'Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.'

Short Story

As you might guess from reading this, I'm still alive. I also remain happy.

Medium Story

March seems to have taken a long time, which is a good thing. My teaching has continued, and culminated in mid-term exams as the school closes for Easter. I've found myself steadily more busy, though I'm not  sure why. I think it's the social side; travelling to greet people, attending events and so on. I've also done a few odd-jobs, like helping to count the weekly collections at church, covering lessons for absent teachers and, in one case, reading a friend of a friend's undergraduate philosophy dissertation (on Marcel's relevance to Rwanda's history and future, by a Rwandese). It's nice. I've started going fishing with Fr Jonathan, an American Jesuit here, and two Jesuits-in-training (novices) who stayed in Mwanza for the last month. It's fair to say I'm not the world's best fisherman, but I'm improving and know how to get the beers in. I made my Easter confession over a bottle of beer while fishing with Fr Jonathan in Lake Victoria - pretty cool. Lent is a big deal here, and I'm going to Mass every weekday morning. Whether this 6.00 wake-up will continue absolutely every day after Easter is hard to predict. My trips to the market, cooking, cleaning etc. still take a while, but I'm marginally more proficient. Though I seem busy, I never feel rushed. 

Long Story

What would you give up everything for? Give up your money, your house, your job, your hope of another one, your security, your health and, maybe, your life?

As we were leaving for fishing on Friday 23^rd, I found out. I heard a child crying in the house next to the Jesuit residence. An involuntary keening, so different in kind from a cry of want or of attention. Fr Jonathan said, "They are torturing that boy again." The parents mercilessly beat this child, their child. It touched me to the core of my soul. I knew in that moment that I would have given anything, sacrificed anything for that nameless being. But I was utterly powerless. "That really pisses me off," Fr Jonathan spat out, thumping the steering wheel in anger. He has tried everything. I could give up wealth, opportunity, my life, but how would that help the poor creature? Money and a Westerner can't solve his problem. I felt so helpless, for one of the first times in my life. I couldn't stop the beatings, I couldn't save the child from it. I couldn't do anything. All I could do is never forget the unknown boy, and pray for him. And what will that do?

I later was reminded of a chapter in Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov where Ivan appeals to the tears of an innocent child as reason enough to reject God. I didn't by any means agree with the conclusion, but, with that boy's pain ringing in my ears, I began to know what was being said.

Beating is standard here in school, and I'd love to say it is benign and mostly for show, but I can't. It isn't excessive, though, or cruel and above all the teachers don't enjoy it one bit. I have had my imagination stretched coming up with alternative punishments. Telling a class of seven year olds that the last one to put their shoes on is smelly might be though of as bullying. If a class of young ones has misbehaved, I'll keep them inside for the P.E. lesson. I get them to close their eyes and give a relaxation meditation, the sort that you might use for prayer. It's sweet that a third of them fall asleep. Arranging books and stationery on their slumbering heads to the amusement of the rest of the class is not so sweet, and I should probably stop it.

It was my birthday this month. I kept it quiet, though, as I was sure a big fuss would be made if the news got out. I had a great day; on the way back from Mass in the morning the sky looked like it had been painted by a Renaissance Master. Some of the kids managed to find out it was my birthday, so I got some cards, some inedible chewing gum, a pack of cards, a pen and some other gifts. My favourite was a little bunch of beautiful wild flowers collected by a girl of maybe four and a half.

My children also provide a good mirror, by laughing uproariously if my hair is particularly messy, or if I have food/toothpaste/whatever on my face. In fact, they laugh often anyway; at my kiSwahili, my silly faces, my walking into things, my falling over, my pretending to be a girl, my dancing, when I tickle them, chase them or try to eat them. It's hard to walk around school, too, when you have weights disguised as miniature humans hanging off every limb and garment. Still, I won't pretend I don't enjoy it.

I'll continue with my random collection of thoughts. One thing I find sad is the children's perception of Europe and the U.S.. When I sit chatting with the older ones, they say things like, "They say we are baboons" and "Why do you (white people) hate us (black people)?" Listening to their answers to this latter was interesting. One boy, Fred, drew an analogy. "The father loves the baby, but the baby loves the mother first. We love them, but they don't love us." I wish I could honestly reassure them that there is no racism in the U.K., that they have nothing to fear. Of course, this would be a lie. These children, too, are the sons and daughters of lawyers, doctors, MPs and businessmen and women. They are well educated and will be leaders of the country. I can't help wonder what their parents' view is, and wonder why theirs has basis in fact.

