Saying Goodbye

Last week I watched Jessica leave Khorixas for the final time. A Ministry of Education car filled with two teachers attending a workshop pulled up to our flat at 7 a.m. and without much fanfare or emotion--she was suddenly gone. It was a moment we'd both been preparing for for months, but neither of us was actually ready. There weren't any tears and there was no hesitation--but when the door slammed and her car pulled away the text messaging started and we realized life as we knew it had finally come to an end. Two years, officially over.

Today, it was my turn.

There's a thing about Namibians--they never want you to be alone. And while my former American self found it a tad bit annoying to have zero personal space, the more Namibian version of me I'd now become appreciated this cultural difference more than ever this past week. Our flat was a revolving door of friends and colleagues concerned about me staying alone. Richel didn't leave last night, even though she was clearly tired:



Today's ride to Windhoek was no different. My hospital arranged for a car to collect me at 8 a.m, and with three extra spaces, I was allowed to bring whomever I wanted with me. So Lorraine, one of my best friends in the place, came along. She brought a CD of Nam tunes my colleague Kate made. And Katrina, my little sister here, came along for the ride, too. About an hour before the car arrived she and her entire family came by to wait with me--anxious to see her off, but I think sad to see me go, too. Katrina's mom gave me a long hug and danced me around the room while singing me a song about friends leaving and big hearts. It was incredibly touching, not just because the words were obviously coming from her heart, but because two years ago, when we first arrived in Khorixas, Katrina's mother couldn't speak a word of English. Now, she can carry on conversation! I tried hard to hold back the tears (something I've spent most of this week doing). Seeing Tu-O giggling behind his hand on the cot as his mom danced me around the room made it a little bit easier.

By 8 a.m. we'd said our goodbyes and loaded my pack into the car. Funny how I came to Namibia with a single bag--and today I left with the exact same one packed with half as much. I've learned how little a person actually needs, I guess. We popped in Kate's CD and were on the road with Khorixas in our rearview before I knew it. And before I was really even ready.



The ride to the capital felt shorter than usual--maybe because I knew it was my last and was dreading my arrival there--the goodbyes and the hugs and definitely the tears. Katrina was visiting her family for the holiday in Otjiwarango, so we dropped her off in the location there. A drunk old man came up and started talking to me--probably because I was the only white person he'd ever seen there--while we were in the middle of saying goodbye. Such exchanges are always a bit annoying, but this time, even more so. I wanted to shake the guy and tell him I was in the middle of saying goodbye to my little sister--a girl I loved to death and was uncertain I'd ever see again. The gravity of the situation was too much for me, and he couldn't begin to understand what he was getting in the middle of.

As we pulled away and left Katrina behind, the tears started to flow. I was devastated. And while I'd attempted to mentally prepare myself for moments like that one, it hadn't really worked. Goodbyes are never easy. Especially for me.

A few hours later (and about five rotations of that entire Nam Tunes CD) we arrived in Windhoek. And once again, the tears were ready to flow. Lorraine and I had been good about not crying over the course of our five hour drive--we'd kept the conversation light and tried to trick ourselves into thinking I wasn't going anywhere. But as we pulled up to the Peace Corps office, it was clear that hadn't worked. We got out of the car and were prepared for a quick hug. But it turned into a long embrace and all out sobbing. In front of the security guard, no less. "He's probably wondering who is this crazy black lady crying over a white woman!" she said. But my guess is, he'd seen it before. Probably lots over these past few weeks.

They pulled away and I went back to the lounge, where several other volunteers who'd already left site were waiting. There's this glazed over look your eyes get when you leave a place you once called home--faces attached to bodies that have been worn down and beaten. And everyone seems to move in a daze, cautiously circling around the others--not saying much, and certainly not bringing up what we'd all just been through. We had the look of people on the cusp of a breakdown, and I guess for most of us, we were trying to avoid the realities of our situation. It was easy to tell we were emotionally exhausted.

