Msiba

This year I've decided to recommit myself to choir – as in an absolute way. I think most of the reason choir was a little tough and kind of stressful for me was because I was going to about half of the practices, including the actual Mass, and therefore I was never catching up to everyone else. It's just a little exhausting going to practice almost every day! (We have practices Tues, Thurs, Fri, Saturday is usually wedding singing, and Sunday is the earliest Mass on earth.) But since I've been back this year, probably with a better attitude and definitely with more Kiswahili, things have been different. It's very intimidating to show up to a group of professionals singing in a different language and hope to just “fit in.” But even since my hiatus of last year, the people welcomed me back with “poles” for the work that kept me away, and smiling faces when I tried to communicate where I had been in broken Kiswahili. (Side note about my language: I'm actually very thankful for how much I can understand and communicate at this time. My vocabulary is still very limited, but it's amazing how much you can say using the same 20 verbs. Thank God for my patient friends who help me through it! I think my comprehension was a product of not having second years before me, because in the past language really never was my thing.)

After a night of convincing myself that I will never be good at choir unless I go to every single thing they all go to, I went to sing at my first Mass in months. I knew I wasn't going to know many of the songs, or many of the dance-moves (sometimes they have choreographed hand waves or clapping that I miss out on when I miss Saturday practice). I used to feel so so silly for not knowing everything. There's a new girl working at our school named Jacky (she'll be Rose's replacement when Rose gets her holiday), and she has been coming to choir too. So now it's nice to not be the only new one and the only one who is trying to figure out what is going on. I just stood next to her and my friend Mama Shayo so we could at least laugh when we weren't sure what was going on. And the Mass went fine. I always get compliments throughout the entire next week for singing in the choir and “knowing everything” even though clearly I'm a little lost at times. But I'll take the compliments – it reminds me that people only see that I'm up there and I'm trying.

After Mass Mama Shayo invited me to her house. It might seem funny, but even after living here a year I still need to mentally prepare myself to be gentle and patient with myself during visits to my friends. In the States, you could come and go as you please when visiting a friend, but here it is almost insulting to rush off after four or five hours. I knew I'd be there all day, but I was excited about it. Mama Shayo and her husband both sing in my choir. I've visited her home before, and it was great to go back. She has two wonderful boys in Class Three and Form I (high school).

Almost as soon as we arrived, Mama Shayo served chai. She made a delicious homemade bread that we drank with some special tea she made from a plant outside her house. I promised to teach her how to bake a cake if she would teach me how to make that bread! She cooks it on her charcoal stove, too, which I think is just incredible. How do you even do that!

Most of the day usually revolves around eating. So after chai we went to the market to pick up the supplies for pilau (spiced rice). We stopped at her shop where she sews and embroiders pillow and blankets. And this was the second time I've gone to this market with her. This market is one in the middle of her neighborhood, so it's off the path from where any other white people would ever frequent. It's funny to still get stares and surprised looks after a year of living here, but many of these people spend their entire lives in that one spot in the market. It feels great to be able to greet them all and communicate, and get their jokes and “white-people” jabs and respond in ways that can bridge a gap that may take years to close. Mama Shayo introduces me as her younger sister, or sometimes her daughter. It's silly, but it felt special when a few people said we looked alike.

I really like Mama Shayo, and her husband. They don't make a fuss about me being different, unless it's to say something about how much I've become “mtanzania” (a Tanzanian). Their sons call me “Mama mdogo” which literally translates as “little mama” but means that I'm the young sister of their mother. Instead of aunt or uncle, Tanzanians call the older siblings of their parents mama/baba mkubwa (big or older mom/dad) and their parents' younger siblings are called mama/baba mdogo (little or young mom/dad). That really transforms how you think of your aunts and uncles when you consider them another mother or father. I wonder if my aunts and uncles would be okay with me calling them “big mama” or “little dad” when I get home? (Haha sounds a little funny translated to English!).

