Training Days

If this first month of my JF placement has yielded anything, it is an awareness of, dread of, and ultimate appreciation for training. Since my embarking on this journey, more of my waking hours have been spent in training than in any other activity: of the 5 and a half weeks I have spent as an EWB volunteer, one was ill and locked in my room, and 3 were in training. And now, I have done the inevitable, and shifted from the trainee to the trainer. This past Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I worked with the PARED team to design and implement a training on the Canadian Initiative for Food Security (CIFS) proposal development, the next project we are taking on in approximately a dozen of 190 communities in Northern Ghana. The point of the Initiative is to involve communities in choosing, designing and implementing a project that will reduce or eliminate the number of months they go hungry in a year. The point of the training is to help our team develop the skills to first facilitate this process in the community, then develop it into a proposal to persuade the Canadian government to grant the funds necessary for its completion. I was trained in these skills with a number of my PARED teammates two weeks ago in Tamale; in classical West African fashion, while I fretted and stressed about preparing for delivering this to the rest of the East Mamprusi district, my coworkers refused to worry about it, delivered on the fly, and experienced at least moderate success.

This was, in a most West African fashion, a great learning experience with a steep learning curve. It quickly became clear that the colloquial, fast-talking, metaphor-slinging Canadian Ashley was neither necessary nor useful. A simple, humble, minimalist, confirmatory, laboriously slow-talking West African version took her place. This Ashley converted everything into a question to the audience in a clear attempt to maintain the audience participation necessary for consciousness to continue among them. She ended every second sentence with a variant of “Does this make sense?” or “Do we understand?”. She took pains to tease out explanations, examples, pros and cons, potential challenges and their solutions for every task she posed to the group. She did this because she had no idea what kind of understanding was being reached (if any), but had every terrifying idea of the fallout for the communities and the work made for her if she screwed this up. Essentially, this Ashley had absolutely no clue what the hell she was doing. Luckily, she was told whatever it was she did, she did it moderately well.

Next week we embark on the daunting but exciting process of community entry, building a relationship with people of different tribes and tongues, and helping them to decide on and eventually acquire what they need the most to build their own opportunities. I'm excited to begin; and will definitely keep you all posted.

Lifting Hearts, Lifting Wallets

I'm not a classically religious person. While I value a concept of God, I highly value the secularization of our educational institutions, our places of healthcare and government. I'm a strong, strong advocate for freedom of belief, and for a religious system working FOR you, rather than the other way around. When I came to Ghana hearing of the primacy of belief over proof and the importance of religious institutions to the social fabric, I came interested to see the way they weave together with the society in which I would be living for the better part of four months. I am a little surprised at my first observations.

It did not shock me that my coworkers and host family were surprised I had no church. It was equally unsurprising when they offered--or rather, demanded--that I attend church with them; this was something I had expected from the start.

Rather, what surprised me was the operations of some of the churches I went to.

Sitting in a plastic lawn chair with the words "Assemblies of God Church Nalerigu" punctured into the sides, I watched the people who had spent the last three weeks explaining their suffering, asking me for the water I drank, the food that I ate, the clothes I was wearing and the small change I carried, the people who asked every time that I answered I worked for an NGO "Well, how will you help me out of my poverty?", pulling ten Ghana Cedis--the equivalent of two weeks' pay for many--out of their pocket for the offeratory. A pastor at the front of the church called for donations like an auctioneer, demanding ten as the price of their salvation and watching people leave their seats to trek to the front to contribute, a hero among their congregation. A prayer was said, and another request from the pastor--five Ghana Cedis. More contributions, from more people with children waiting in the aisles, all skinny legs, round stomachs and wide eyes. Yet another prayer; a request for two Cedis. Prayer, then one Cedi. I think of the assembled 80 people dressed in Sunday best bought and tailored especially for church, I was the only one who contributed nothing. I was too at a loss to move or think.

I have no doubt of the positive effects of religion on a population at risk. Congregations can serve as an extended family, a social (and sometimes even fiscal) support net, and a wellspring of spiritual support in the inevitability that times become difficult. Nevertheless, I left the church building paralyzed with anger at a system that can so easily work against the very people who support it. The money given in this way every week could put a KVIP latrine and rainwater collection and storage in every house, and cut malaria, cholera, and the workload of women and girls in half. In this town, it could give electricity and cold food storage, allowing people to keep meat and vegetables for more than one day, and increase the nutritional balance (and therefore the immune system and health) for the whole family. It could buy more uniforms and books to put their children in school than they would need, and still have money to pay for a lunch each day in lieu of a feeding program. What does it do for God? Where does it go, after the journey from the pocket of the impoverished to the offeratory basket is over?