We checked in to our hotel--Rachel and I shared a room in preparation for the next five months we plan to spend together--and left for dinner at Joe's Beer House with Speech and her friend EmKay. I was excited to see an old friend, but also extremely sad because it meant I also had to say another goodbye. Speech was one of my first friends in Khorixas. He taught me the proper way to mop floors (turns out you have to sweep first) and helped me out on nearly every project I started. I'm so proud of all he's accomplished--that he became a SCORE volunteer and eventually moved all the way to Windhoek. It's been an incredible experience to watch him grow and I'm so grateful to call him my brother.



Dinner was delicious, but saying goodbye was hard. After a week's worth of endings and a day spent saying all of my big goodbyes, I was shattered. But my heart was full. And while there were still more tears, I was in good company because they weren't all mine.

The Last Week

After two years of uncertainties, hardships, successes and friendships, it's officially time to leave Khorixas. I am certain this will be one of the hardest things I ever have to do. I'm happy, because I feel like I'm leaving my home--I have a family here that I love as much as my own, and friends that I'm as close to as those I left behind in America. To me, that means I did my job. I integrated. I changed. And ultimately, I grew.

After 27 months of constantly learning, I finally feel like I understand the way things work and what to expect, and as I prepare to leave here, I know all of that is about to change. I'm excited, because while leaving Khorixas means the end of one chapter, it also means the beginning of another. In less than a week I'll begin my five month journey through South Africa, Egypt, India (where I've been wanting to go for practically forever!), and Southeast Asia. And while I know that experience will be an amazing one, it's hard to wrap my head around actually leaving. There are so many goodbyes to say and the unanswered question of, "When will I see you again?" hangs over every one of my interactions with the people here I love.


The Neighbor Kids


Me and Mila


My Office Building


My Office

Jessica and I decided to have a yard sale of sorts over this past weekend. We thought it was a great excuse to get rid of some stuff and also an opportunity for people here to get in on some American goods on the cheap, too. (We didn't want to just hand things out because it makes life harder for the next volunteer.) We expected two big benefits from the sale--more room in our flat and less to pack in our bags. But there was another perk to our plan as well. The last few days have turned our place into a revolving door of visitors. Friends, colleagues, teachers and nurses have continuously stopped by. Whether to look at what's for sale or simply to say hello, it's been the easiest way to insure we see everyone before we leave. And it's nice to have them coming to us, instead of having to search each and every person out ourselves.


Me and Jill-Tasha


My Supervisor, Dr. Nkire and My Colleague, Kate


My Nam Fam


Boois, Jeremy and Marianne


One of the Things I'll Miss the Most

Isabelle and Lorraine pooled their funds with some other ladies at the hospital and got me a traditional Damara dress, too. I was sad that Jessica wasn't around to see me in it! The dress was red and white, with puffy sleeves and a long skirt, and while I thought it looked absolutely HEINOUS on, the people at the hospital loved it and everyone kept telling me how beautiful I looked. I know they really meant it, too. Getting the dress was really incredible, because it symbolized their acceptance of me into the Damara culture. Wearing it was really special for everyone here, because it meant I'd accepted their culture as part of my own, too.


Fashion Show!


Me and Merline

No Computer, No New Blog Posts

Updating my blog has been a pretty difficult task this month. Mainly because my computer blew up a few weeks ago, leaving me with nothing to type on and no way to keep everyone updated. It was traumatic at first (loss of technology here almost always is). But ultimately, it's been a bit of a blessing. It's freed up time to finish reading those last lonley books left sitting on my shelf, visit friends and say my goodbyes.

Seven weeks is barely any time.

Work is slowing down, but my life has still been remarkably busy. Two weekends ago a few volunteers and dozens of learners traveled to Swakopmund for the Lucky Star Marathon. I've always been one to get emotional during road races (I cried while working a water station at the New York City Marathon), and this race was no different.

Except that it was.

