The rock bottom for women and girls

“The status of women in the DRC is rock bottom,” a diplomat said to me. “It is truly, devastatingly worse here than anywhere else in the world.” She elucidated her comments with anecdote after anecdote of just how bad women have it. A recent study found that women work on average 17 hours a day and men work 7. This sounds not unlike elsewhere, where women work and take care of families, but the work here is hard; hard labor hard. Women carry backbreaking loads of goods and children, they toil in the fields under the blistering equatorial sun that splits stones and they are beaten by their husbands for not working hard enough. The diplomat also revealed the clueless, hapless world of the international community that cannot produce much evidence of  meaningful impact. Perhaps she was having a bad day. But I worry she wasn't.

This meeting reminded me where I am. The farce of capital city comfort almost got me. There were lots of discussions of issues in the abstract today, with mindless droning of some shameful UN agencies. “We issued an annual report on gender blah blah blah.” I’ve assuaged my guilt over comfort on this trip with reminders of the dues I’ve paid in Gulu and Juba and elsewhere. I may even still let myself off the hook a little bit. It’s ok that not every field trip I take consists of propelling myself on shoddy, crappy airplanes to the arse-end of nowhere to get up close and personal with human suffering.

But perhaps I can do better. When I returned to the office this evening, I made it my mission to tweak my agenda slightly. “Can we ask some of these groups if it would be possible to meet with their beneficiaries?” I worried a bit about overstepping the hospitality of my colleagues, but I suppressed my fretting. This was my shot to speak to a few women and girls here in Kinshasa who suffer the world’s worst poverty and inequity. Their world cannot be substituted by visits to refugee camps in Yei or secondary schools in Pader. I must meet women here.

I also met the Minister of Gender today. She was a fabulous woman who towered over me, dressed to the 9s in an exquisitely tailored dress. I didn’t have high expectations of the meeting, because many leaders here are unabashed patrons of power. However, she gave me some hope. She outlined her priorities and chief among them was to get out into the local communities. Programming at national or even provincial level was not enough. We needed to get to the mango tree.

As always, the mango tree is my touchstone. It propels me and engages my sense of what is responsible development programming. Although I may not bump up and down on roads thousands of kilometers from nowhere on this trip, I think I can do better. I must try.

Ali Boom ba yay!

Well, I made it to Kinshasa. Piece of cake! The airport was not that scary. One a scale of 1 to Juba, I give it a 5.5. Heck, if they hadn't asked for my immunization card, I'd probably even give it higher marks.

My first day was a flurry of meetings where I floated in and out of jetlagged consciousness. I was doing that embarrassing dozing head bob in the car between meetings...

Today after what felt like 17 hours of sleep I feel much better. My IFES minder, Bernadette (chosen because she speaks the best English) picked me up and took me to the market. We went to buy fabric. I know I know,  I'm addicted. But how can one not buy fabric ("liputa" in Lingala) when one is in the heart of Africa?

Speaking of the heart of Africa or Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, I visited the shores of the Congo River after the market. This river is lesser known than the Nile, but it is infamous because of Conrad and of course the Belgians. It is wide and fast moving and I cannot imagine the crazy places to which it leads.

Admittedly it is a bit hard to reconcile the DRC I am experiencing with the one rated by the UN's Human Development Index as dead last in the world. I knew that coming over. There is often talk among development folk of being stuck in capital cities and not seeing the "real" Africa. It is true, but I'm relatively ok with that for this trip. I have paid my dues bumping up and down on God-awful roads to hold meetings under mango trees.

For now I'm focused less on getting to know Africa (we're pretty acquainted...) and more on figuring out my new job. This trip will help.

Ok, maybe writing this while devouring a "Salada Nicoise" overlooking an Olympic size swimming pool is a bit ridiculous. (There is actually a water aerobics class being taught and not one Congolese among the students.) Ahem.

But it's Saturday and the rest of the week promised to be busy with meetings to help me figure out how and where to break in with gender programming here; programming that reaches the mango tree...

The hurricane and the Hubers

In an effort to preserve some moments of Huber history I feel the need to write down a few reflections from the last few weeks.