There is a daily assembly at 8.00, and once a week there is a procession. I am always amazed during the procession at the untaught grace of the girls. The older ones, in particular, make marching on the spot look like a dance. I don't know how they do it. I'd venture it's something to do with hips.

When the power goes out in the Jesuit house after dark and before bed, the community comes to find Fr Ray and sits together, chatting. I've only been there twice when it's happened, but it turns an annoyance into a pleasure. In these chats, lots of interesting stuff is spouted. One thing I want to pick out is the importance of company here, of which these gathering are a good example. It seems characteristic of Tanzanians that they will travel huge distances, endure discomfort and spend proportionately vast sums of money just to go say hi to a friend or relative. Tanzanians don't seem to come in ones. There is almost a fear of being alone, and people will happily sit together saying little for hours. When people who you've just met invite you to their home, they really mean it. And they will be delighted if you turn up unannounced at their door. The Jesuits found it extraordinary that if you went to your neighbour's house, she might ask, 'what can I do for you?' after exchanging hellos. Why wouldn't you be invited in for tea, food and conversation automatically? Another feature of this is that if one meets a friend in the street, the chances are he will accompany you where you are going, even if it is a long way and in the opposite direction. In fact, it isn't unusual to see a woman coming home from the market turn round and go right back when she sees a neighbour going. It's rather nice to feel that one's presence is cherished whenever one visits someone, so far from the English idea that going for dinner is an imposition.

I'm still surprised by some things. The man who tears open your bag of rubbish when you drop it at the dump, looking for anything of value. The deformed beggars. The condemnation of homosexuality in the press and in public. The animals and insects and plants. The loudness and (to my misfocussed eye) aggressiveness of disagreements, which are in fact friendly discussions. (I'm told Tanzanian find Nigerians so aggressive in discussion they think they are having a fight). The lengthiness of meetings. The respect for the elderly. The proximity of death.

On the 5^th, the day before my birthday, teacher Victor's only child died. She was three, and died suddenly of malaria. In the same week, one of the school's neighbours, one of the sister's mothers and one of the children's parents also died. Victor is a tall, thin, self-effacing young man. He thanks God every time we meet or talk, and has a magical broad, white smile. Strangely enough, my first worry when I heard of his child's death was what would happen to that smile. Apart from the obvious grief, a few things stood out. Firstly, although my fellow teachers were clearly upset and sympathetic, they were not surprised by the unexpected death. Secondly, the procedure for funerals and burials is very specific, and I won't bore you with the details. But for a week people come and visit the house to just be with the bereaved; their house is more full of people that week than any other in their lives. When I went, Victor said, "Despite what has happened here, we still say, 'You are warmly welcome'". Lastly, neighbours play a vital role in the formalised proceedings. In Victor's case because he had absented himself from some meetings of the street and so on, the neighbourhood community demanded financial reparation before doing their jobs. This must sound like a spectacularly cruel way to treat a couple who've just lost their child. But if Victor had not contributed money to a neighbour's wedding (which is mandatory - I'll explain some other time) or helped out financially in other situations, it is more understandable. There was a codified whip-round at school for a condolence payment towards the cost of the funeral, and friends and family will likewise have paid. The mistake Victor made, according to the other teachers, was to be heavily involved in a church which was outside the local streets, planning to make his duties to the local community good later on. It still struck me as shocking that he was treated like this, and it shows the coercive aspect of these street committees and communities that are so important, close-knit and usually generous to each other. It was one of the few occasions I felt a culture jolt rather than a steady push.

Victor was back in school on Monday, exactly one week since his little girl had died. His eyes were hooded, and grief dwelt there. But at our morning meeting, he said a few words. He thanked God for us, for our help, and prayed that God strengthen us to help others too when they needed it. I was quite astonished. I would have thought this a reason to reject God or His existence, or at least to rail at him. I wasn't quite expecting a crisis of faith, but certainly wasn't thinking the first words out of Victor's mouth would be a prayer of thanksgiving. I was so humbled by his faith. And I realized that in his grief, terror and torment, for Victor God was not cruel, but comforting. God was not punisher but victim. How easy it is for us to cite suffering as sufficient reason to disbelieve in God. But look at those who are suffering. Do they believe? And if you reject their belief as simple-minded or a crutch then, well, I guess I'll take my leave of you.

