I sat on a bench, surrounded by patients and their caregivers, some familiar, some not. I found myself getting frustrated with the murmuring going on all around me.
Why aren't they paying attention? This is good stuff! The Day Crew of the Hope Center were telling the story of the ten lepers. Of the one leper who returned to thank Jesus for his healing. Asking good questions - and getting great responses from the audience. Why didn't Jesus just heal them on the spot - why send them to the priest? Why did only one, the Samaritan, return? The parables that are shared in the Hospital and Hope Center services always seem to revolve around healing. I suppose it is a subject that everyone here can relate to in some way. I wonder if it is wise to put such an emphasis on it though.
There are so many other important things Jesus taught us...but maybe the story isn't really about healing. Maybe that's just the top layer of a much deeper point. But - ugh. Why are those guys chatting again??
I turned in my seat to notice a few clusters of people in the crowd, their heads huddled together as they spoke. Abruptly, I remembered the same phenomenon in Benin.
I'm an idiot. They're translating.
There are just so many different languages in this part of the world that one or two translators with microphones simply won't do, and it's incredibly inefficient to wait through the 5 or 6 or more it would take to cover all the languages needed. Instead, the translation process happens much more organically. The people who share a language sit together, and one or two among them, who also speak French, translate quietly as the speaker continues. It is the United Nations of the developing world - many different cultures all hearing the same message at the same time in their own tongue.
Perhaps this, too, has a deeper meaning to it - or this could be a bit of a stretch - but bear with me.
My initial irritation at the noise in the crowd was a little self-righteous. I was preoccupied with the apparently disrespectful behaviour, the distraction to all those around me trying to listen. In reality, however, half the audience would be unable to listen, to receive the message, if it weren't for this noise. I (for the second time in this exact circumstance) completely misjudged the situation. I was looking at it from a western perspective. A Canadian perspective. One in which politeness is so emphasized we don't even turn around and hush the people talking during a movie - we just sit there and stew about it till the credits roll. All the while, my annoyance is distracting me more than the noise itself.
It is very easy to look at the surface of cultural norms that are so very different from our own and see only rudeness or disrespectful behaviour, when the reality is often the complete opposite. It takes time, patience, research, and sometimes a willingness to make a fool of yourself to get to a place where something very foreign can be seen with a modicum of understanding and respect.
I am slowly inching my way there, but it isn't easy to overcome preconceptions that are so ingrained in my worldview. I am trying, though, trying to learn to challenge my assumptions when I read a headline or meet a newcomer from another country.
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The discussion carried on, and my distraction was shifted to these little yellow birds flitting in and out of a nearby tree; long strands of grass trailing behind them. The birds were familiar - there are often a few to be found on the upper decks of the ship - but their current preoccupation was new to me. I marveled as I noticed the structures they were constructing with all this grass. Southern Masked Weavers, I now know they're called - and I was a bit entranced with their grace and ingenuity. It seemed to echo the work we are trying to do here. We aren't building permanent edifices, or trying to change the structure of the tree. Instead, we create a temporary retreat - a place to hide from the rain, from prying & judgmental eyes, to be loved, cared for, and to emerge with new purpose and potential.
After the meeting concluded with a beautiful poem, written by one of the Hope Center Day Crew (which, I might add, rhymed in both English and French!), we had more joyous singing and dancing, followed by some somewhat bitter-sweet goodbyes. Many of our fistula patients were here for their last few days, awaiting one final follow-up appointment before they would leave Douala and travel far north, back to their homes. I'll almost certainly never see any of them again, except in photos. One patient excitedly ran inside then back out to show me photos of her in her dress at the ceremony. A truly beautiful woman (as all of them are), who has an easy smile, one that shows in her eyes. A beauty that I hope she now knows can never be taken away from her - no matter what the future holds. A beauty that fills her, inside and out, in the knowledge that she is loved.
It always comes back to love.
À la prochaine.
