marks. I can see the pain. I also see hope, strength and the will to step out.

I pray, I plead, I commit, and I agree, she is going to make it.

So, let's continue to give love, to stand for truth, to take the lessons taht come our way, and to keep things in perspective.

Warbride

A few years ago, while still in university, I was at home watching a Rememberance Day Memorial service. As I watched the laying of wreaths and the reflective faces, I thought of my Granny.

She was born in England and served as a nurse in World War II. My Grandfather was from Toronto and was serving in the Canadian military at the same time. They met overseas and fell in love. She returned to Canada and married my Grandfather, giving birth to three sons - the youngest of which was my Dad.

With my mind on my Granny, I wondered how she was feeling on that day. My Grandfather passed away a few years ago, after suffering from alsheimers. While they began there family in Toronto, they later followed my Dad and my Mom out to British Columbia. Eventually, they settled in the town that I was born in, Kamloops. Surrounded by the low rising mountains (low by BC standards), the valley that the town is in, cut by two colliding rivers, became their home.

She still lives there, but dearly misses her husband. November 11th is a day that highlights this feeling.

That day, I decided to call her. Taking into account the three hour time difference, I called her a few hours before 11:11AM.

Since then, I have called her every year. She often shares memories and stories with me in those conversations. She smiles and she cries. She also lets me know about her gatherings with the other 'war brides' that live in Kamloops.

It is something that also brings deep meaning to the day and the memorial in my own life. I am here, and born in B.C., raised in Toronto through them meeting in the war. As I love my Granny dearly, I also feel the joy of her memories and the sadness of her longing for the love of her life.

It's only the grace of God that can give the strength to keep on living and loving like she does.

When I was visiting Ottawa last spring for the opening of Rhema in the nation's capital, some friends and I were touring the city's downtown core in a light rainfall. As we walked around the grounds of Parliment Hill, we came to the War Memorial. I recognized it from the television broadcasts I see most years, and it brought back the memory of that very first Rememberance Day phone call.





















I decided to climb the slick slope to stand beside the dates of the war that brought my Grandparents together. I was not just standing beside some numbers carved in stone, but something that represents a part of so many lives - including mine.

This year, I was not able to call my Granny on Rememberance Day, but I thought of her waking up in the quiet of her Kamloops home. I imagined her in a reflective silence, perhaps tearful, perhaps prayerful, most certainly talking to Grandad across the confines of time and space.

11:11 came eight hours earlier for me than Granny, and I remembered because it is also a part of me.

IT'S A NEW DAY

This morning, when it was actually time to wake up I just sat on my mattress for a few minutes. As I sat there I thought to myself, “I am alive”. Usually, I here the children getting ready, and chickens making a racquet, but I sat there in the silence of the morning surrounded by, and filled with, peace.

Usually I pray giving thanks for the day then put on some music as I get going through the steps I need to take to get ready. Today, after sitting there on that mattress for some time savouring the gift of life, I began to get ready in silence.

Eventually, as I saw the children up and I went to press my clothes I put a CD on for a soundtrack to the routine. I listened to a mixture of Common, Kelly Clarkson, Lauryn Hill and Kirk Franklin.

As usual, I was still wrapping up when Soldier arrived in front of the house and Layata can by my door inquire of my status. I packed my breakfast of mint tea, bread and avocado and, with my hands full with all I would need today, I headed to the car.

I felt satisfied that I had remembered everything, as there was a lot to organize in the short time of just under an hour that I gave myself. I had remembered all of the documents, the CD’s, the books, the bottle of water, my lunch, and my shea butter. When I arrived at the office and headed down the hallway to the conference room which doubles as my office, I realized that I had forgotten one thing, my key. I rarely do that, but no one bothered me too much about it as they understand that I had been away from the office for a week.

One of the technicians opened my office and I headed in to see the new set up. The old TV stand that the computer was on was replaced with a nice desk. The big, out-of-order television set was replaced with a smaller one that works. There are some boxes for a satellite signal, which I still need to learn to operate, and there is a water cooler.

I spent a little bit of time rearranging the set-up as the computer monitor was off to the edge of the desk, while the TV was front and centre. I switched that arrangement, then switched on the German news broadcast which is given in English on GTV (the station of the nation) while I ate my breakfast. Still hungry, I also ate my lunch. Around noon, who knows, I might eat my dinner.

As for work today, I plan to use this day to get caught up on a few things including sending in my monthly report which was due last week. I also have “Freedom Thursdays” to prepare, some meetings to reschedule and some workshops to organize. Above all, I want to get re-orientated and put a plan together for the next few weeks, as well as revisit my goals over the next few months.

This is important as, just last week, sitting on a bed in a private hospital, I passed the halfway point in my eight month stay in Ghana. Though I have been here for awhile now, it still surprises me sometimes. Even last night, I was laying in my bed and the thought came to me: “I’m in Africa”. The thought makes me smile, stimulates excitement, adds the weight of purpose to the moment, and confounds my understanding. Should I be used to the idea by now? Should the reality of being here still stir such a range of feeling? Well, it does and I am glad that it does.

Revisiting my goals is not just something that I decided to do today. This is something that I have been in the process of for the whole time that I have been here. It is also a part of why I came here. More actively though, I have been making progress in this area for the past couple of weeks. With a whole lot of time on my hands last week, I was thinking a lot and putting my thoughts to paper. I wrote one piece, kind of a poem, kind of a list, and kind of a declaration; it listed all of the things that “I am”. This was based on what I do, what I dream of, what I am striving towards, and what I hope for. The list is long. One could read it and wonder, ‘how could one person do and be all of this?’ Some dreams are meant to become plans and some plans are meant to become real. Some dreams are meant to be dreamt.

For me, I am seeing the value in getting it all out – everything you want to do and see yourself as…or would love to be, or wish you were. The next step is prioritizing. Deciding, ‘What is most important? What is first?’ From there, you make plans, set goals, and take steps.

Life is not something that you can plan though. For one, living is full of unexpected twists and turns. Secondly, which really is primary, is that your plan has already been planned, and was designed before you took your first breath – before anyone took their first breath – and has been placed inside of you like DNA, except it goes deeper than biology, to the core of your spirit and to the thoughts of God.

My Dad used to always say the words of a scripture that he loved, “the wind bloweth where it listeth and so to all of them that are born of the spirit”. I was watching the movie “The Weatherman” and the main character (a weather man for the news) makes a comment about not really knowing what the weather is going to be, but rather, making guesses based on the information that you have. The wind is something in life, that if you observe, contains great lessons and wisdom for life. To me, what this scripture tells us, is that we need to be flexible – as flexible as the wind. That requires submission, for God’s guidance will always bring us to the best place, but that guidance will also bring us where we might never have ventured on our own. The reality is also that we really don’t know what the next moment will bring.

With that said, living a life of purpose requires what seems like opposites to be embodied in harmony: planning and spontaneity. To pave new paths and to go with the flow. To assert your dominion and give your life to God in submission. To reach for the stars and to find peace where you are.

There is a Norwegian jazz singer who left her home in Europe over ten years ago for New York city. A decade after she arrived, her debut album was released and acclaim followed her work. She mentioned two things in an interview that I saw which stood out to me. She said that she doesn’t feel like what she does is work, because it is what she would be doing regardless of her success: whether it meant sacrifice or prosperity. She also explained that she measures success by, “the amount of joy I have in each day”.