Instead of top althletes in performance gear, it was hungry, barefoot, learners running against a strong headwind as mac trucks blew past them on a busy (still open) road. These 13 and 14 year old kids passed more professional looking runners with a smile on their face, bright-eyed and breathing heavy. The race is designed to be run alone, as a full 26.2 miles (which most adults did); as a team, where each partner runs a half (which most volunteers did); or as a 4x4 relay (which most of the kids did). Every learner looked so proud! We hitched a ride with a group of learners from Usakos that had already finished and one of the boys told me he couldn't talk about how happy he was because he'd probably burst. And one of my favorite girls from Camp GLOW was a part of the winning relay team.

It was inspiring. And emotional. And a highlight of my Peace Corps service.

Most of the following week was spent in Windhoek going to doctors appointments and visiting the dentist (no cavities!) as part of our Close of Service. It's hard to believe two years is coming to and end, and while so much has changed, I can't help but look back at those early blog posts and realize I'm in the exact same spot--trying to stuff my life into a single backpack and embark on a new adventure in some other part of the globe. I'm sad to say goodbye to this place I've grown to love and now call home, but I'm also eager to see what else is out there and begin a new chapter of my life.

Two years sounds like a long time. But as it draws to a close, I find myself wondering if it's really enough time. Katrina, Tu-o and Emma spent the afternoon at our house yesterday and while their excitement in having us "catch" their photos made me laugh, it also made me sad. They'll keep growing up, only now, I won't be here to see it.

Saying goodbye to your family--even an adopted one--is never very easy.

Jill-Tasha!

There's now a real live Namibian Jill!



My friend Natasha, the one who recently had a baby, named her new daughter after me. (Or, perhaps more accurately, after us, since the little one's full name is Jill-Tasha.)

She said she wanted her baby girl to be ready for America.

I say that's the nicest thing anyone's done.

Ever.

Oh! The Places You'll GLOW: Learner Stories

Peace Corps volunteers in Namibia invite outstanding learners from across the country to attend this week-long leadership camp in Windhoek every year. And while it's an incredible experience to be surrounded by so many bright and caring kids, a few of their stories always seem to stand out and leave a lasting impression.

This year, one of those learners was near and dear to me, mostly because he came from Khorixas. Two days before camp, Jessica sent me a message saying Selvanus, one of my learners from last year, had decided not to go to Camp GLOW. He'd made up an excuse about his father being sick, but we realized he was nervous to leave home (he hadn't been away in ten years, and only then to visit his sister a couple of hours away). He didn't have pocket money or new clothes to take to Camp, and was worried what the other kids would think.

I was already in Windhoek preparing for GLOW--buying supplies, visiting the bank and meeting with Peace Corps. Otherwise, I would have marched over to his house for a face-to-face talk. Instead, I did the next best thing. With the help of another volunteer (who was able to explain the situation to his mother in Afrikaans), we managed to convince Selvanus that he'd make loads of new friends, travel with other learners from his school and not have to worry about new clothes or spending money. (Especially since Camp is free and learners have to wear their Camp GLOW T-shirts!)

In the end (after more than a couple of phone calls, a visit from Jessica and a whole lot of convincing), Selvanus decided to come. And he did GREAT. He was nervous at first, but after a couple of hours he had an ear-to-ear grin that lasted for all of camp.

On the last day of GLOW he gave me a homemade thank you card. It was all the proof I needed that he'd had an amazing Camp GLOW experience.

Dear Miss Jill,
All I wanted to say was thank you for telling me that clothes are not important. So thank you very much and big big big thank you. I love you as my mother. Plz forgive me for being blind.
-Selvanus

Gerson was another learner who left a lasting impression on us. He had a great attitude, a giant smile and he gave awesome hugs. He was also incredibly bright.

We were all a bit worried that the connections and allusions we made to the book, "Oh! the Places You'll Go!" throughout the week might be lost on some of the campers. But when GLOW ended and Gerson sent us the following SMS, we felt like everything had fallen into place.

Once again I thank you and the whole PCVs for the great support and in enriching our minds with better education. Camp GLOW was the best experience I ever had in my life. Now finally I packed my backpack and brought with me all the leadership skills I gained. Camp GLOW contributed a lot to my life, my self confidence and my self-esteem. WOW! I wished it would be forever. HOW SAD! Good things really do come to an end. But I remember to pack all of the good memories gained. I moved the mountains. I believe wherever I fly, I'll be the best of the best. Wherever I go, I'll top all the rest. THANK YOU CAMP GLOW!
Gerson

Even if all of the campers didn't make the connections, we knew at least some of them did--and that made all our planning and hard work worth it.