My grandmother, Alberta huber, died two weeks ago. She was 95. She was ready to meet her maker and for the most part we were ok with it. I was amazed by my Aunt Beth who took on the lion share of caring for Nana, and at the end kept a near constant vigil as I for one traipsed off to Libya. From giving her gold medals to opening windows my Aunt tried to help Alberta go with peace and grace, and she finally did. Her funeral was a celebration and not too emotional except my brother's occasional outburst or my aunt's sweet sniffles. I was only overcome once and that was when I was presented with her engagement ring. It seemed too extravagant a gift and I did not feel worthy.

Then my parents drove down for "meet the parents" weekend. This deserves a blog in and of itself but suffice it to say it went well. The Aaronson and Huber clans did well.

My parents scurried off on Sunday to beat out the hurricane which was expected to devastate the eastern seaboard. In DC we worried but the storm mostly spared us. New York and New Jersey were not spared. The history of Sandy is well documented and awful. 

My house on the Highlands was spared because it was indeed on high lands. The town was wiped out. 1,200 of the 1,500 houses in downtown Highlands will be bull dozed.

My parents had no structural damage but lost power and as of this entry still don't have it. They claim it's not so bad. They have a gas stove and a fireplace and plenty of wood. They have the camaraderie of their great neighbors. Each night of the early days hosting communal grilling parties and drinking into the wee hours.

 

Four days after the storm it was clear that my dad was finally going to have to put down his beloved dog Maggie. Just a week after my grandmother passed, Maggie did too. She went with  my parents in the room reassuring her and weeping. It's too much.

 A few days afterwards my parents are trying to rebound. My dad is back to work but exhausted. My mom called the mayor's office. They were kind but that was all. So they wait for power and the Jersey shore reels in its destruction.

We are lucky of course but it is never easy. I'm amazed that they have stuck it out. We tend to dwell on our Huber crazy, with the often quoted adage "Sell crazy somewhere else. We're all stocked up here." But perhaps we should give a little more time and credit to the incredible strength of this family. I am amazed.

Live Presidents

On Saturday Hayden and I went to a campaign rally for Obama in Bristow, VA. With just 3 days til the 2012 presidential election, I was excited to finally have a chance to see president Obama speak in person. As a bonus, Bill Clinton introduced him. Also there was Tim Kaine, former governor and current senate candidate and slightly oddly, Dave Matthews.

Dave sang a few songs which were forgettable save his incredible voice. Tim came out and if I were being honest he cast a bit of a "they made me run" vibe.

Then Bill. Oh Bill! He was hoarse as hell from trotting across the country campaigning like crazy. Even without a voice, the man could talk. In hindsight and reflecting on both men's styles, Clinton speaks like you are sitting next to him at a picnic, both of you munching on BBQ ribs shooting the shit. In a hoarse but pronounced southern draw he declared "when I was a little boy my grandmother  told me not to get caught with my hands in the cookie jar. Mitt Romney not only gets caught (pause to chuckle to himself) with his hand in the cookie jar, but he digs it in farther desperately seeking more cookies." Woo hoo! He had the crowd in his palm. All of us in the freezing cold Virginia night loved Bill Clinton.

Then the big moment...even though people say Clinton is a tough act to follow, actually waiting for a glimpse of Obama was bigger. He literally sprinted onto the stage and everyone went nuts. He had an uncharacteristically frenzied and infectious bound to him as he approached the mic. Maybe I was inadvertently swept into the moment because he entered to U2's song "City of Blinding Lights." 

He gave a speech that was at once different and complementary to Clinton's. To Clinton's folksiness, Obama offered the unmistakable air of a sitting president. He preached to us like he understood his job is to tend to us in the thousands. It was not intimate, but it was awesome. He boomed his familiar campaign speech across the outdoor amphitheater. Though familiar it felt invigorated. Perhaps it was the final days of the campaign. He used a new talking point about being merely a prop in this great campaign that he said was up to us. He reiterated the promise to work for all and that it was an American imperative to support each other. My God, how could the other side not agree with this?! He captivated us with his preaching. We were truly his lambs.

We had to drive an hour outside of DC. We then had to wait in a line for two hours that snaked through a seemingly endless parking lot where the temperature dipped into the low 40s. At one stage in the line I joked to Hayden that Obama was losing votes with such inhumane conditions.

All was forgotten as the sense of history superseded petty complaints. It was Obama's history, on the eve of a victory that seemed impossible to halt (indeed he was victorious). And it was my history too, because I knew standing in the cold, in my platform boots, leaning on Hayden for warmth that I would remember this moment for the rest of my life. This was the moment I finally heard Obama speak and Clinton too. And it was awesome.