So I will look at my plans, ideas, hopes and dreams. I will look at my priorities (what they are right now which is reflected in how I use my time, and what they need to be in order to accomplish my goals). I will use all of this to develop a plan that is like the wind. The wind is flexible, but the wind is strong. The wind has no home, yet belongs everywhere. It’s not a case of being blown about wherever the breeze takes you, but learning how to use my wings with the wind to carry me to the heights that I was designed to reach. And when I build, I will build upon a rock, the head-cornerstone.

Last night, before going to sleep, I was praying and I spoke a commitment that I am making. I rarely ever make such statements, because I realize that I will be tested on it. I am ready though. What I said in prayer is that, “I will not waste another second on my life”.

Did Somebody Say This Would Be Easy?

You might recall my last post about a success story featuring Layata Issa-Haque. Her position at the station the secretary. She is the one of the only staff members at the station that was not given a motorbike for transportation and she is the only person at the station that is required to work seven days a week. She has even been denied time off for funerals, one of which was her Grandmother's.

While she spends most of her time occupied with secretarial duties, she often finds herself in the on-air studio in the afternoon. This is because the programmer scheduled for that shift misses work a couple times a week.

Listening to those fill-in shifts you may notice two things: some smooth R&B music and no presenter voice over the airwaves...not even to read the advertisements. The reason for this is that Layata has repeatedly been discouraged and condemed for going on-air during that shift. Though she has also been questioned about why she is not reading the advertisements, she has reminded those questioning her about their instructions and condemnations ordering her not to go on -air.

Being that she is my neighbour, that we take a taxi together almost everyday, that she helped me to find a great place to live when I was searching for housing in Tamale, and that I hang out with her and her sister most evenings, I have gotten to know her quite well.

I have seen that she is exceptionally intelligent and has a natural talent for 'connecting the dots'. It also interested me that even when her taxi fare to and from work was taking almost all of her salary, she continued to work so that she would have something to do and feel useful. I have come to notice that she is always interested in reading what I am reading, and she quickly finishes all of what I give her to work on.

When we re-launched "Freedom Thursdays" at Radio Justice, and I was thinking of who would be hosting the show, Layata made the most sense to me. She is the only person that keeps every appointment that we make, completes every assignment that she is given, and takes great initiatve in improving whatever it is that we are working on. Her hunger to grow and develop, compared to what it would take to get others to participate consistently is a stark contrast.

After doing the show for a few weeks, I ended up in the hospital due to malaria. With a show to prepare in a few days, she came to meet with me after work to discuss the plans for the show, to review her interview questions, and to discuss the show for the next week.

She is now sourcing out stories, doing research, diligently following leads, hosting the show, and even reviewing show tapes to improve. All of this at a station that often prefers to rely on the broadcast from Joy FM and the BBC, as well as articles from www.ghanaweb.com as the meat of the news, rather than searching out stories and following up on plans and ideas.

That is why a recent meeting with station management troubled me so deeply. I was told that "the brother of the cheif executive" and some other random visitor to the station complained about Layata's performance on-air. I was then told that if I wanted to do training, it would have to be off-air so that I am not bringing the quality of the broadcast down.

That was strange to me as I monitored the show and was impressed with her performance. Many of her colleagues were also very encouraging. In addition, the guests that she has hosted later shared their compliments of working with Layata.

When I shared the concerns of management with Layata, she looked deeply hurt. She began to vent about how many times she had tried to do something more and to improve her skills and how she had been constantly held back from progressing. She reminded me of her initial reluctance to participate in the show telling me, "see, I knew this would happen".

After letting her get everything off of her chest, I shared with her my stance. I told her that I believe that she has the potential to be a nationally recognized presenter and that I will stand by her each step of the way, asserting that she is the best person for the task. I told her that we will continue to find ways to improve until the show is at a level of excellence that would be absurd to critisize. I also told her that she does not have to pressure herself to be perfect as we all make mistakes and need them to learn, and that I will stand by her mistakes as well as her successes.

The result is that evenings of watching movies or imported soap operas and eating paw-paw (papaya) and drinking tea are now injected with show prepartions, informal workshops, and discussions of the issues that we are covering.

A small price to pay.

SEE, WHAT HAD HAPPENED WAS...

When you haven't heard from me in awhile, know there is a story.

This story is really not that exciting though.

What happened was this:

Last week, when Denis was visiting Tamale, I began to get a stomach ache (had nothing to do with Denis). A few days later I was feeling a fever. Then, on Saturday night, I was getting sick to my stomach. Sunday I stayed home and rested. Monday morning I went to see the doctor who had returned from a funeral over the weekend. He told me that the malaria parasite was disturbing my system, so I was admitted to the hospital.

I had three meetings that day, and I was only planning to see the doctor before heading to work. It didn't turn out that way. Instead I was in a hospital bed with another intravenous in my arm.

Over the next four days I would get intimately aquainted with the two stations that broadcast in the north, GTV and Metro TV. Some highlights were watching Oprah, the Chelsea match, the Ghana vs Australia match (Ghana was fortunate to get out of that game with a tie), and various news broadcasts.

Of these was the launch of Al Jazeera's international English language debut. This was a suprise to me. I always wondered what they're broadcasts were like, but learning Arabic to find out was not practical.

I think the controversy is really as simple as the angle used to present issues from the Middle East. During the news stories there was a story about surviving day to day life in Zimbabwe which is under heavy sanctions, the potential for violence in the Congo, life in a southern Sudanese refugee camp, Aboriginal suicides among youth in Brazil, and much more. It was really refreshing to get headline stories from all over the globe (note that the main stories from Israel, Palestine, Iran, the UK, Iraq, China, and the US were also a part of the broadcast.

So after a few days of watching TV, writing, thinking, and sleeping, I was feeling much better.

The visitors were also helpful as this particular hospital does not serve food, so people depend on others to bring them meals. On the busiest day I had eleven visitors come to see me. I have made some great friends in Tamale, so I have to shout out Layata, Mr. Fresh, Sister Saphora, Auntie Waki, John (congrats on the baby girl), Vera, Jamima, Yvonne aka Trouble, Samuel and his wife (don't recall the name), Robert and Phidelia.

As for what it really was, I am not sure. Again, no tests showed anything, but if they are right than malaria feels exactly the same as typhoid fever. The key point is that I am feeling much, much better.

This time was definately not as drastic as before, so I don't want anyone worried.

I plan to update a bunch of posts soon. Until then, live love now.

A Day in Tamale

Before you read this post, I just have to get you to imagine something. You and a friend are leaving an internet cafe in the dark of night. There are very few lights and you are looking for a taxi. As you dodge through the odd person and numerous other obstacles in the downtwon core, you are looking for a taxi behind. Just when you turn to see the steps ahead of you, you are nearly face to face with a huge cow...with horns...chilling downtown, like he (or she belongs there).

Just an anecdote, based on a true story...it happened two days ago.

About an hour or so before I went to sleep, I was exiting a taxi in my neighbourhood when I told Denis, who was also with me, that “they say life is stranger than fiction”.
He knew exactly what I was talking about because he had been with me for most of the day and had seen what I had seen.

It began yesterday morning with my cell phone alarm which has a unfeeling woman’s voice repeat, “it’s 6:30, it’s time to get up”. As Denis is staying at Mr. Fresh’s house with me for a few days, I went to his door, and let him know, “It’s 6:30, it’s time to get up”.

Denis is also working for JHR, but has been placed with TV Africa in Accra. He came up to Tamale with a German friend Thilo who accompanied him across Lake Volta (the largest human-made lake in the world) on a 30 hour boat road that led them to Salaga (a former slave market), then to Tamale.