Special Delivery

Life here can be stressful (especially when the government issues an order for all of its cars to be serviced the week they're supposed to be transporting learners to Camp GLOW). But that just means the little things--things that I may have overlooked in a previous life--end up meaning a whole lot more now.

Like today, when 14 kids from the orphanage came knocking on my door. They formed a perfect little line--all smiles--and Fredrick picked his hand from his pocket, palm up, with a folded piece of paper inside.

It was a note from my friend Jossy, their big sister. I'd sent her a text message earlier in the day but she was out of phone credit, so she sent the kids with her response.

The tiny note made me smile.

My own Western Union. My personal pony express.

Only this one was a whole lot more fun.

Note to Self: This is Africa

Every once in a while, I forget that I live in Africa.

After two years, the rocky ground feels more normal than blacktop. My walking pace has slowed. Hitch hiking comes as second nature. And I never worry about the weather because I know tomorrow will always be hot and sunny.

But then there are days like this one that shock me back to reality and remind me of how truly unique my experience here is. Even my daily life is filled with once-in-a-lifetime moments.

That’s because today, a helicopter landed.

In America, I wouldn’t have taken notice. In New York City, I probably wouldn’t have even heard. But here in Khorixas, when a helicopter flies overhead, everyone stops.

Everyone looks up.

Everyone points.

And for a second, nobody moves.

But then...

Barefoot kids came running from every direction, shouting and laughing. They lined up along the hospital fence, wide eyed and amazed. Even the adults slowly wandered to their front steps from indoors. They moved to the streets and stared up at the sky. It was like aliens landed—and in a way, they sort of had—because nothing ever flies above Khorixas. Most people here have never seen a kite, let alone a helicopter or an airplane.

I assumed the president or a minister would step out from within. Instead, it was just an army officer, sent to collect fuel. But the kids didn’t care—they cheered like Gazza (the biggest Namibian pop star) himself had landed, and yelled, “That one is my father!” as he waved to the crowds like he was magic.

I stood there in amazement, watching the tiny fingers of little learners wrap tightly around the metal of the chain link fence, huge smiles on all of their faces, shaking with excitement.

Everything was alight.

And all I could think was—Yes, I really live in Africa.

Keeping Kids Warm in Winter

Winter may be nearly over, but I doubt the kids at Sunrise Center much cared. When I delivered hats and scarves made by me and my knitting group (thanks to yarn donations from friends and family back home), they were so excited.

They bounced around cheering, and fingered the brightly colored yarns. They swapped pink scarves with blue and eagerly bundled up for this photo:



The desert sun heats things up by late day, but I'm happy to report these little ones will be keeping warm on windy winter mornings now, too.

So Long Speech!

Today was a pretty big day, because today, I said goodbye to my very first Nam Friend.

I met Speechless (who, for the record, is anything but) a couple of days after arriving in Khorixas. He did everything possible to make this strange place feel like home. He dropped by my old flat for visits, introduced me to everyone he knew, invited me to help out with weekend soccer tournaments and volunteered to assist me with after school programs.

He was hardworking and enthusiastic—not to mention the fact that he was really fun to be around. He was the youngest facilitator at Camp GLOW in 2008, but he was also one of the best. The kids loved working with him and he took his job as a role model and team leader seriously. He encouraged everyone on his team to work hard and do their best. And he expected the same from himself.

Last month, when my family came to visit, he and Boois organized the cooking crew for our braai without even being asked. Speech spent most of the night hunched over a fire, and seemed more than happy to do so.

My point is—Speech is amazing. And now, he’s gone.

Today we said goodbye. He headed off in a taxi for Windhoek, where he’ll board a bus and cross the border to South Africa. He’ll spend the next year there as a SCORE volunteer.