We started the cooking when we got home, but soon Mama Shayo's friend came over to tell her that there was an “msiba” happening at their neighbor's home. “Msiba” is literally (and appropriately) translated to “mourning.” This is a funeral of sorts where women gather in the home of a woman who has had someone pass away, and sit with her as she and others cry. There is usually much singing and praying. Mama Shayo's neighbor just had a grandchild pass away, and so we went to visit her. Traditionally women wrap themselves in khangas when going to a msiba. You can spot a msiba when you see groups of women all wrapped up walking in the same direction.

This was the first msiba I've ever experienced. We walked into the home and the grandmother was sitting on the floor on a mat surrounded by other women. We knelt in front of her, held her hand, and told her we were sorry. For a while, I just sat as the women talked about what happened, and shared stories of other children who have passed. This woman's grandson was hit by a lorry – unfortunately a very common way to pass in Tanzania. The family and grandson live up north in Arusha, so the grandmother would be traveling there the next day. It's moments like this when I try to be as invisible as possible because I know my being a white person draws attention. Mama Shayo eventually introduced me and told a little of my story (what I am doing in Tanzania) and the usual conversations followed.

Being an outsider is still an interesting experience, especially when in my heart I have to navigate between feeling like an outsider and feeling very much a part of the community around me. There's always a different role expected of you, in each room you walk into and with each interaction. And it's almost always a guessing game of filling the role expected or needed of you. This funeral was one of those moments when I was allowing myself to be one of the others, blend in to all the women around me and not stick out, partially because that made me comfortable but also to keep attention on the woman in mourning, but later I realized that my presence as a guest was a wanted distraction.

Sometimes moments like that make me sad that I will never truly be able to experience life in Tanzania as a Tanzanian, but it's a blessing in many ways, too. First, I'm completely humbled to realize, even after an entire year (which really isn't that long), that it is impossible to ever truly experience the life of another person. Could I really be so naïve and insensitive to think that magically in one year I could figure out the culture and life of an entire population of people? As deeply as I wish to feel Tanzania as authentically as possible, it is a good realization to recognize the complexity of culture, and to see that it is more than simply a puzzle to sort out. The shoes of my friends here aren't easy to slip into. There are times that they might let me borrow their sandals for an hour or two, but to truly wear this life won't happen. It takes a great deal of humble respect to maintain this perspective, when my heart wants to put on the shoes, dresses, and weave my hair of this life.

But at the same time, my foreignness here is also a unique gift. Sometimes I get to be the distraction when people are mourning the loss of a child. Simply my presence, nothing that I say or do, but my being in the same room ignites smiles, curiosity, and laughter – it really has nothing to do with 'Laura', but with the existence of an open-hearted foreigner. That grandmother won't remember my name, or even my face, but there's a chance she might remember the white woman who once shared in her mourning and offered her “sorry.”

I wish I could write more about this, but my thoughts aren't all sorted out. It's funny how you tend to learn in retrospect. I wonder if my real learning and changing will actually happen after I return home in a few years (hehe – just kidding Mom, Aunt Jean, Aunt Jan, and Aunt Helen! I heard about your text messages!).

We eventually left the msiba, went back to finish and eat a delicious lunch of pilau and katumbali, and Mama Shayo and I took a little rest in the only finished room in her house – a room actually separate from her home, but has a tiled floor and a tv, but no furniture. She shared a bottle of wine with me that she got from the local vineyard in Dodoma and promised to take me there someday when her friend is working. I told her about my family that was coming to visit and she got so excited. She asked if I would bring them to her home, which secretly I had been hoping to do, and told her I'd love to. We both rejoiced in the excitement of that interaction, her because she loves hosting people, and me because I can't wait to share her and her life with my family.

Before leaving her home, we stopped back at the grandmother's home one last time. This time, there were a few men there praying and reading from the Bible, and everyone was singing beautiful and touching songs about Jesus and his love for us. The whole thing was incredible to witness, to feel the simultaneous pain and hope of the room.