Denis left for the weekend to Mole park to see the elephants and the monkeys. It is the premier nature reserve in Ghana, but is not comparable to those in Kenya or Tanzania.

He decided that he would stay in Tamale for a few days to shoot a few stories. Having some contacts here, I offered to assist him in getting those stories done. Among the list is in the field with Guinea worm workers and local women making shea butter soap. Janey, who is also working for JHR in Tamale, will be bringing him into a village where there is a ‘witch-camp’; the actual place is a village where women accused of witchcraft are exiled to. He was going to go to Yendi to do a story about the long history of conflicts and fighting of kingship, which reached it’s height in 2002 when the King was beheaded, but he would not have enough time to really tell the story.

So, we began to get ready. Showering, pressing our clothes and a breakfast of tea and bread. As we waited for the station driver Soldier to arrive, the clock continued to tick. Solider always shows up earlier then the agreed 7:30am forcing me to rush getting ready, but by 8am he was not there.

When I called him, he told me that he was resting because the station had lights out. I told that we still had stories to do, so he offered to come pick us up. About forty-five minutes later, Soldier arrived at the house. As we headed to a 9am meeting which we were going to be on time for, the car broke down on the road. All of the lights on the dashboard were lit.

Though we did not know how to get to the location, we jumped in a taxi and left Soldier to work on the car.

Once arriving in town, I was exiting the taxi to the sidewalk as I always do. Just as I opened the door though, a motorcycle raced between the slim space from the taxi to the curb. The door hit a woman’s leg before I could close the door. Due to the speed that the motorbike was approaching a red light at, the impact of the door seemed to hurt. As I got out of the car, I looked at the lady’s leg, who was limping on the sidewalk. It seemed that she might get a bruise, but there was no cut. The man on the motorbike left as quickly as she got off of the motorbike. After seeing if she was okay, another man approached me to challenge me on why I was leaving. He asked me, “aren’t you going to take her to the hospital?”.

“No”, I said, “there is not even a cut or a bruise”.

The woman was feeling the ache of the impact, and holding her leg.

The man insisted that, “her leg isn’t working”.

After speaking to her again, she confirmed that she would be okay and that we could go on our way. The man seemed to skewed in his logic, because there was no question of the fact that the driver of the motorcycle who put us all at risk left the scene with no care for the woman that he put into danger by racing between a two foot space lining the curb.

From there we headed to the Guinea Worm office, which we could not find. Eventually, Micheal had someone come and pick us up and we sat with the entire management of the project.

The meeting went very well as we planned out the ways that we can together in pushing forward the agenda of eliminating Guinea Worm.

Having arrived late, and having more people in attendance at the meeting than we expected, we were running late for our next story.

As quickly as possible, we found a taxi and headed to the village where Africa 2000 is located and we met up with the ladies making the shea butter soap. As I have already done a story on them, I waited while Denis did his story for TV Africa.

Walking down the dusty road to the nearest taxi stand, I was surprised by a small girl of about five years of age who ran towards me and wrapped her arms in a hug around my legs. While the children love to call out ‘hello’ while holding their hand like a phone to their ear, they don’t ever run up to people that they have not met and hug (not that I’ve seen). She blessed my heart though.

Soon after that, a taxi driver agreed to a good price to get to town. Upon entering the car, we met some Arabic singing and an usual drumming pattern blasting through the speakers. He turned to me and asked if we like the music. I said, “yeah, it’s cool”. Though I was enthusiastic, he was not convinced. He then asked if we like American music. I was fine with listening to whatever he likes, but he then asked me again: “You like American?”. I said “yeah”. He then said, “you like 50 cent?”. I said “yeah”. He put on 50’s first album, and we cruised down the road to “21 Questions”. Part way along our trip we picked up a woman and two

From there we headed to lunch at Sparkles; the restaurant is an odd place, as if blindfolded and brought there, you would think that you were in the Netherlands. The entrance, at lunchtime, has about 20 bicycles and 20 Dutch volunteers sitting on the patio.

I could not stay, as I had to head over to Radio Justice for my workshop. The subject was the launch of a human rights public service announcement project. Being that it was ‘lights out’, though we don’t need lights for a workshop and I confirmed with everyone I would still be doing it, many people did not come. I had about 10 or 20 people arrive, which is not bad.

The workshop went well, and after some refreshments (coke and biscuits) I headed over to the internet café. I was there to send a few documents, but I came across a bit of a surprise. The night before I had met a British woman named Kate who came to Ghana a month ago to volunteer at an orphanage or a school. After hearing her story, it seemed that she had been scammed by the 22 year old ‘Prince Ralph’ who had only one volunteer (Kate) working with his “NGO”. He charged her 720 Euros for three months rent and one meal a day. To understand how overpriced that is, you can pay rent in Accra in the same conditions for about six years for the same price.

I was on the computer in the internet café when she walked in, and we began to speak. Within a few minutes, she broke down crying. Apparently, this scam-artist has been keeping her isolated from anyone else and has been weaving a thick tale of lies about who he really is. The deception was as elaborate as bringing her, while in Accra, to the house of the advisor to the Vice-President, and convincing her that he was too tired to have guests. The truth is that he does not even know the man, and could not introduce anyone to him.

We also found out that ‘Prince Ralph’, who is also lying about his royal blood, was arrested a few months ago for scamming a friend of Janey’s.

So there in the café, I listened to her and reassured her.

The reality is, if I get Soldier, Razak or Mr. Fresh to deal with this kid, he will not make himself seen for awhile. In the words of Mr. Fresh, he would get a warning, then – if he persisted – he would get dealt with through “African Law”. It’s not that serious though.

A few of us volunteers are just working with her to get her into a better situation.

After that I met up with Denis and we headed back to the house for dinner. Daniel, the French man working for the King of Saudi Arabia, ate with us on his last night in Tamale. We ate a huge plate of spaghetti and we had a great talk with Mr. Fresh and Sister Saphora. We spoke about the turns that life takes, the lives that we touch, and the fact that, often, we don’t know if we have seen someone for the last time.

The conversation opened my eyes to realize that people see life on different wave lengths. Just as dogs see black and white and pick up things we can’t, and bats and whales see with sonar, there is also a range of perception among people.

I saw this point further later that night.

After our conversation and dinner, Denis and I met up with Greg (he’s from the University of Alberta doing research for the university on NGO partners that the university can use for internships for their students), Janey, Shannon (the woman from Canada that got ‘Prince Ralph’ arrested), Shannon’s mom, a friend of theirs that I did not get introduced to, and Kate.

The conversation amongst pizza, falafels and beer went from Ghana’s politics, the stories surround ‘Prince Ralph’, Canadian politics, and the issues surrounding NGO’s and development. We were the last people to leave the outdoor restaurant.

After seeing everyone else off, Denis and I walked for about 20 minutes before we came across a taxi. The driver pulled up with one passenger and Burning Spear bumping over the car stereo. Near midnight at this point, most of the roads were empty.

We raced down the main road and took a turn for Jisonayili. The whole area seemed to be asleep until about 50 metres from the junction that we get down at (which means the street that we get off at) we saw hundreds of children outside dancing.

Not sure of what was going on, I thought that it might have been another makeshift nightclub in our area, which the children tend to flock. We did think it odd that so many children were out that late, but with the teacher’s across the country on strike, we thought that they may be on an extended summer vacation.