Sorry for the unintended burst of earnestness. I've got a feeling this report is going to get even longer (John in Dodoma- pole sana bwana). I thoroughly enjoy my evenings out with the teachers, though the next morning is usually not so fun. It's funny that the oldest guy will tend to pay for everything all night, including food. Anyway, one of these evenings I was chatting to a (female) teacher from a local government secondary. She told me that prostitution is rife. There are areas for different prices, right down to 500 or 300 shillings. That's about 12-20 pence. While it is comparatively more here, of course, it is still the price of a bottle of coke. It made me wonder how little these desperate women must be able to value themselves if their body is sold for pennies. And it goes without saying that they'll all be HIV positive and probably have other venereal diseases.

On a different tack I've remembered an interesting distinction that was made at the dinner table at the Jesuits - between the post-apartheid government in South Africa and the post-Saddam government in Iraq. Obviously the situations were not completely the same, but it still seems and interesting comparison. Fr Ray said that if Mandela had tried to prosecute all the perpetrators, there would still be hangings today. And there'd still be open fighting (though actual S.A. is hardly an idyll of peace). 'Justice must be done'. Yes, I suppose so. But I thought then that perhaps the only thing better than justice is forgiveness.

Fishing has become a real delight. Sorry, I'm trying to write this with a four year old literally sitting on my head and aiming kicks at my pen. Her name is Matilda, and her feet are smaller then my hand. So, fishing is fun. The company is great; Fr Jonathan, who is a strange mixture of gruff and straightforward yet sensitive and wise. The two novices are Thomas and Mboya. Thomas was a child-soldier for the Southern Sudanese rebel army. Mboya is a Kenyan gentle giant who told me that all he hopes for in life is to listen to people, and hear God in the deepest movements of their spirit. One day we were packing up to go home at 2 a.m.-ish (we fish from the shore) when Thomas slipped and fell in the lake. People here, even those heading out to fish on 1m² reed mats in the second largest lake in the world, can't swim. As Fr Jonathan later said, "if you can't swim and fall in water, you are truly f****d". Luckily Thomas knew how to keep his head above water for a few seconds. My reaction showed I'd spent too much time watching films and too little time thinking. I took my shirt off. On reflection, this was not the most considered choice. If one is going to jump in water, it might be better to remove shoes, or the phone and wallet from one's pockets. Exposing my chest to the world was not at that point high on the list of priorities. Anyhow, just as I was about to jump in, Fr Jonathan beat me to it. Probably best, too, as he had been a lifeguard as a boy. My swimming scores low on both form and effectiveness. The locals who saw the sodden pair on the way to the car were highly amused.

Mboya and Thomas worked as nurses in the referral hospital here for ten weeks, leaving at the end of March. You might not expect it from the length, but the rest of this report is preamble to when I visited them there. The following comes from parts of my journal for the day:

I don't know if one day can change your life. But if it can, then I've had my most likely candidate so far. I met Mboya at the hospital gates and we first went to meet Thomas and finish the work in the psychiatric ward. En route, Mboya asked if I'd ever been to a Tanzanian hospital. He said I'd be shocked. As Thomas later said, "If you see it, you will cry my brother. You will cry."

The door to the psychiatric ward was secured. The ward itself was in the basement or bottom floor (as the hospital is on a hill). Despite the brightness outside, the basement seemed very dark. As the door was unlocked and swung back for me it felt like the door of no return- the door of the Ghanaian slave fort or of a prison. Stepping inside, one immediately has to watch one's feet, as there is liquid on the floor and, as the place stinks of piss, it probably ain't water. The narrow, short corridor is unpainted, uncovered grey concrete. I followed Mboya's long strides with some trepidation. We entered a large room on the right, passing a couple of private, two bedrooms. There were maybe 30 beds in the room, and 15 or 20 men. Thomas was feeding thin porridge to one guy near the door, spoonful by spoonful. Most of the patients were lying on the metal beds, asleep. Mboya said that most of them fall asleep after their medication. I wonder whether this medication is just sedative.

There are a few men awake. The sister and nurse who has accompanied us and the novices seem at ease. I'm not. I'm scared and scarred, the back foot and ready to flee if necessary. I'm startled by one guy who greets me as Bruce, "How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce? How are you Bruce?" He begins various karate poses, moving with a surprising litheness and grace. He thinks I am Bruce Lee, as I'm a mzungu (white person). Most of the other open eyes are on me, and I try to greet and smile, though I find it hard. One of the boys here, and many are young, is well educated; up to Form 4 (GCSEs). But he started taking drugs and wound up here. His uncle collected him a few weeks ago to take him home. But children and others called him mad and taunted him. He started beating people and smashing bottles, and so his uncle brought him back. It reminded of a question I saw in an English exam: Pick the correct answer -

The naughty boys ______ the mad man

a) stones                                  c) are stoning

b) were stone                           d) have stoning

He has truly doleful eyes and a mouth that droops down at the edges. He has no mental problem. When we are leaving and Thomas and Mboya are giving him advice, he responds with a reverential, "Yes Sir, no Sir. I won't Sir." When we are alone, standing in the corridor, he looks straight at me. It is a powerful thing when someone looks straight at you, and unusual. He looks straight at me and he says, "I have no shoes." And he doesn't. So he must walk in the urine of his fellow inmates, every day. It is sometimes said that a sane man in a madhouse will be driven insane. I imagined myself in his shoes, or lack thereof. I don't think I'd go mad, and I don't think I'd try to kill myself. And, in a way, that would be the saddest thing of all.