I was sad to see him leave—he was my first friend here in Khorixas and one of my best friends in Namibia. But I was also excited to see him go. Excited, because he’ll be leaving the country for the first time, moving away from his family and friends and the place he grew up, and heading off to new experiences in a new place with new people and a new culture.

I was excited, because I know exactly what that’s like. And while it’s hard to say goodbye (and I imagine even harder when you’ve never left before), in the end it’s truly worth it—for every friend I’ve made. For every story I’ve ever told here.

I know Speech, and I know the lives he’ll touch, the kids he’ll inspire and the message he’ll bring back to the people of Khorixas. I know that while he was sad to leave and nervous to go, he’ll grow more in the next year than he has in any other. His world will get a little bigger, and the lives of those he meets will get a little brighter.

And while he may still miss Khorixas, something tells me there’s no place a soccer fan like him would rather be than South Africa in 2010.

Nawrockis in Namibia Part V: Back to Khorixas

Because one day in Khorixas is never enough, we stopped back for a visit on our way to the coastal town of Swakopmond. My family had met a lot of friends and colleagues during the braai, but had missed out on one major part of my Namibian life: Learners.

We'd been in such a rush to see the place and prepare for the evening's events that we'd avoided the school almost entirely.

But this time around, Eddie Bowe was top on our list of priorities.

Jessica helped round up the school choir for an impromptu concert outside the main office (I'd upload a video if I had any kind of bandwidth). The kids sang traditional songs in Damara, as well as some random American pop tunes, too.

It's the kind of experience my family had seen on television. When Oprah visited her school in South Africa or some nightly news special stopped by another African village. It was the kind of experience--strong voices from small bodies and a harmonization most professionals can't even achieve--that makes a trip to the continent complete.



It makes a family feel like they've been welcomed home.


(And my mom even managed to find a fan club.)

Nawrockis in Namibia Part II: Coming to Khorixas

The next day, after a serious shopping trip at the local Super Spar, we left for Khorixas. I convinced my parents to make a quick stop in Outjo to not only eat breakfast, but also to meet Rosa, one of my favorite learners.

Rosa used to school at Eddie Bowe, where she was a member of Youth Leads and our Girls Club. Last year I watched her go from a tiny rough and tumble troublemaker to just about the kindest kid I’ve ever known. She graduated Grade 7 at the end of 2008 and has been schooling in Outjo ever since. (Lucky for me, I can visit Rosa whenever I pass through Outjo to see Dar, and I'll get to spend a week with her in August when she attends Camp G.L.O.W.)

I warned my family that this tiny Herero girl might be a bit shy—especially when surrounded by a loud, fast-talking, American family that was still pretty new to Namibia (and definitely new to her). Still, I think they enjoyed seeing her school and taking her to the local bakery for breakfast. And while it may have been difficult for them to see, I could tell Rosa really liked my mom, dad and brother. She laughed often and asked them to repeat things when she didn’t understand. She loved watching footage of the Cheetah Conservation on our camcorder and she was in total awe of just how tall my dad was.



We said goodbye to Rosa and drove about 130 kilometers to Khorixas. My family had already been in Namibia for a couple of days, but up until this point, they'd seen only shiny and developed towns. The road to Khorixas proved all was about to change. The closer we got, the more traditional the houses became, and my family realized they were about to enter someplace entirely different.

We arrived at my house (which is part of a school hostel) just in time for lunch. About 300 male learners lined up in front of the school hall and took turns shaking my dad’s hand before sitting down to eat. Like Rosa, I doubt they’d ever seen a white man (or any man, for that matter) so tall. It definitely drew a crowd outside our door.



A few minutes later and they were all inside.



Jessica’s family happened to be visiting, too. They’d already been in Namibia for a couple of weeks, so just as my family’s big adventure was getting started, theirs was winding down. They’d spent the first two weeks touring the country before settling in Khorixas to apply a fresh coat of paint and a new set of curtains to the school library. After some brief introductions we walked over to check out their handiwork. I was amazed at how much better the library looked!