At Denis’s prompt, we headed over to the source of the music. We first passed through large numbers of young girls, perhaps 8-10 years old engaged in a what looked like a criss-crossing line dance. After passing them, we reached a thick gather of young boys and teenage boys. They were a few rows thick and watching the dancing taking place in the centre of a circle in the middle of a housing compound. The music was not form a stereo as is the case with the makeshift nightclub down the street, but was coming from a group of drummers and the singing of the teenage girls that were in the centre dancing.

As we stood in the crowd, I began to notice the pattern. The girls were organized in a line that stretched around the dancing circle. In unison they would take three steps forward and two steps back, three steps forward, then two steps back. With the third step forward, the girl at the front of the line would be thrust into the middle. As the line of girls took another two steps back, the girl in the middle would make her way to the edge of the circle. As they took the next three steps forward, she would come back toward the centre where she would collide hips with the next girl in line that was sent into the middle.

Listening to the choir of voices sent a wave of happiness through me, and the unpredictable change in the drumming patterns brought a wave of excitement.

Inquiring with some young boys about what was going on, one of them answered and said, ‘it’s a funeral”.

I asked if it was for someone young or someone old. The boy quipped, “old. Someone old”.

When I asked if they do this kind of festivity for the funerals of the young, his eyes widened, “No, young death is sad”.

After about thirty minutes, the drumming stopped and people began to head home. We followed suit.

Watching the young girls outside of the circle showed me how tradition is passed on. They were not in the main circle, but they were practicing for when they would be of age, just as the girls now in the circle may have done when they were too young. What amazed me was how you could look and see a few hundred young people just dancing and singing, but when you look closer, you could see an intricate pattern and order to it.

For the last four months, most of my time has been around Ghanaians. Recently, with a number of people coming to Tamale to visit, I have spent more time with other expatriates (aka ex-pats) showing them town and making sure they find everything they need. During this time I have also noticed a strange mixture of people enjoying and appreciating the country, and condescending criticism of the country and, moreso, it’s people. It’s like, “they’re nice, welcoming, and great, but why are so many of Ghanaians so lazy”. Discussing issues about the state of the country, development and history, among other subjects can become a challenging task. The task is challenging because the conversation is not just about the service in a restaurant or eras of political instability, layers of misinformation, historical inaccuracies, and assumptions about Africa under gird people’s observations and perceptions.

Walking toward the house, having seen this jubilant funeral celebration (honouring the elder that had passed), Denis shared his thoughts.

He mentioned that he had just observed “a Disney African experience”. I asked what a “Disney African experience” was.

He elaborated. “You know, the drumming, the dancing, the happy people”.

It brings me back to a moment that I shared at the Oceanside of Elmina with Sebrina and Pierette where I realized how people could be at the same place, at the same time, with their eyes on the same scene, and yet, see something different.

A LETTER

The other day, I wrote a letter to a friend to catch up. Everyday is so full, and the hurdles with computer issues so many, that writing to everyone has been a challenge. This is just a slice of what I am up to.

I have been wanting to write this email for such a long time. I know you may not feel like it, but you have been a major part of time in Ghana through your kindness, thoughtfulness and your efforts to support my growth.

Most recently, the Dominion series has been a blessing to me. The primary purpose I see in God bringing me to Ghana has been as a gateway to the next level of my life. Being in this divinely chosen environment, I have been facing all of the aspects of who I have been that need to change to become who I am meant to be. Through this process I am being established as a man of faith. Walking in dominion is a critical aspect of this. It is amazing, because I was at ALL of those services, yet I am gaining new understanding. Not just picking up things that I missed, but comprehending things on a deeper level than I had first understood as. Among these subjects has been thinking about ‘fatherhood’ and ‘sonship’. Pastor Meike spoke of the three-fold cord of fatherhood: God, biological father, and spiritual father. See, my parents were divorced when I was quite young. I rarely saw my Dad as he lives in British Columbia. At a young age, I had given up the idea of needing a Dad, figuring my brother and Mom were enough. I also didn’t take on my step-dad who wanted to adopt my brother and I, but the conflict between him and my Dad seemed to require me to reject my Dad and a part of myself to draw closer to him – I would not do either though.

God willing, my brother is about to become a Dad by the spring as his ‘girlfriend’ (not sure what their relationship is) is pregnant and is keeping the child. He told my Dad that he will name the boy Porter is it’s a boy.

The woman of the house that I live in has also sat down with me to have some serious talks about me getting married. She herself has two daughters (4 and 2 years old), who have become like daughters to me. Seeing that has made her insistence even more. The idea of being a husband and a father is amazing to me. It’s something that I am growing into and being prepared for.

So at this time, my understanding of fatherhood is also being transformed.

Reading The Alchemist was also timely. When I began to attend Rhema, I was introduced with the idea of divine destiny. The idea then began to transform into a search: from what is divine destiny to what is my divine destiny? At this point I feel like I am at the cusp of, ‘my divine destiny is…’. So I related to the character in the novel who left everything in search of his “Personal Legend”. As he traveled, he faced challenges that were perfectly designed to bring out his potential and to show him what he already had inside. The challenges were a refining fire, purge impurities and concentrating a character of gold needed to attain those heights that I was designed to soar through.

The fact that the actual treasure was back where he began, made me smile. If he found it before he started his journey, he would not have been expanded and deepened in a way that he could really appreciate it. If he had not known the desert, worked in the crystal store, met his beloved in the desert, communicated with the wind, or survived the war the treasure would have been vanity. It’s like the proverb in the Bible, “a man’s gift makes room for him”. His treasure provided for him, but the greater treasure was the gift itself. The purpose means more than the provision, but the purpose brings provision.

I was speaking with Wendy-Ann a short time ago and she said “God is your number one supporter”. You know, we often think in a way that suggests that God does not want us to do well. It is empowering to know that He desires our great success even more than we ever can. That reminded me of the sentiment in the novel, that when one decides to seek their destiny, the whole universe conspires with them in their favour.

Often, when you finish a novel, that’s it – it’s finished. What I like about The Alchemist is that I was left with something to explore. In the book, there is the concept of alchemy which is a metaphysical science of finding purity and truth. In reality, this science has been studied for thousands and thousands of years (I actually met a man in the countryside of British Columbia that practiced alchemy). The novel said that the essence of alchemy was summarized in a few words carved onto the face of an emerald. I thought ‘what would be written on that emerald?’. I then wondered, if I could leave behind only a few words for generations to have what would they be.

The words that came to me are ‘live love now’. At this point in my life and in this point of my understanding, that summarizes the epitome of living. “Live” is to do, it is action and application. “Love” is the highest path in everything. Love is excellence. Love is truth. You can write with love, mop with love, listen with love, dress with love. God is love, and his ways are being searching. As we grow in life and strive towards betterment in all areas, the highest way we can do anything is with ‘love’. The ‘now’ aspect is about beginning where you are. The past is only experienced through the memory and the future through the imagination – both are for perspective in the only place that we have ever known, right now. No matter how far or close you are to attaining anything, all you can do is what you can do right now. Live love now.

In terms of my position here, work has been gaining momentum. When I first arrived I was taking my time in acclimatizing. I had never heard of a position like I was to fill here. Having never been in Tamale, just meeting the staff, and figuring out what my roll here was to be, it took a bit of time. Just when I was getting started, I got sick…really sick (malaria, typhoid and infections in each of my arms). That took me out for a month. Getting back into the groove was met with one hurdle after another. We were in the midst of rotating power outages, my computer was spoiled, our internet got cut off, our editing programs got deleted (meaning we can’t do stories), our general meetings where planning was to take place didn’t happen, I was considering switching placement to Accra, my workshop got hijacked by students of one of the presenters causing the staff to decide not to attend, I had some misunderstandings with JHR which led them to really question my priorities, I lost my bank card, my three days in Accra turned to six, and the main reporter that I have been working with went from sickness from malaria to a funeral for a friend to a toothache to supposed threats to his safety from the Regional Minister.

