At SMMUCo, I teach Basic Communication Skills. Since failure is an excellent teacher, I assigned students the task of writing about a communication failure. Here are a few samples that I have modified and added fictional names and place names:
Poor eyesight
A Tanzanian man who worked in the States was contacted by his parents in Tanzania to send money. They needed it to pay the electricity bill which was about to be cut off. At the Western Union station in Tanzania, the parents read back the control number of the receipt to the agent, who told them the number was incorrect and sent them away. After they called their son again, they learned that due to their poor eyesight, they had misread an 8 for a 0. In the meantime, the electricity had been cut off, and the parents now sat in the dark, their poor eyesight reduced even more until the next day when they could return to Western Union with the correct number.
The daughter from Dar es Salaam
Mama Linda received a letter from her daughter Helda in Dar es Salaam, but she did not know how to read. She called upon her neighbor to read it. He then informed Mama Linda that her daughter in Dar had died. Soon Mama Linda’s granddaughter came home and found her grandmother sobbing. Now the granddaughter read the letter and discovered that the letter was announcing Helda would be coming to visit the following week. At this point, the neighbor confessed he too was illiterate.
Thief!
One night in the village of Kirima, a woman shouted, “Thief, thief!” Amani told his son to get up and help catch the thief. Other villagers appeared with sticks and long bush knives. The thief ran quickly but not quickly enough. Villagers soon gave him a royal beating until Amani persuaded them to stop by telling them that they should call the police. But when Amani called the police, they did not answer. When Amani tried again, his cell phone did not have enough battery charge in it and failed to make contact. Upon learning this, the fury of the villagers came upon them once again, and now they beat the thief to death. Having killed the thief, they turned on Amani who fled successfully.
Fire!
There was a fire accident at Majengo. The fire caused much loss because after the villagers called the fire extinguisher, the fire extinguisher was confused about the specific direction to reach the fire. Accordingly, the fire extinguisher used much time on the way to reach the fire, which caused some of the houses and all the property to be destroyed. It would be better for citizens to get different seminars on how they can overcome different accidents regarding their environment.
(Take note that the author has absolutely no confidence in giving a seminar to fire extinguishers.)
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A Passport
This past Sunday I went with Happy, the bursar’s assistant at SMMUCo, and her sister Neema to church. Since it’s impossible to pretend I’m not a visitor, Happy accurately anticipated that I would be asked to introduce myself, as is the custom. But my nickname at Happy’s home is “Sija elewa” which means “I don’t understand.” At times Happy, with hands wringing, announces it’ll take me ten years to learn Swahili.
On the walk to church at 6:45 a.m. Happy reminded me of key phrases I would need. Since I was familiar with these phrases, I rehearsed them a few times mentally, a few times out loud, got them wrong, and Happy corrected me. In a few more steps, Happy led us into the front of the church, five inches from the pulpit. I looked back and saw 400 people facing me.
After the sermon, the congregation filed to the front to give their offering. At this point, the pastor seated at Happy’s right called her over for a five-minute conversation. Happy returned to report that the pastor wanted me to introduce myself. He did not know enough English to help me, and so the two of them decided I would do it myself, but only briefly. The briefly part was Happy’s idea.
I had spent the length of the hour sermon picking out words I recognized, much like chasing butterflies. Neema had brought an English New Testament, so at least I could get the gospel for the day. So when the pastor invited guests to stand up, my only clue was the word “wageni” and the fact that he now stared at me. I stood up, faced the sea of 400 and performed three sentences, mixed with English prepositions, all with confidence. The congregation applauded enthusiastically. As soon as I sat down, Happy let out the air that her lungs held during my three sentences and then collapsed in my lap.
All of that had been thoughtfully orchestrated by Happy. She had helped me rehearse to the point that I was confident when the time came. And she had made it possible for me to reach a congregation who were truly pleased and grateful that I had managed to say something to them in their own language. Maybe it seems like a pocket-sized gesture, but multiply that times 400, and it opens up a whole world.
On the walk to church at 6:45 a.m. Happy reminded me of key phrases I would need. Since I was familiar with these phrases, I rehearsed them a few times mentally, a few times out loud, got them wrong, and Happy corrected me. In a few more steps, Happy led us into the front of the church, five inches from the pulpit. I looked back and saw 400 people facing me.
After the sermon, the congregation filed to the front to give their offering. At this point, the pastor seated at Happy’s right called her over for a five-minute conversation. Happy returned to report that the pastor wanted me to introduce myself. He did not know enough English to help me, and so the two of them decided I would do it myself, but only briefly. The briefly part was Happy’s idea.
I had spent the length of the hour sermon picking out words I recognized, much like chasing butterflies. Neema had brought an English New Testament, so at least I could get the gospel for the day. So when the pastor invited guests to stand up, my only clue was the word “wageni” and the fact that he now stared at me. I stood up, faced the sea of 400 and performed three sentences, mixed with English prepositions, all with confidence. The congregation applauded enthusiastically. As soon as I sat down, Happy let out the air that her lungs held during my three sentences and then collapsed in my lap.
All of that had been thoughtfully orchestrated by Happy. She had helped me rehearse to the point that I was confident when the time came. And she had made it possible for me to reach a congregation who were truly pleased and grateful that I had managed to say something to them in their own language. Maybe it seems like a pocket-sized gesture, but multiply that times 400, and it opens up a whole world.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Clawing hands that pull you down
At tea time, I sat next to Mama Nasari the other day, not necessarily because we could say a whole lot to each other. My Swahili has not moved beyond basic caveman gruntings. Rather, I sat beside her because I learned a few weeks ago that she is envious of the women who have socialized with me at tea time since I arrived in August. These are secretaries, like Mama Nasari, who were part of daily life on campus when no faculty or students were around. At that time, Mama Nasari was on leave and, upon returning, found that others had developed friendships with me as well as greater ease in speaking English.