In Canada, offerings like this are pooled to help the needy, the unfortunate, and often those in developing countries. In Nalerigu, the signs of clothing drives, donations, missions and feeding programs are everywhere, from the cast-off 1997 Nike tank top and Addidas backpack on my host sister, to the phased-out western textbooks at the Junior Secondary School. East Mamprusi alone boasts the Baptist Medical Centre, with its prayer meetings and American surgeons, and the Presbyterian Agricultural Station, with its agro-training and farming implements. I have no doubt that the majority of the help or handouts in Nalerigu comes from various religious institutions. But I also have no doubt that they are all Western religious institutions, harnessing the over-abundance of Western money.

I am shaken by the question; Who does Ghana donate to? And what does that say about why I am here?

The Elemental Difference

Fire is everywhere in Ghana-- in the cooking coals of compounds, the burning rubbish heaps of communities, the tailpipes of motorbikes and the hand-cranked stoves of village blacksmiths, the spent maize fields after harvest. It is in the hands of women, moving red-hot charcoal with bare, careworn fingertips to heat the evening meal. It is in the hearts of everyone, in their sparkplug-lit arguments exploding on the smallest light, and in the warmth of their love for each other when they laugh, smile, greet each other, sing; in the explosion of excitement in their children when something new arrives in town. It is in their festivals, red light reflected off dancing bodies, and in the eyes of sacrificial fowls and goats under the glint of the cutlass. It is in my face and shoulders, white skin freckling and bronzing under the cheerily merciless sun.

Ghanaians are fire-borne people, shaped like the Guinea Savannah under the hot breath of the Sahara Harmattan winds since time immemorial. I, a February child from a land of ice, am starting slowly to melt and trickle, trying to flow like their flames dance. I may emulate, but I am what I am; an ice woman would have to evaporate to become someone of fire.

I'm beginning to believe that owning this process, this placement, depends upon owning your differences. As a volunteer, the reason you have come here is that you are not the same; the idea is that that from your differences there is something to contribute, and that you can return to where you come from with a new difference that will help people further. I'm slowly, slowly beginning to realize how deep the differences are—and in turn, how simple it is to bridge them and live together. It is never easy, but very straightforward. Never easy, but so important.

Where the Magic Happens

In pre-departure training we were told that in Ghana, what is provable is often less important than what is believed. I did not realize how true this was until the superstition started to seep through the walls of my compound.

I'm told that a woman who was a witch recently replaced a man's heart with a pig's heart. The pig died, but the man lived. She was sent to the Gambaga witch camp, described to me as a prison for witches, where she "cant kill anybody anymore".

I'm told the King of Mamprugu can hear everything that goes on around the community--if you ask him what you said on a certain day, he will know.

I'm told there is an ancient wall around Nalerigu made of bodies, stones, milk and honey. It was built during times of strife to protect Nalerigu--and it is so strong, it would cause helicopters to fall from the sky if they tried to bomb the town.

The most ardent of Christians and Muslims around me, the housewives and day-labourers, and the government workers and university graduates all assure me that juju is real, and they have seen it. At market, a number of women have asked me for my necklace because of its power to protect me; they have asked me where they too could get such a magic tattoo. The girls in my house worry about my impending visit to the witch camp; even though they have faith in the safety of the camp, they don't want me to return cursed, or worse.

It makes me wonder about some of the many things that I see every day in this place that I dont understand yet. What sort of purpose does the shopkeeping woman's arrowhead forehead tattoos serve? What does the monkey skull I saw on sale at market beside the goat tails and python teeth do to protect, or to harm?

Where does the tradition end, and the magic begin?

I've missed the fire festival by a few months, and leave before the yam festival; the most I can hope to witness is a lesser-known ceremony, a wedding, or a funeral. When I complete my witch camp visit, I'll be sure to post a full report.

I'm excited to see the magic in action.

Photo Post: Living Arrangements

Joyce and Doris, host sister and host mother

Nematu; Lydia's daughter, host kid, and resident screaming banshee

host brother, and the Manager of the Chesterfield. Both live with me.

My room....

The compound entrance with host siblings and omnipresent goats

Patience, host sister, washing dishes in outdoor kitchen

...the centre door leads to my room.
Arija, Elijah, Afia, and Nematu; host sisters and brother

More to come in the future!