Still, I hung in there. I have been able to work around the power outages. My workshops are now clearly for staff only. I have been doing informal one on one workshops. I have found working with Layata, who is much more eager and focused, very productive. I am assisting Farouza with her work. I have called a meeting instead of waiting for the general meeting to happen. I use the internet café (when the power isn’t out). And I have learned to continue rolling forward without getting too concerned when things go wrong: doo bi chain ka labdi nyenga (a man doesn’t take a major step forward to retreat).
I am working at Justice and I am grateful for the staff here. I have some great colleagues and we are developing good friendships. I believe that by the end, JHR will see that their vision and goals are being fulfilled and advanced greatly with me here. It is a journey with a treasure of a new stage of my life at the end, by the journey is also the destination, where the growth along the way is where the greatest riches are being found.

Being out here has given me a different perspective on life. Where I am, English is a second language to most people. While everyone around me is friendly, I came here without any ‘friends’ here. While everyone around me is very understanding, many people don’t really understand me. I would often say things or share observations and I would get blank stares. I was also going through the adjustment to a city that is 95% muslim, where a four-storey building is the tallest in the city, where goats are almost as common as cars on the road, where motorbikes are given the right of way on the sidewalk, where I stand out everywhere I go…to the people around me life in Tamale is how life is, they had no idea of what a contrast I was experiencing. While I have listed some of the differences, the real list goes on and on and on, from bathing, to eating, to greetings.

The opportunity set before was a chance to grow in ways where I could feel at home here. And I do. I think back to the weekend that I left Razak’s house and was staying in a guest house for the weekend before moving into Mr. Fresh’s place. I was there alone. I woke up Sunday morning and I missed Rhema. There was no one that I could talk with that could feel what I was feeling. Walking down the street, everyone would stare at me as a stranger roaming alone in their streets. The idea of seven and a half more months seemed a huge mountain to climb, especially given the burn I was feeling after two weeks. My phone was not ringing with calls from home, and even if it was, it would still be a phone call from someone that was an ocean away. Instead of breaking though, I was blessed.

I could have said that we are never alone, because God is always with us, but that moment made that truth real. It took being placed in a situation where I felt like I was alone to realize how richly He is with me. I can never be alone. Finding that peace brought got strength.

I also remember another realization coming to me when I was in a gas station parking lot in town. Having everyone stare at you, call you “silminga”, speak around you in a language that you don’t understand, along with random people asking where I am from with the intent of ‘being friends’ had been a challenge. I had thought in my heart, I just want to walk down the street without being the centre of attention; I wanted to just be another person, not a walking freak show. The realization that hit me was that when I walk with God I can never be a stranger. The earth is the Lord’s and all that is within it. There is nowhere that God is a stranger, and as His child, placed by Him, I am home. That realization transformed my experience.

That was three and a half months ago. Now at the half way point of my time in Ghana, and I feel at home here. I have made some great friends, work is going well, the city (which had every street looking the same to me) now makes sense to me. I thoroughly enjoy the sky, the land and the people. I am seeing more and more beauty around me. I see the challenges and the impediments that are here too. I see things that the way in life in Canada can offer to people here, and things that those living in Canada can learn from the life in Tamale.

I often think of people from ‘home’ and my heart swells with love for them. I don’t feel like I miss Toronto though. I think it would be selling everyone short for me to miss home. I am not here to miss home. I am here to give and gain all that I am to give and to gain. I love so many people in Toronto, and much of what I am gaining here are treasures that I can share with them. As I am learning about the light I have been destined to shine, I can share with others lessons and encouragement to do the same.

Daily, I look to give and receive the best from the day. I am aware of things to come: going to England, coming back to Toronto, visiting BC, other travels I want to make, and many other goals, but I am not focused on those things. To get where I am going and need to be where I am.

I could continue to write, as there is so much more going on, but that will come. For now, it is Monday and there is much for me to do.

In more ways than you know, your support has been a blessing to me.

Thank You,
Chris

SILMINGA

Preface

Three months ago, when I wrote this reflection, I was in the midst of adjusting to life in a city unlike anything that I have ever experienced. The influence of my skin tone on the perceptions and interactions that I came across daily was one element that really got me thinking.

While the terms ‘silminga’ and ‘abroni’ bothered me at first, they are no longer real issues to me. I have much more understanding for the people who didn’t get why it bothered me. In most cases it does not bother me.

I say most cases because there are still times when the term irks me. For example, this morning I was in my office and Wisdom, who usually calls me ‘Chris-Chris’ stepped into my office and called out ‘silminga’. Coming from people that I know or people that I am close with, I don’t hear that.

My understanding is that when people don’t know my name, they refer to me by the most obvious reference point – white man/silminga. Proof of this comes every time that I wear my Ghana Black Stars futeball jersey. I walk down the street (whether in Tamale or Accra) and people call out to me ‘Essien’ in reference to the name of the world-class Ghanaian mid-fielder whose name is on my jersey. I have also been refered to as Peter Crouch (a tall striker for England and for Liverpool, who I am said to resemble).

That I undestand.

When you know my name and we are building a relationship, and the primary aspect of my indentity that you want to refer to is ‘white man’, that still irks me. I don’t get offended, but I do tell people my thoughts on it.

So, with that said, enjoy my exploration of one of the many names that I have inherited in my time in Ghana.


Silminga

Ever have the feeling that someone is watching you? Ever have the feeling that everyone is watching you? Ever look up and find that your feeling is right, and every pair of eyes around you is set upon you, with no apology for staring...just grilling you? Have you ever walked down the street, sat on the back of a motorcycle, or in the back seat of a car and have seven out of ten people stop what they are doing and turn the heads to watch you pass? I feel like Beyonce.
The attention is not because of my sizzle or my dazzle, but it is because of my complexion. In Tamale, you rarely see anyone that is not African. There are a few Asian workers building the new stadium (though they stay on their compound and are rarely seen in the streets). As for Europeans, there are a few Dutch volunteers and a couple of Canadians that you see here and there. I think that the fact that I am usually dressed in business casual clothing (or the odd time in some pressed and matching jeans and a t-shirt also adds to the attention); for the few volunteers are usually dressed more like travelers (kind of a bohemian vibe of backpacking wear, with a few touches of Ghanian fashion).

The result can be a strange feeling of being alone and the centre of attention at the same time. In those moments when I just want to walk down the street, or go and buy something, or just chill and reflect, the feeling is that I am more of sight to see than a person. There are times where I have felt like a painting that someone has walked up to in a gallery and is just looking at.

People often blurt things out at me too. The range of motivations is wide: curiosity, genuine kindness, perceived opportunity, attempting to make a sale, for fun, and – sometimes - rudeness.

The children always say, ‘hello’. They usually seem to take it as a mini-adventure to get me to say ‘hello’ back, which I usually do.

Sales people sometimes will blurt out, ‘hey’, and when I turn to them, they point at what they are selling and say, ‘come buy this’. That hasn’t worked with me once, and it won’t.
Some people start conversations and practice their English, and often inquire about going to school in Canada (when they find out I’m Canadian). I have also gotten a lot of people tell me that, “you can help me get a visa”.

