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.

A few tastes of Tripoli

It would be remiss of me not to blog about food in Tripoli. Suffice it to say that I ate well. The food is influenced by Italian/Mediterranean and Middle Eastern. Last night I ate at a restaurant so swank we were greeted by a Maitre'd in a tux. There was amuse-bouche of goat's cheese and olives served and my Fettuccine Di Mare had an identifiable but exquisite fish in it that was to die for. As we walked back to the car we spotted a sweet shop which of course was chock full of baklava-type treats. To-die-for.

Of course it was predominately five star hotel-based eating for me on this trip..for security reasons naturally. I did manage to sneak away for a nice Turkish meal. I did also noticed that we were always the first to arrive at a restaurant. Libyans, like their Mediterranean cousins eat late. They were usually coming while we were going.

I must make special mention of the divine fresh juice I had at every place I dined at. Amazing from the kiwi smoothie brought to me at check in to the fresh unsweetened lemon juice to the tripoli speciality: the cocktail, a artfully layered with fresh mango, strawberry and kiwi in a bright swirl of colors.

 As I rushed to the airport, I managed one last meal of Libyan soup, which was like a Minestrone, except with chick peas instead of pasta. Good stuff.

Shop til you drop - Tripoli souk edition

When I travel for work, I always try to go shopping. I can't help it. I have the girl gene for shopping. So when I met a young Tunisian human rights activist here in Tripoli, I asked her (after much serious conversation about women's rights) if she would take me to the souk.

Assuming it was for practical reasons, Maha and her Libyan friend Munira, picked me up at my hotel and took me to the souk, a.k.a., the Marks & Spencer-like shopping mall. I tried to humor them for a bit, but looking at gaudy Turkish imports of lingerie and bedding was not exactly what I had in mind.

So I called my colleague Halima, who had earlier given me the scoop on Libyan handicrafts, and asked her to explain in Arabic what I meant by shopping. She did and off we went to the main Souk in Old City. As we pulled up in the taxi, the taxi driver burst out laughing and mentioned that this was the site of Gadaffi's last speech, where he promised victory, etc. etc.

Great...

Anyway, a little on edge with that comment, plus being uncovered and seeing lots of police around, my shopping gene fended off my chicken shit gene and I surged toward the souk.

It turns out that Maha had quite a lot of shopping to do herself and I felt relieved that I wasn't dragging these ladies here. She bought a ton of stuff for her house. And Munira was browsing as well. Methinks the shopping gene is universal!

After picking up a trinket or two just to say: "I bought these in Libya," we wandered out of the market and over to a scenic area with a water fountain and a castle-like structure - probably the old walled city - and took some pictures. Munira went off to her next appointment after I thanked her with a ton of "shukrans."

Maha and I waited for the driver to take me to my next meeting. We talked about Tunisia and activism and I promised to help her network with some people coming to Tripoli next month. Faraj, the driver turned up, and Maha launched into what I thought were directions, but soon they were laughing and chatting. She's electric and accessible to everyone. She looped me into the convo too - happily translating back and forth and giggling with us both.

Who's 'Cray Cray'?

I just had a scan of yahoo.com, which I continue to hold as the bell weather of what America is really thinking. It turns out America is crazy. Here is a sampling of headlines:

“Druglord’s daughter to give birth in the US”

“3 dead and 3 wounded in Ohio Apartment Shooting”

“Walmart moms give narrow edge to Obama”

Oh the commentary I have on each one of these gems.

So I’m trying to figure out why Libya crazy feels different and restrictive even. Is it cultural? Yes, definitely. Despite being a self-proclaimed anthropological gender specialist, I giggled and took a picture of an Abaya shop today. The Arab perspective on women is very challenging for a Western mind. But before I go getting all judgmental, I must admit it’s not all bad news. Women are pioneers in Libya too. Is it political? Well, having been here for a bit, the answer might be yes, but the jury is still out on what political space will look like here. It seems to be trending Islamist, but many are quick to point out that this does not mean extremists will take over.

Or, do Americans have too much freedom? Of course there’s no such thing, but when I click on OMG website (yes, I chose to do that) and see the headline “Honey Boo Boo is Cray Cray in LA,” I can’t help but think that maybe there is a limit and that limit might be televising obese child beauty queens. But it does seem that American freedom is where I tend to hitch big differences to when I travel. It is a wonderful difference that, ok, sometimes we don’t use to the best of our potential. But I feel truly able to say (almost) anything and do anything within the (mostly) fair rule of law.

Maybe to save myself from liberal and anthropological guilt, I can also say that I maximize my American freedom, because it is familiar to me. It is my culture (except for the beauty brat). Navigating rights in Libya or other foreign places is not easy for an outsider. Indeed, contrary to popular belief and political opportunists, it’s a party here right now in Libya, especially compared to the previous regime hosted by the O.G. evil dictator. There is much talk about “liberation,” and the women I talk to are excited about opportunities more so than concerned about challenges.

Is freedom in the eye of the beholder? No, I think we must hold the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as the standard for all of humanity. But how those rights are made available to and embraced by different nations, classes and ethnicities is crucial to their success.