Standing by the door of the room, I could see bodies curled up on bare mattresses, some naked but most covered by sheets. There was a little outside area. All of them were thin, some very thin. One patient wasn't able to be woken for porridge, even though he hadn't had medication. Mboya shook him, tried to make him sit up, to no avail. Another was so week he needed a drip, though the chances of him getting one were slim.        

We went to greet the workers and nurses. I later discovered that Mboya and Tom were nowhere near as friendly with this group as with the others on different wards. I also learned that female trainee nurses do not spend a rotation here for fear they will be raped. Then we went to the women's side. Again, most were sleeping. But one who was awake talked constantly. Apparently she does 24 hours a day- even overmedication doesn't let her sleep. I was shown a private room, where one of the ladies claims to be at the point of delivering a baby. She says, "Come quick, I am delivering" whenever she sees you. She also believes that two babies have been stolen from her stomach by her husband. I wonder what trauma may be connected to this. In the opposite room a woman was resting. The room was bare; a concrete floor, ceiling and walls. One hole in the middle of the floor for pissing and crapping, and a door with bolts. This was the 'female strong room' for patients who are violent. The woman who was sleeping on the floor of this dark, dank box was maybe 30. She had bitten the ear of one of the others. The room reinforced the feeling of prison, and I took a photo of the male equivalent on the way out.

I got to see the bitten ear, and it was horrific. One of the other woman in the large women's room had malaria and had been vomiting for days. Another, who was awake, was mute. Their walks were shuffling; obedient, listless, uncaring and uncared for. Mboya was moving the women inside from the sun, as he had with the men. I was a little unclear on the importance of this, as Mboya said that they continued wandering outside to lie in the sun. I later learned that these concrete terraces, with high concrete walls, can be seen from above, and people laugh at them.           

The shocking thing was not how mad these people were, but how sane.

When we were leaving the psychiatric ward and locking the door behind us, I didn't know the lack of care that the staff on the ward have for their patients. Apparently, they eat food meant for their charges. What other injustices pertain, I do not know, but fear. In my mind, these experiences are now at the end of a tunnel, with light behind but only darkness ahead.

We went up to the kitchen to take a cup of tea. On the meat side of the kitchen there was a huge stump of wood, rising perhaps to shoulder height, and a large axe. This is for chopping the meat, 3 bulls-worth each day. In a metal room that could have come from a run-down U.K. hospital, this hunk of wood, of organic matter, really stood out for me.

In the kitchen, people were peeling, washing, cooking and sorting rice by hand. Aster tea, we poked our heads into the laundry room. The two industrial-sized (though still small) washing machines have been broken for as long as anyone can remember, so the 1000 bed sheets and clothes, soiled with blood, urine, faeces, must be washed my hand. They dry outside, in the strong sunlight.

We took the one lift that works to the top floor. Well, actually to the penultimate and then had to walk. When all the lifts are down, patients cannot be moved between floors. Given that the operating theatre is on the ground floor, this presents a problem. As power cuts are not infrequent, it is not uncommon either. The top floor is the children's ward. There were two children and two mothers per bed, sometimes three. This is particularly difficult because the mothers stay all day and all night. Compared to the bright, happy children of my school, this was some change. In the children's ward, I saw a number of grotesque things. One that sticks was a child of perhaps seven who had a smile which started at the usual place on the left side of his face, curled upwards and ended at his nose. This level of deformity, while still low, is a shock coming from the pristine West, where Identikit 'beautiful' bodies and faces are paraded on television, film, theatre, billboards, music, everything. I'll remember that boy for a long time, and I wish it was for his inner beauty, but I never caught his name.

I'll record a few other things. As we passed a room on the top floor, I saw some workers emptying large vats of water into smaller ones. As there is not enough pressure from the pumps, all water for the top two floors has to be manually transported and decanted. And hospitals require a lot of water. It is touch work, and not just temporary.       