“A Stranger in her Father's House, a Stranger in her Husband's”

Most days in the office, I read Community Action Plans: documents generated by PARED and other field organizations that summarize the assets, needs, history, problems and requested solutions of impoverished communities. Over and over, the root causes of poverty manifest in the requests from these people: requests for KVIP latrines to improve sanitation, a borehole to improve water access and cleanliness, bullocks and donkeys to help plough their maize, millet and cassava fields, water pumps for gardening in the dry season. PARED is involved with over a dozen of these communities—and the more I read, the more I see social customs, attitudes and traditions complicating the already incredibly complex problem of village poverty in one important regard: an often overlooked and difficult to describe root cause of poverty, gender inequality.

Over and over, I read the descriptions of the Land Tenure Systems of these communities. Over and over, I read that women are traditionally barred from owning land, and that this causes them reduced yields when they farm on the least fertile bits of their husband's, the only plots available to them. Over and over I read the sentence “In our community, women and land are both owned by our men, who take care of their own”. Over and over, I read “In our tradition, property cannot own property”. And over and over, I read reports stating that village women sustain their families for sometimes up to 11 months after their husbands' crops run out, scraping out of their own pockets for staple food after paying school fees, health bills, and for food ingredients to stave off malnutrition. After, of course, they have brought water, cared for children, cooked for an army, cleaned a compound of clothes, floors, waste and dishes, farmed their husband's land, fed the animals, farmed their own, and waited on the whim of their husbands when he returns.

I see the attitude reflected in many of the CAPs: “A woman is a stranger in her father's house, and a stranger in her husband's”. Many of the people I speak to about this, villagers and development workers alike, say the same things. Since women are bound by duty to be married to another family, they cannot inherit land from their own. Since women are bound to be married and sent away, educating them is not a smart investment for a family with sons. Since new wives are from another family, another home, and sometimes another tribe, they are not entitled to any of the husband's family's property or wealth. Since new wives can leave their husbands, allowing them to own any part of their husband's inheritance can result in the lands of your ancestors being owned by aliens. And since their daughters are doomed to the same fate, the cycle continues.

Attitudes are changing. The CAP development process also serves as a sensitization for communities involved, asking them to inspect and evaluate their traditions, practices and habits and choose whether or not they contribute to their betterment as a village. Many communities look at the work of their women, see how strongly they support the community despite the overwhelming pressures and odds, and decide that a change in their favour is necessary. This shift is evident in the number of girls being sent to schools, the number of women voted onto Internal Community Project facilitation teams that run development initiatives from the ground, and the number of voices raising within the communities to speak about the inequality of women—from women and men alike. Nevertheless, there is still far to go. My Gender Officer counterpart, the entire PARED team, and myself and the rest of EWB, have a lot of road in front of us until we reach an equitable and beneficial arrangement for women.

And like them, we have a lot of water to carry.

Maddeningly Fine

Greetings are an integral part of Ghanaian culture, the foundation for social interaction of any sort. Every time you pass someone on the street or in the office; every time you make eye contact with a stranger; every time you need to make a purchase, find out information, or even get someone in trouble; every time one human being engages in any sort of social congress with another, there is a long string of greetings involved, different for every cultural group. And for every one of them, the correct answer is “Fine”.

“Good morning!”
“Fine!”
“How is work?”
“It's fine!”
“How is your husband?”
“He's fine!”
“And your children?”
“Fine!”
“How is the farming?”
“Fine!”
“And your animals?”
“They're fine!”

I have visited people languishing under malaria who have told me they were “Fine”; walking through the hospital greeting patients bleeding from every orifice also elicits “Fine”. People in the middle of disciplining their children, in arguments, and chasing wayward goats, all “Fine”. I tell people here that I am certain if I could find a Ghanaian with his house burning down around his ankles, he would tell me that he was “Fine”. They laugh, and agree.

The question in my Canadian brain turns rather logically from “How are you?” to “Why ask, if the responses are the same?” When I ask this of my Ghanaian counterparts, my host family, and people in conversation on the street, they give me many important and interesting answers. Even in semi-urban areas like Nalerigu, everyone knows each other. The ties between friends and relations are strong, and further cemented with the knowledge that if you pass each other on the street, you will actually speak—whether you've met once, or have known each other for years. The social hierarchy is cemented every time a greeting is given: children bow to their elders, adults bow to the elderly, and everyone bows to the Chief and his council. It is an unavoidable conversation-starter, essential in this inherently friendly Northern Ghanaian culture. And sometimes, it is an important link to a tradition that threatens to slip with the influx of globalization.

Walking to work, greeting the strangers I pass in mangled Mampruli, starts my day with the message that despite my differences, or perhaps even because of them, I am welcome. Ending my day with a tsunami of children screaming the only English they know--“Salaminga, Hello!!”--reminds me that change is happening all around me, and like it or not, I am part of it. It reminds me that what is important to these people, these “Dorothy”s, is for me to observe, not to decide.

And it reminds me to ask better questions.