From there, we headed to the Dungerhoek—an area just behind Eddie Bowe where some of the poorer families in Khorixas stay. Katrina, one of my learners, volunteered to take our family on a tour of the place where she lives. She was excited to meet everyone, and I thought it was important for my mom, dad and brother to see what most people don’t when they’re on holiday: the way people really live.



Namibia has the highest economic disparity rate in the world. Coming to Khorixas after visiting Otjiwarongo and Outjo made that fact abundantly clear. The houses in Dungerhoek, which are made of mostly scrap metal and refuse, were an eye-opening sight.





But meeting learners like Katrina and seeing the smiling faces of children who paraded around behind us proved to my family that even in the poorest of circumstances, people here are still living. And living well. They are happy and they are healthy and they are making it work.

Even when it’s a challenge.



That night, we prepared a traditional braai for our families. It seemed like the perfect way for them to experience one of our favorite things about Namibia—the people. Plus, it gave them a chance to taste the local food and meet our friends and colleagues, too.


Benjamin Cooking


Me and the Girls from the Hospital


Katrina and her Mother


Gino, Richel, Lani, Dar and Chip

They left with full stomachs (thanks to Jessica's dad who slaughtered the goat, Marianne who stirred the pop, Isabel who marinated the Chicken, and Gino, Speech, Lani and Benjamin who cooked the food). But most importantly, they left with a real sense of why it is we're so happy to call this place our home.

Water Water Everywhere...Or Not

In Khorixas, the donkeys bathe in dust. And these days, I do, too.

That’s because on Sunday, a water pipe burst near the school. It flooded the yard in front of the hostels, the road in front of the gate, and the makeshift soccer field beside our house. There was water everywhere.

For about three hours.

And after that, there was no water at all.

I used to live in a place where switches on walls meant lights and taps in bathrooms meant running water. The electricity never went out and never, in my life, was the water turned off. But since moving to Namibia, all that has changed. Here, taps mostly serve as a reminder of what I think I have—but more often than not—actually don’t.

A year ago this four days without water thing would have alarmed me. Frustrated me. Annoyed me. But today, as I sit here with the taps open, waiting patiently for the possibility of the sweet sound of water, it doesn’t. (I count this change among my chief accomplishments over the last 18 months.)

Maybe it doesn’t bother me because the last time this happened, the entire town of Khorixas was without water. None in the shops. None in the houses. And perhaps most alarming, none in the hospital.

In the dead of summer.

In the middle of the desert.

For five days.

It goes without saying that I’ve grown at least somehow accustomed to this (and definitely survived worse than these past few days). I’ve learned to live life with mostly-full jerry cans on hand and water stored in buckets and bottles. And while it makes life easier, it’s not really a long-term solution.

So while I wait for the pipe to be fixed—a project workers seem in no hurry to complete, since learners are on holiday and our hostel is mostly empty—I’ve found my own way of managing: schlepping empty bottles to work in the morning, bringing full ones home at night, and bathing in dust like the donkeys, while I wait patiently for the sweet sound of water once again.

Easter at the Orphanage

I may have spent Easter in Luderitz, but that didn't mean the kids at Sunrise Center went without a holiday-themed project. My mom, who used to be a kindergarten teacher, sent all the art supplies (as well as jellybeans, Peeps and cupcake mix) to create Easter chicks. Katrina helped with giving instructions and as usual, the kids went wild.

In fact, they enjoyed it so much, I'm not sure they noticed I was a week late.


David Hard at Work


Hamming it Up


Happiness Showing Off His Work


Kokoonah


The Finished Product

Language Barriers

Learners come by our house every day. It's part of life when you live at a school. Whether it's to borrow books, ask a question about homework, or just to drop by for a visit, it seems that these days we have an endless stream of kids coming through our doors.

So it was no surprise on Sunday when two small boys peeked their heads inside our kitchen window. What they asked for however, was.

"Miss, we're asking Tampax for the matron," one said.

Adults usually send kids to do their errands in Khorixas--to their homes, the shops or even to the bank. But hearing the word "Tampax" come out of a small boy's mouth still came as a bit of a shock. Partly because feminine hygiene is so taboo here, but also because the only place tampons exist is in the big city.