One day I listened to some of them encourage her to speak with me. But, she said, she felt foolish speaking broken English. Yes, they admitted, and so did they, yet no one made fun of them, and it was more important just to practice speaking English, broken though it was. You can’t get past broken to whole without the broken part. And, they pointed out, one could observe my own enthusiastic Swahili gruntings.
A few conversational topics later, Mama Nasari told me she wanted to learn Excel. I said I could teach her quickly in a half hour, maybe at the beginning of the day. No, she said, that wouldn’t work, she’s too busy at the office. What about after tea? No, she’s too busy, too many interruptions. She suggested I come to her home on a Saturday. I could take the bus, and she has a computer.
Using the bus requires waiting a half hour up to an hour. And then a half hour ride to the bus stand near Mama Nasari, and then a little walk to her housing compound. This seemed a little extreme to me for a half hour lesson on Excel, but I said nothing.
Tea ended and Mama Alfa, who runs the internet café, followed me out apparently with an ulterior motive. As we walked farther away from the administration building, she explained that the real problem was that if I taught Mama Nasari at the college, the other secretaries would criticize her for trying to rise above the rest.
I have seen only glimpses of this in action, but it has incredible power among a group of people who are miserable. Women here are second-class citizens in many ways. I don’t know how it’s fostered exactly but I do know that all of the administrative leadership at SMMUCo is comprised of men. Of the faculty, the large majority is men. And those who serve at the socially lower ranks are women. Men seem to enjoy a freedom from criticism. In a marriage, a woman is expected to serve the husband and not the other way around. A man will leave his wife in his rural village home to care for his parents while he takes a job and a mistress or second wife in a big city.
I do not know how prevalent this is, but it is prevalent enough to have dug a deep pit of misery for women. This misery is intensified when others try to get out of the pit.
Education can be a powerful tool in raising the status of women. But the woman who sacrifices to save for a refrigerator or an education falls prey to the criticism of other women. While women can mouth words of encouragement, they are also capable of dragging another back down. Mama Nasari is therefore terrified of those who will claw at her with words.
After telling me of Mama Nasari’s fear, Mama Alfa turned to me and said, “So what will you do?” I can and will help Mama Nasari learn Excel. I can and will take the bus on a Saturday. But I do not know if my help will give her what she really needs: the courage to rise out of the pit. Each time she allows her fear of petty criticism to pull her down, the fear itself accumulates power and so do the clawing hands.
Mama Nasari could use a prayer for courage and a lesson on Excel. Hopefully the lesson can become another lesson on refusing to give in to clawing hands from the deep pit of misery.
One day I listened to some of them encourage her to speak with me. But, she said, she felt foolish speaking broken English. Yes, they admitted, and so did they, yet no one made fun of them, and it was more important just to practice speaking English, broken though it was. You can’t get past broken to whole without the broken part. And, they pointed out, one could observe my own enthusiastic Swahili gruntings.
A few conversational topics later, Mama Nasari told me she wanted to learn Excel. I said I could teach her quickly in a half hour, maybe at the beginning of the day. No, she said, that wouldn’t work, she’s too busy at the office. What about after tea? No, she’s too busy, too many interruptions. She suggested I come to her home on a Saturday. I could take the bus, and she has a computer.
Using the bus requires waiting a half hour up to an hour. And then a half hour ride to the bus stand near Mama Nasari, and then a little walk to her housing compound. This seemed a little extreme to me for a half hour lesson on Excel, but I said nothing.
Tea ended and Mama Alfa, who runs the internet café, followed me out apparently with an ulterior motive. As we walked farther away from the administration building, she explained that the real problem was that if I taught Mama Nasari at the college, the other secretaries would criticize her for trying to rise above the rest.
I have seen only glimpses of this in action, but it has incredible power among a group of people who are miserable. Women here are second-class citizens in many ways. I don’t know how it’s fostered exactly but I do know that all of the administrative leadership at SMMUCo is comprised of men. Of the faculty, the large majority is men. And those who serve at the socially lower ranks are women. Men seem to enjoy a freedom from criticism. In a marriage, a woman is expected to serve the husband and not the other way around. A man will leave his wife in his rural village home to care for his parents while he takes a job and a mistress or second wife in a big city.
I do not know how prevalent this is, but it is prevalent enough to have dug a deep pit of misery for women. This misery is intensified when others try to get out of the pit.
Education can be a powerful tool in raising the status of women. But the woman who sacrifices to save for a refrigerator or an education falls prey to the criticism of other women. While women can mouth words of encouragement, they are also capable of dragging another back down. Mama Nasari is therefore terrified of those who will claw at her with words.
After telling me of Mama Nasari’s fear, Mama Alfa turned to me and said, “So what will you do?” I can and will help Mama Nasari learn Excel. I can and will take the bus on a Saturday. But I do not know if my help will give her what she really needs: the courage to rise out of the pit. Each time she allows her fear of petty criticism to pull her down, the fear itself accumulates power and so do the clawing hands.
Mama Nasari could use a prayer for courage and a lesson on Excel. Hopefully the lesson can become another lesson on refusing to give in to clawing hands from the deep pit of misery.
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