Apart from the children's ward, only a smattering of beds had mosquito nets. And with perhaps one exception they were all just beds; no equipment, machines or monitors. The exception was one young man, who was on a drip. He and his neighbour were both clearly dying. It's the first time I've really seen someone who will be dead in a matter of hours. As with the psychiatric ward, it was as if not only his body, but the whole of humanity's soul was laid bare there. Is man no more than this? Laboured breaths, rasping, liquid. Unconscious. Bones protruding. A life lived, and now done.

Speaking of death, another moving story. There are prisoners in the hospital, too, in a separate room. They are chained by one arm to the bed, and still in prison clothes. They all have AIDS. Once died recently, not from illness or trauma, but from hunger. The notion of someone dying of hunger in a hospital is extraordinary. Food is provided, by the generosity of a donor, but there are not enough staff to feed the patients. As this man was a prisoner, his family had abandoned him, and did not even come to feed him his daily meals.

We went from the hospital into the grounds to meet some of Tom and Mboya's nurse friends in their digs. Entering their room, I was surprised how cramped it was. A bunk bed in a room smaller than any uni room I've seen, maybe a few square metres smaller than my main room here. The two nurses were on the bottom bunk, surprisingly watching a television. It was only as we were leaving that I discovered that another girl was asleep on the top bunk. Then I saw it was actually two people. So, there were four people in this room I'd thought small for one. It gave me another jerk.

The closeness of the world I talked about in by February report was very much in evidence here. Not in an exhilarating, positive way, though. The bare concrete floors, and suffering and sheer humanity of the place were quite overwhelming. I saw the attraction of crawling back into that bubble of a world we create for ourselves. Soften the edges and the focus. Take the sting out of life. Smooth the jagged edges of our hurt and the rising peaks of our joy. Perhaps it's true; you only really value your life and security when you see the alternative.

Mwanza's Bugando is a referral hospital, and one of the best in Tanzania. This is not reassuring. What other hospitals and medical facilities are like here I cannot even guess. When we left I was tired; body and mind pounded by the mortar of human suffering in the pestle of our world. But there was laughter and fun too, in the friends we met. In the boy whose legs were almost severed by a crocodile, but may walk again. Above all, in his eyes. His laughing eyes, full of the cheeky mischief and joi de vivre of my children in Nyakahoja. Joy of life. These chinks of light, while they didn't stand out for me individually, were the gentle patter of soft rain on my dry, dry heart.

The walk away from the hospital was memorable as well. I could see the urine running down the 'street' and the corrugated iron and mud shacks of the slum upon the hill. Some children were astonished to see a mzungu. Their heads turned as if mechanically operated. Their curiosity, which can look hostile, seems very different when displayed in a smile, the inevitable response to one of mine. Thomas and Mboya found their interest amusing, an interest which multiplied many times when I spoke Swahili to them. Tom said, "They will never forget the day a mzungu came to their home and greeted them in their language." As we finished our walk, I realized I'd miss these two a lot. I also vowed to arrange to volunteer at Bugando on Saturdays, if possible. It will be tough, especially given how tired I am with just my current work. But my reaction to real need, real poverty and real suffering was fear, a desire to withdraw and put distance between myself and these people. I was ashamed. The right action surely must be the opposite; to go towards them, with love, acceptance and the strength that comes from weakness. Perhaps it's these moments that define one's life. The challenge to be with the marginalized is staring me in the face for the first time; what a challenge it is. What would you do?

After writing the above extracts from my journal, the experience still resonates. It's the sort of thing that makes you think a lot of thoughts. One was, funnily enough, Plato's cave analogy. You may or may not know it (it is in the Republic). But I felt like that man leaving behind the cave, the chains, the fire and the puppetry and venturing out into the real world of the Forms. But the Forms were not abstract concepts or ideal structures. They were people and suffering and going on anyway. (You owe me a beer now Dermot).

This report, if you've got this far, must sound very pretentious, citing Dostoyevsky and Plato. It's not supposed to. Perhaps I'm just pretentious. But perhaps, too, art, literature and philosophy, however abstract and 'high-culture', is a reaction to human experience and the human condition. The report might suggest that this month was a sad one, too. It's not supposed to. I enjoyed March and looking back I see mostly happiness. But the day-to-day pleasure of being here throws the pain I've seen into greater relief. And to deal with these experiences and respond to them I must pray, 'Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.' Because God knows I sorely need all three.

Martin Pickup is an XVP Volunteer at St.Francis Xavier's parish (SJ) and Nyakahoja Primary School in Mwanza, remote northern Tanzania. To contact him or to support his work, please get in touch with www.jesuitmissions.org.uk