Sometimes people speak to me in Dagbani, and when they use the few sayings that I know, I respond. Other times, I just put my hands in the air and shrug my shoulders.
There are times when people seem to mock me, which usually prompts me to meet their gaze showing them that I’m not feeling the joke. That has had different effects, ranging from them turning away and continuing their joke, to a look kind of like, ‘my bad’.

While some people are distant, some are just too friendly. I have had people riding their bike, and turn the other way and come back to get my number and ‘be my friend’. For me, I am not comfortable with developing a friendship with someone who has never heard me speak; we have never had a conversation, we have no idea of what the values and principles and interests that we each hold, and it is hard to gauge what the motive is.

Razak says that, 'it is the culture of Ghanians to welcome strangers more than their own family so that they return to their country testifying of how well they were treated'. Rafiq says, 'they think that you have money, and they will get some by being your friend'. The reality seems to be a combination of the two some days 50/50, sometimes 90/10.

The looks and interactions are one thing, but the words are something different.

In Accra (the Twi language), you often hear the term ‘Abroni’ when you turn the corner. The term means, ‘White man’, but is applied to most ‘foreigners’; Kary with JHR is of Jamaican parentage and she gets it all the time, and so does my friend Tamara whose Dad is from Ghana and whose mother is from Europe. In Tamale, they say ‘Abroni’ sometimes, but they usually use the word ‘Silminga’ (which means ‘White man’ in Dagbani). One term you also hear is ‘Gban Pieli’, which means ‘white skin’. Most times though, it’s ‘Silminga’

Even though I get it often (everyday), I never respond to ‘Silminga’. While greeting is of critical importance to day-to-day life here, I treat such calls to me the way I do an engine hissing by with the sound of the last syllable of my name: no recognition. The difference between the two is that hearing ‘Silminga’ stings. I do my best to keep it in perspective though, and most of the times it just rolls off of my back; for most people in Tamale, they rarely have any contact with White people, so they have all of these perceptions through TV and their limited experiences. In a lot of cases, they don’t know your name, so they just through that out. Still, there are other things you can say if you don't know my name: 'Hi', 'Hey', 'Psst', 'Mr.', 'Sir', 'Ana woola', 'excuse me', ‘yo’, etc.

Interestingly, there is no equivalent to ‘Silminga’ in Dagbani, while Gban Pieli (white skin) is complimented by ‘Bban Sablinli’ (black skin). The closest word that would be used is ‘Tuunzun Nira’ which means different tribe. The term ‘Tuunzun Nira’ actually has variations which refers to specific nations such as the Ashanti or Dagbani. This could also be applied to the British or the Welch, the way that it is applied to the Xhosa or the Yoruba, but it is not. They use a separate term, ‘Silminga’.

Some children have called me ‘Fada’, because the only White people they know are Priests. Others call me ‘teacha’, as they have only met White teachers. One of the girls that I live with is starting to realize that Kooneh is not my name (that was the name of the Dutch guy who used to live there, and was the only White man she has ever known personally). Apparently she calls every White man she sees ‘Koon’. She and her mother, who recounts these stories too me, have no idea of the historical resemblance and significance that the name of their Dutch friend has in the North American context.

A major factor in this whole issue is opportunity. One taxi driver was urging me to be careful of out-of-towners who try and rob foreigners.

It’s rare in Tamale, but can happen in major southern cities and in the countryside. He said, “we see Whites, and think that they have money”. The cab drivers, merchants, and children that beg in the market often point out this fact in their persistence to hustle me. I have also been approached around twenty times in my two weeks about the possibility of getting a scholarship in Canada.

I think that it also has to do with a mixture of both the perception and the reality of life in the West in comparison to life in Ghana. While I would like it if this perception didn't effect my days here so often, I would rather things be adjusted on a global level so that this did not have to be the case. It is nothing to complain about in comparison.

The other day, I was sitting on a curb when two young ladies invited me to come sit at their stand where they sell apples. I watched from behind their table as they made a couple of sales. As we talked about prices, dreams, and obstacles to achievement, I could see how charging an extra 1000cds on an apple where you can could help. Really, it’s not anything other than a natural reaction to an unnatural situation; for the disparity between economies (especially given how rich in resources West Africa is), should not be there.

One afternoon, Razak and I were speaking about the attention that the children give to me and how they love to come around when I am in his area. After explaining that I am going to be tired of saying ‘hello’ if I respond every time that they bellow out the greeting, he asked me a question that really made me think. He said, ‘People are so excited to see you, how would they react to see a Black in Canada?’. I think he thinks that Canada is more of the ‘great white north’ than it really is. Yet when I thought of his question, I had a bit of a sinking feeling. Firstly, it depends on what part of Canada we are talking about. Regardless, I felt that he, from his own experiences, would not really ‘get’ my answer.

He was smiling when he asked the question, but I didn’t have the good news that he seemed to be looking for. I began to think of why my answer was so drastically different from the reality that we were seeing in front of our own eyes. What would the experience be for a Ghanian to visit a rural area of my country that rarely ever came across someone from African. I first explained that Canada is different from city to city and from coast to coast. “In Toronto”, I told him, “it is very diverse. Even still, there is a lot of racism. The further you go from Toronto the more extreme it gets”. I told him that, “I don’t think most children would be excited and coming around to make friends”. My thoughts really varied on this question: in some cases it would be no big issue, in some cases they would go unnoticed, but I don’t know of any places off hand that would have the neighborhood children getting excited. Let me really stress that this happens EVERYWHERE that I go in Tamale (and I haven’t even been out to the northern villages yet).

One woman who was here for two months, and helping at Justice FM, asked the children she works with what the Dagbani word for ‘black skin’ is. Whenever someone calls her ‘Silminga’, she just says, ‘Gban Sablinli’. I thought that was pretty funny, and the guys at the station did too.

Imagine this European lady walking down the street and a group of Ghanians are just sitting around talking. They see her and they call out to her what translates as, “White man”. She looks over at them, and without missing a beat, replies, “Black skin!”. Everyone is cool, no hard feelings. Odd?

While I know my thoughts and experiences will evolve on this topic, this is my first reflection on the subject. While I would fill out ‘White male’ on a survey if asked, it is not the primary factor I think of in my day to day identity. Being in a place where those facts are highlighted more extremely than ever, though I am not a stranger to being the odd White guy in the bunch, has stirred up a reflective spirit in me. Here, with the cultural, language and economic factors (plus the lack of exposure to real life interactions with White people that most people I met have had – one friend I was staying with told me that he didn’t think that White people were actually capable of living the way Africans in Tamale do until I stayed with him) the associations are placed in bold, and I am contemplating much more what it all means.
I will close, for now, addressing the idea that it is just cultural and is not meant with any harm.

The term is birthed out of a very unhealthy relationship between Ghanians and European colonizers/slave traders/imperialists/criminals. The more recent incarnation of the relationship between Ghanians and Europeans has been through NGO's (Non-Governmental Organization's - an official name for charities and social change groups). The relationship is dual in that there can be great connections, understanding, and beauty, and there can be distance, bitterness, and entrenched racism. What I notice is that the people that I am growing close to do not call me Silminga. They actually seem a bit akward when other Ghanians refer to me as such. I don't think the term is usually malicious, but to say it is cultural needs more explanation; it is a cultural term marking difference in what is a historically unhealthy relationship between Europeans and Ghanians.

While I am thinking about this quite seriously, I don't take it on so much in my day-to-day life. For now, the prevailing image was of a young boy in his brown and orange school uniform that I was passing on my morning walk to work. Being at eye level with my belt, he looked up at me with a big grin that was only missing his front teeth. He smiled and in a loud and clear voice – confident as could be – and without a tinge of a Ghanaian accent, he said to me, “White man”, and then continued grinning on his way to school.

