I woke up last Saturday at 7:30 in the a.m. The birds were chirping exotic songs while the dogs, tired from a night of frolicking and yapping, rested in a blessed peace beneath. My eyes opened with a spirit of motivation – today would be the day I rise to run with anticipation, instead of the usual dread. I was a little proud of myself to have risen before my two roommates, but I was also happy for them as they appear to be resting peacefully – something for which they both have wished. My emotions average out and I dressed without guilt for my pride. As I reached for the door, I thought, “I am in a foreign country and I’m going out to run under the African sun (which happens to be the American sun too). You should tell someone in case you pass out of dehydration.” Not wanting to rest my comrades from their slumber and therefore have to deal with guilt for my pride, I decided to tell my hostess.
Marvel is styling her three year-old daughter’s hair as I approach and whisper that I am going to run to the beach and back, a four mile journey. The air was cool and I was ready to start my day when her reply rendered me speechless: “You can’t.”
What? “You can’t” is what my laziness tells me every other morning. Today I had bested my laziness (so far) and was going to show, in the American spirit, that I darn well can. I stood there dumbfounded. Marvel continued, “Today is a national cleaning day. Everyone is under house arrest from 7 a.m. to noon to clean their house and surrounding area.” Still not able to find words to describe the wide variety of feelings stewing in my chest, she offered to help me expend my energy by cleaning the house. I nodded as I walked to the veranda.
I began to unpack the situation before me. I was under house arrest. I was such a good child, wasn’t I? Well, at least I was never in trouble with the law. House arrest was something very foreign to me. Marvin, the nine year-old, joined me and provided me with a history of the day. Apparently, this was the first national cleaning day declared since the previous government, a military government, had been in power. Under the previous government these days occurred the last Saturday of every month. I swallowed my anger over the thought of being oppressed once a month and asked Marvin what happens if you go out during this time. “They beat you.” Excuse me, public beatings? “Or they will arrest you and give you a job to do … something to clean up.” Well, in comparison that doesn’t sound so bad.
I stood there debating whether to proceed with my run. Such days of motivation really don’t come around all that often. I sized myself up against all of the Sierra Leonean police officers that I could remember seeing. There were none that I would let lay a finger on me. Though shrinking at an incredible rate, I am still bigger than many. The police don’t carry weapons either. I figured that I could take my chances, but that it would probably be best for both me and the organization I represent (and my country, for that matter) if I did not make a public scene this fine morning. A large apoto (white man) confronting the local police would draw quite a crowd.
Having convinced myself to stay put, I stood on the veranda and pondered the morning away. “Sierra Leone is a democracy, right?” “How many American civil rights would this violate?” “Why do people put up with this?” Question after question raced through my head. Having read a book on cultural sensitivity in which I was reminded that different cultures have different methods for doing things, I asked myself how this could be different and not wrong. But how could this not be wrong? The way I saw it was that the government was inept, having wasted money that could have been used to create/build up a sanitation department and accompanying strategy that would make this action unnecessary. People would not only be cleaning out their houses, but also the gutters in front of their houses filled with garbage and sewage. The amount of trash would be extensive, seeing as there are only a handful of trash cans (three, I think) in Freetown and they are no larger than the one in your kitchen. People throw their trash into the gutter where it is either burned or eventually flushed down into Kroo Bay, the slum where we hold the Good News Club on Saturdays. Littering isn’t against the law, it’s the national past time; everybody’s doing it. The health risks alone make this wrong, right?
I stewed as I filled six pages in my journal to describe my thoughts and feelings on the situation. I even went so far as to concoct an ignorant and incredibly short-sighted plan to collect taxes from the people to begin public works projects, beginning with sanitation of course. “There has to be a better way. Sanitation is the government’s job. Such a declaration is only evidence of the ineptness of the government.” Thoughts continued to race.
Struggling to see the other side of the story, I commiserated with other expatriates, hoping that one of them would put me in my place and help me see the other side. No one did. I spoke with several Sierra Leoneans to hear their side of the story. “It is good for the people to have the city clean.” “It is good to have these days again. The city was getting very dirty and needed to be cleaned.” They knew the benefit of a clean environment and knew of no other way to accomplish the task. I explained the way sanitation is handled where I’m from. They thought it was a good idea. I agreed, especially in light of the alternative displayed before me.
I still see such a mandated cleaning day as wrong. It is oppressive and puts the people it attempts to protect in danger by handling the very object of its wrath, the garbage itself. The piles of trash are still being collected by men in flatbed trucks with shovels, four days after it was piled onto the streets. Despite all of this, this half-day of inconvenience for me was a huge lesson. It reminded me of the “foreign” in “I live in a foreign country.” I don’t understand everything – a good thing to remember seeing as my routine has brought me under impression that I do. There are some things that need to be done and there are better ways in which they could be completed. There is room for improvement. But I am not going to make a lick of difference if I stand up and fight the system. I can plant seeds as to other ways of doing things, but I can not make the change. Only the people can. Only the people can demand a government that provides a sustainable sanitation strategy that does not require the people to put themselves at risk. Only the people can demand a government that does not steal from its people. At the end of the day, I am going home, the U.N. is going home, and most expatriates are going home to countrymen that have already demanded such things and governments that put them in place.
Even as I write this I am struck with my own ignorance and arrogance. There is much for me to think about and much for others to rebuke in me. Not all of my ways are the “correct” ways. There are differences in more than just opinion that end up with relatively the same outcome in many cases. In other cases the outcomes are different though the methods are the same. In a place where there is so much that is different and where no one disagrees that there is much work to be done, what does one choose to change? What do you do first? What do you leave untouched? How to you go from situation A to situation B … and on up the alphabet? My mind continues to race …
On a lighter note, an unnamed team member threw a plastic bottle into the gutter the other day to join several of its friends and was met with an accusation that “he, he was the one who was messing up this country!” He looked around to see the multiple piles of trash in the surrounding streets and walked away with a guilty chuckle. Yes indeed, he was the one.
If you made it this far, please post a comment. You deserve recognition.