People assume that, being white, we have access to things others don't. A lot of the times that's not true. But in this case, it was. So I walked to my room and came back to the window, where I passed a handful of tampons to the learners who were waiting.

They looked at me with confusion. "What's this Miss?" they asked.

"Tampax," I said. "Isn't that what the matrons needed?"

Nope. Turns out it wasn't. The boys were looking for Type-Ex--the Namibian equivalent of Whiteout.

No wonder they seemed so confused.

Goodbye Mu#tan

Working as a health volunteer in Namibia has put me face to face with people who are suffering from TB, living with HIV, coping with poor nutrition or dealing with abuse.

This week, my job put me face to face with death, too.

Peace Corps warned us that as health volunteers we would likely lose a friend, a colleague or a community member during our course of service. I always imagined that for me, this person would be a little known coworker, a stranger I used to pass in town, or a teacher who often dropped by the clinic. I assumed it would be an elderly man or an older woman. Someone who had lived a long life. Someone who left a loving family behind.

I never imagined that it would be a 3-year-old girl named Mu#tan. A girl I’d played with every Saturday at the Sunrise Center. A girl who was quiet and shy around the other kids, but yelled my name and grabbed the fence whenever I passed by her house. A girl whose mother abandoned her, and whose 5-year-old brother—now all alone—can’t understand why she’s gone.

The reality is—I can’t either.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I may not have a Valentine, but today was fantastic just the same...


My Valentines


The Kids at Sunrise Center Coloring and Creating


Martelena


Friedrick Coloring


Ivy Showing Off Her Hard Work


Me with the Kids from Sunrise Center After a Morning Making Valentines

Hero Books

My friend Tina was a reading and writing teacher before she joined the Peace Corps. Now, a handful of kids in Caprivi are lucky enough to have her leading their classroom. I say lucky, because when Tina talks about her lesson plans or the programs she’s implementing, it’s always with passion. The kind of passion I don’t often see here—and rarely saw in America.

It’s clear she loves teaching. And perhaps even more importantly, that she loves teaching her kids.

In the last year Tina’s found ways to bring English alive in the classroom and managed to get more kids into the library (however sparse the shelves are) and into reading. She used responsive journals in one of her classes to get learners to open up about corporal punishment practices. Because of that, policies changed at her school.

Tina has always been a mentor for education volunteers in Namibia because of her years of experience in classrooms full of learners. But recently, she’s helped us healthies (more specifically, this healthy) too.

In mid-January Tina told me about a new program she was introducing at her school:Hero Books. The 25-session workshop was created by Druscilla van Niekerk, a primary school teacher in South Africa. She believed that children’s psychosocial issues got in the way of affective teaching. And in many cases—in the way of actual learning. So she developed Hero Books as a way for learners to process their pasts and plan for their futures. In short:

A Hero book is a document, and a process, in which a child, youth, or adult is invited to be the author, illustrator, main character, and editor of a book that is designed to help them set goals, and give them power over a specific challenge or obstacle in their life.

At the end of the process, each person has a hard-bound storybook of their own making, which is not only a solution focused mission statement, but also documents, heralds and reinforces their problem busting strategies and hero-survival-resilient abilities. It is a therapeutic process.

Writing has always been important to me. It’s been a way to express myself in the public, but also to examine my life and actions in private. The idea of bringing this love of the written word, the experience of putting the past on paper, and using art to explore what life is about really appeals to me. I’m hoping it will appeal to these kids, who have such limited options for positive and safe self-expression, too.

So over the next few months, I’ll work with Natasha, an orphan and out-of-school youth—one who’s bright and funny, clever and bold—but who also failed Grade 10, and therefore can’t return to the classroom under Namibian education policies. Together, we’ll spend Wednesday afternoons creating our own stories using the Hero Books program as our guide. Then, next term, we’ll lead a group of 15-20 secondary school learners in making their own.

For now, it’s a way to keep Natasha busy—and hopefully out of trouble. But in the end, it’s also a way to get her back into the classroom—this time, as a teacher.