MONDAY

My day at the office began as a productive one. With a few major projects this week, I was using the morning to get through as much of my ‘to do list’ as possible.

Part way through the morning, Razak came down to my office to let me know that we would be going to a funeral. The father of one of our presenters passed away and today was the second last day of funeral procedures.

In the station car (a station wagon…pun intended…but we really do have a station wagon), five of us headed over to the house. It was around fifteen minutes of driving before we pulled up to a grass covered driveway.

Standing along a wall near the parked car was a group of men in their 20’s and 30’s. As we approached them a few of the faces were familiar. We greeted them and took our spots leaning on the wall.

After a few minutes, we moved on from the spot into the centre of the housing compound where some tents and plastic chairs had been set up. A circle of chairs had been set up for us, so we took our seats in the shade. Within a few minutes we were directed to go around to the back of the compound. We approached a small gate where we took off our shows and stepped into an small area with mats covering the concrete floor. Sitting there were two older men that when stooped down to greet. We sat with him and the two other men with him for a few minutes and exchanged greetings.

Following the lead of my colleagues, I stepped into my sandals again and headed back to our circle of chairs. After a few more minutes we were lead to greet a circle of elder men. They were sitting in a similar circle of chairs, which we stooped before. We exchanged greetings, but did not make eye contact with them. Once again, I followed the lead and returned to our circle of chairs.

The last visit that we made was to a room where the widow of the man who passed (it may have actually been widows). We took of our shoes and exchanged greetings again. Of everyone that we greeted, the women were the warmest. All around the room one woman after the next would say ‘desba’ to which everyone replied ‘naaaaa’.

What caught my eye was the silky head ties that each woman was wearing. Being older, all of them had eyes that looked worn to their limits, with not much left. The lines in the faces looked like clear proof of hard work, though each woman had the lines of a smile engraved into their cheeks.

After greeting the women, we returned to our seats where we were offered soda and water. Over a stereo that had been set up we could hear the Qur’an being recited . Across from our circle of chairs was a bench with four old men sitting on it. The age in their faces and the radiance of their clothing, equally African and Islamic, appeared to be supremely photogenic.

After a few more minutes of sitting in our chairs (and after finishing my fanta), we were given a bag of take-away containers containing rice and stew.

Though we went to great care to greet everyone in order of their positions in the family and community, we did not say ‘bye’ to anyone. We just walked towards the car, and left with our food which we ate at the office.

Sunday will be the last day of the funeral and I should be there. As many funerals as I have attended in Toronto, this was a very new experience for me.

Saturday Afternoon

First things first…Raptors win 109-92 at home (to a sell-out crowd) against the Milwaukee Bucks. I only read about the game, but Doug Smith’s retelling of the match for The Star had made amped. That’s 1-1.

At this moment, I am in the internet café in Tamale beside Ramadan who is picking up news from www.ghanaweb.com as we don’t have internet this week at work…you never know when it’s going to be there.

After a very busy week at work, I decided to come in for a full day to the office to get some things done. There are a number of great projects and ideas in the works and I am excited about them:

Guinea Worm Project (I secured advertising from the Carter Center, we are doing some documentaries, and I am writing an article on it)

Human Rights Song and Poetry Contest

“Freedom Thursday” show

“Serious Issues for Serious People” show

A workshop on Tuesday

Human Rights PSA’s to be done in the languages of the region\

And much, much more!

Tomorrow I should be going to play tennis in the morning, so that should be great! There are some really nice courts in my area with great night lamps. My friend Masumi is going back to Japan so I should be seeing her today before she leaves. I also have given the choir at my church some cds and they are learning “My Exceeding Joy” from the Rhema Worship and Praise album!!!

It is also sinking in that I am not going to be in Canada for the winter, but I will actually avoid the season. I am not trying to rub anything into any wounds. Just know that the grass is not completely green over here as I have been told that it gets so hot inside that we have to bring our mattresses to sleep outside. It has already been getting really hot inside. I really don’t like sitting in the house anymore than I have to.

The other day, I had my first guests. Denis from JHR (TV Africa in Ghana) was on his way to see the wildlife at Mole park and came by with this German friend he made named Thilo. I was really happy to show them around and host them. Sister Saphora made us some delicious spaghetti. On Monday, Denis will come back and stay at our house until Friday as he is doing some stories in the area.

The night they came we sat on the rooftop of a local restaurant and watched the sunset to some German concoction that mixes Star (beer) with Sprite. The evening was nice and we kept talking, even back at the house, until quite late. A mixture of economics and history was the main focus of what we spoke about. It is interesting, frustrating, disturbing and motivating to hear people’s views on Ghana and the African continent. Ok, before I open that discussion, I will hold-off until I have more than 11 minutes left on my time at the café.

As for now, I go home and see what’s for dinner. I will get a little work done, work on some poems, do some reading, and take some paw-paw (papaye) and some tea by Layata and Auntie while watching a movie (at least that’s what I think will happen – we’ll see).

To everyone at home: stay inspired, and know that purpose comes with one obedient step at a time. I have so much love for you all. To everyone staying in touch, thanks. To everyone connected in the mind, heart and spirit, I feel you!

Success Story: Layata Issa-Haque

Justice FM secretary, and budding journalist

Most mornings these days, I am at Radio Justice by 8am. That early start has only been for the past month. Previously, I used to arrive at the station at 9am. This detail is not as important as the reason for the change.

Every morning the driver for the station (when the car is working) comes to Jisonayili to pick-up Layata and myself for work. Layata is both my neighbour and the secretary at Radio Justice, and is one of the few staff members who have not been given a motorbike to get to work. While being picked up for work is a privilege, for Layata it is necessary to as taxi fares to work alone would take up most of her monthly paycheck.

The driver, Soldier, recently started to come at 7:30am at Layata’s request as she was beginning to present a health segment as part of the morning show. Her eagerness to expand beyond her secretarial duties has been more important to the both of us than the extra hour of sleep.

Seeing that she has a desire to enter the broadcasting field, I offered her an opportunity that would help gain more experience. In the past, she has faced a great deal of opposition in taking any steps that had her on-air. Other staff at the station have made substantial efforts to keep her from advancing in any area outside of her secretarial desk.

With the re-launching of “Freedom Thursdays” now placed during the morning show, I asked whether Layata would like to begin as host of the Human Rights focused show. We had a number of conversations where we discussed office politics, past obstacles, her career goals, and her own doubts and uncertainties. I persisted and continued to encourage her. I also worked behind the scenes to lay the ground with management for Layata to host the show.

It was clear that she really wanted to make that step, but had accepted that it was not something that she could do as things stood. Finally, she began to become assured that this was going to be possible.

At this very moment, she is reviewing research and preparing questions for an interview that she will this upcoming tomorrow morning. She will host “Freedom Thursdays” with her guest Gilbert Dere from the Carter Centre and will be discussing the Guinea Endemic that is plaguing Tamale and the surrounding areas.

After the initial task of providing the encouragement and environment where Layata is able to develop the skills and experience that she will need to pursue her career interest in broadcasting, there are a number of other steps.

In this first task, I have been acutely aware of hierarchal structures in the office. The idea of a Ghanian woman doing human rights reporting and interviewing is something that is not openly embraced at the station. Female voices on-air is one thing, but female minds on-air is another. Her position as secretary is also a hurdle. Even though she is often asked to operate the on-air studio in the afternoon when the assigned programmer does not show up, she has been discouraged from speaking on the microphone. With no advocate on her behalf, she had conceded that such was life.

As producer of “Freedom Thursdays” I am providing her with the support and encouragement to develop her skills so that they speak for themselves.

While we go through the preparation stages for the show (research, arranging the interviews, preparing questions, and developing a show plan), I notice that she has a lot to learn, but is learning very fast. Her desire, sharp mind, and initiative is inspiring.

The potential outcome of what we are doing is that Layata, with her talent, drive, is that she can have a career as journalist and radio presenter. Through “Freedom Thursdays” and collaborating on stories that we will broadcast on Justice and on Joy FM, Layata will be able to gain the skills that she needs and build experience and a reputation that will assist her in achieving her goals.

“I am happy that people who may not know how to do everything at the station are getting the chance to come up”, said Layata.

As for her thoughts on the process thus far, Layata said, “So far I have great interest in what I am doing right now because I am beginning to learn about how to interview someone on radio, doing research on questions that I am supposed to ask my guest, and learning more about the issues that we are going to talk about. I am also learning how to run the show from the start until the end”.

Our next stories will be on some Ghanaian ladies making shea butter soap, and that will be followed by a show on Trachoma.

I will also be doing some work with Farouza on her “Serious Issues, For Serious People” segment that she is adding to her show. Stories with Ramadan are also in the works.

FOUR CHARACTERS

A few nights ago, I was sitting and eating dinner when some guests came to the house. It was Sister Saphora’s elder sister and her French husband. They are in Ghana to visit family and to make preparations for their retirement in the northern region.

Though they have traveled quite widely, they reside in Saudi Arabia. I found it to be intriguing when it was revealed to me that her husband worked for the King of Saudi Arabia ensuring that every pool, tap, sink, and shower in his numerous palaces are in working order.

It wasn’t so much his expertise in plumbing that impressed me (though I respect the trade), but it was the fact that he works for the King of Saudi Arabia. I asked him about the chances of introducing me to a Saudi princess, but he said they usually marry cousins. He also said I would find them with greater ease in the luxurious shopping districts of France than in their own country.

We spoke about life in Saudi Arabia, which they said is quite confined to the private sphere. Seeing Saphora’s sister beautifully adorned in the finest dress of this regions combination of Ghanian fabrics and Islamic modesty, I found it hard to visualize her dressed in the full covering of black fabric that women in the country are required to wear.

They later laughed about how inquisitive I was, as I presented them each with question after question. We they found out I was here in connection to journalism, it all made more sense for them. They have been coming by the house every night, and we have enjoyed eating dinner together. They actually offered an invitation for me to visit them in Saudi Arabia. God willing, I would go.

I also met two interesting people on the bus back to Tamale. One of them was a young Lebanese guy named Mohammed. He was about 25 and was one of the few people I have come across who, by their speech, you can tell listens to Hip Hop. Most people here guess that I am American based on how I speak; I figure it’s the same influence of the music.

He was also going from Accra to Kumasi, but for a different reason. He was going to see his wife of less than a year who had given birth that day. He said that he was going to see his new born daughter that he would name Malaika. I was so happy for him, I felt the excitement inside of my own heart. He was very eager to get to Kumasi. We had some great conversations and just really clicked. Since then, I spoke to him on the phone and he told me, feeling quite amazed, “she looks just like me”. God willing, I will know that feeling.

The other person I met on the bus was also quite interesting. Europeans always stand out on the STC bus, as I am often the only one (especially going to and from Tamale). On that bus from Accra to Kumasi, a group of three older Europeans were sitting near to me; two across the row, and one beside me. The man beside me reluctantly informed me that he was going to an annual market in Burkino Faso, but made it clear by his tone that he didn’t really want to talk. After a short break, we got back on the bus and I was surprised by how his mood had lightened. As we began talking I realized that he wasn’t the same guy, and he realized that I had thought that he was his friend. He laughed and forgave me, noting of old White people that, “we all look the same”.

Being much more talkative I learned a lot about his story. He was a mathematician working in Miami about to buy a house, when he decided to take his savings and travel the world. The initial trip brought him through 16 or so African countries from Morocco, through Zaire to South and East Africa. His travels also brought him throughout Europe (where he did a lot of skiing), on a camping trip from Greece all the way down to Uganda, throughout Asia for a stint in Thailand and to Australia and New Zealand. He now works part-time as a consultant for a firm and travels when he feels like it. This trip was to accompany to of his friends to the market where they would be purchasing African fabrics that they sell in the UK.

When I inquired about what he had learned throughout his travels and all that he had seen, he didn’t have anything very profound to say. He just said that he knows some people like him and some don’t, but that he hopes that he is remembered as a guy that was nice and did the right thing sometimes. One thing I appreciated about him was that he laughed a lot. Laughter does not come as easily to a lot of people, and I appreciate that attribute.

We continued our conversation on the topic of literature. He peeked my interest in reading War and Peace, and I peeked his interest in Derek Walcott, V.S. Naipaul and Jamaica Kincaid.

There is one more person that I want to write about.

When I went to the Diare village in Saveluhgu (about 40 minutes outside of Tamale), I was going with Micheal and Robert from the Carter Centre who are doing work surrounding Guinea Worm. We traveled throughout the villages in the area visiting families, seeing cases, and checking out the dam. I will be writing an article about this, so I will spare the details for now. One of the stops that we made was at a treatment centre. Due to the stigma attached to being sick, people decline staying at the treatment centre. It is one thing to have the Guinea Worm visibly penetrating your skin, but the stigma comes when you wear a bandage or when you are known to be staying in the treatment centre.

Anyhow, they are still repairing this compound to bring up to the standard of a desirable place to stay for a week for anyone with a Guinea Worm case. While there I was introduced to a young lady who works in the village as a health trainer.

She seemed very shy, and disappeared after our introduction then returned with a bench for Micheal, Robert and I to sit on.

Immediately, I noticed two features on her face that seemed to account for her shyness. Her right eye appears to be wide open, in contrast to her left eye which functions as one’s eye is supposed to. On her top gum, she also has the teeth at the middle of front of her mouth missing. After the gap, there are two teeth that protrude in a slanted manner.

Being a muslim, she uses the scarf that she wears as a hijab to cover her right eye and conceal her smile. Though I did not spend more than an hour in her presence, I don’t imagine that she smiles often; not from a lack of happiness, but as an instinct to defend herself from insecurity.

While I was sitting on the bench that she had brought for us, I noticed her contemplative posture and how smooth her skin was. There are times when revelations and realizations about people will be laid upon my heart. While sitting there, the words came into the core of my being that, “she has a clean heart”. I am not saying she is flawless in her character, but I could see that she has a remarkably good heart.

About half an hour later, I was leaning on Micheal’s truck waiting for the next move. The young lady was near to where I was and was crouched near to the ground. She had a piece of grass in her hand and was using it to lightly, and artistically, clear the small stones in front of her. She carved out clearings and designs, and made a few triangular and circular patterns. It made me smile, because I have done the very same thing so many times in the past. My mind drifted through so many memories and ideas as I observed her: one of the ideas was how creativity and experimentation with the environment leads to innovations and discoveries of tools, resources and useful techniques.

I can tell that her appearance has brought her a lot pain. She is committed to improving conditions in her community, and is noticeably a beautiful person. This insight was confirmed by Micheal who knows her quite well. Yet, most people, seeing her face, don’t see all of her.

She made quite an impression on me.