Telling my Peace Corps Story: Lens of Faith

As long as I can remember back, I've always been drawn to the desert. Growing up in Oklahoma, I had no experiences with deserts, but always gravitated to the Southwest part of the U.S. I loved turquoise and silver, chiles, mesas, giant, colorful skyscapes, brilliant sunrises and sunsets, learning about the indigenous tribes like Navajo and Pima, but mostly the idea of what the desert embodies: conservation, isolation, quiet, and solitude. Thomas Merton's The Wisdom of the Desert offers aphorisms from early monks living in the desert. Abbot Pastor said: A man must breathe humility and the fear of God just as ceaselessly as he inhales and exhales the air. Abbot Alonius said: Humility is the land where God wants us to go and offer sacrifice (pp116-17). I had to write an essay to tell the admittance board why I wanted to join the Peace Corps. At the time, I was fixated on the duality of wisdom and compassion, contrasted with knowledge and judgement. So, I said something like, as a judgmental person by nature, I wanted to develop compassion. But, in retrospect, what I was really seeking was humility.
There's something very humbling about leaving your home, your country, every social fabric you've weaved to help you become the person you are today, and start anew as a volunteer. It seemed exciting at the time; a real chance to dive into the sense of wanderlust I'd had since I was a teen. After becoming accepted to the program, I received my assignment. I told the recruiter I would accept any position from any country, so I had no idea where I would be stationed. I had been tasked as an information technology resource specialist in the schools and community resource project in the Northern Cape Province of South Africa, located in the Kalahari Desert. As vague as the job title sounds, it really meant I was assigned to work in two villages, each of which were small in size, and had one primary school apiece. I was to assist teachers, parents, out of school youth, especially in the area of life skills and HIV/AIDS education, in a variety of ways. In order to really help, though, I needed to first understand; who are these people? how do they fit into the bigger society? locally, regionally, and globally? How can I use my gifts and talents to serve them? How can I balance taking care of myself and serving others? Some of these answers were given during my 8 week training, and some of them have yet to be uncovered today, a decade later. One song I learned then, from our Setswana teachers, is called "Thula pele," pretty much means close your mouth and listen, foreshadowed the meditation stage I'm in now. Lots of listening, remaining a non-judging observer, exploring awareness, and teaching others, every Monday at public library formally, and informally by my way of life.
My village, where I lived for nearly two years, was called Logaganeng, "the place with the little cave," in Setswana. I wonder how long ago there was actually a cave, because nobody I asked had any idea. It was as flat as the Oklahoma plains from where I came. Was it irony? The BaTswana have a very rich language, full of allegory and other sophisticated modalities of speech, so I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. The next village over, where I also served, was called Ditshoswaneng, meaning unknown to me. They were about 7k apart, and I alternated one week at a time going between the two. I chose to walk; partly to save money, and partly because I rode a donkey cart one time, and it was so awkward getting off and on, and the cart rolled over my foot! Also partly because I love solitary walking. Just like when I learned about the joys of mindlessness through running, I came to adore my walks to and home from school on those weeks I traveled to the neighboring village. After about 15 or 20 minutes, the thoughts would quit their ceaseless barrage in my head, and it became like a walking meditation. A time when I didn't have to worry or help anyone. I could simply enjoy the sunshine, how different the thorn bushes looked than the leafy American trees I was used to, what the sounds of silence sound like, and frequently, thoughts began to drift to John the Baptist.
"I am the voice of one calling in the desert; prepare a way for the Lord!" he says in the New Testament. He wore sackcloth and ate the fruits that the desert provided, forsaking the comforts of tribal living among his peers, in order to follow his calling. That's what this is really about. The need to listen to that little voice inside me that whispers when I get quiet. The knowledge that the best part of me has not yet been revealed and needs to be uncovered. I've seen glimpses of that person who understands life is not all about her, in the orange that she always shared with someone on the bus ride home from shopping back to her village, who stood up to the man who tried to steal something out of her purse. No, I will not let you take advantage of me. I may be a foreigner, I may be a woman, but I am worth more than that selfish act of thievery.
The idea of a calling was not foreign to me; I was raised in an evangelical Christian church where people made decisions more on a calling than they did on other principles, laws or traditions. Some of my favorite memories of church were when the missionaries would come to visit. They would bring clothing, toys and other regalia from some remote land where they were serving. I would sit on the edge of my seat, excited to hear the tales of what it was like to leave their home, live with people they had never met and whose culture was foreign to them, but also to fill their calling of ministry. How exciting and scary all at the same time, I imagined you must be very brave and trusting in God to sign up for a job like that. Although I had stopped attending church and thinking about God about a decade prior, one of the ways I stayed centered during my Peace Corps service was to visit the Moffat Mission, located a few miles outside my shopping town of Kuruman.
Kuruman. The outpost of the Kalahari. Home to the Moffat Mission, where David Livingstone visited, and courted Robert Moffat's daughter, Mary. They were married beneath an almond tree, which stands today with a placard noting the significance. Alan Paton wrote about his forays into the bush, seeing remnants of the fabled Lost city of the Kalahari, long before he penned the apartheid novel, Cry the Beloved Country. Departing from Kuruman, when no roads were paved, and only accessible via Land Rover. Water was scarce then as it is today, but not for the white Afrikaaners who live in town, closest to the "eye of Kuruman," a water source. That diversity, abject poverty next to opulence, was one of the hardest parts about serving in South Africa.
Surrounding Kuruman in all directions are townships and villages, where all the BaTswana live, in varying states of poverty to rising middle class. It is common to see tin shack shanties on dusty patches right next door to a brick home with a bit of landscaping in the yard. Most do not have indoor plumbing, but some do. Most do not own a vehicle, but some do. I am reminded of a recent blog post from my friend Becca who talks about the South African culture of ubuntu, which is essentially all about sharing. "People are quietly loaning each other money, bringing food to neighbors, etc. People know when their help is needed, and they bring it. They aren't, like us Americans, trumpeting what they are doing for other people to everyone they know. I think that humility is a part of ubuntu because you do what you do because of the way you are connected to other people. You don't see it as a triumph but as a part of being a person."
Where there is civilization, there will be inequity. One NGO, or volunteer cannot erase this. Dr. Muhammad Yunus, father of the Grameen Bank and microlending, has an inspiring plan to eliminate povery, unemployement and net carbon emissions by leaving capitalism behind, which he chronicles in his latest book, A World of Three Zeroes, published in 2017. The purpose of the Peace Corps is not to eliminate inequities, or poverty, though. To promote world peace and friendship by fulfilling three goals: To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served, and to help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans. For me, understanding took place in a visceral way, of living it, that there are people who have very little or nothing, who live in distress and discomfort,  who are not even a generation removed from an oppressive apartheid government, who have little education, but, who value each other, value the dignity of human life, respect religion, ritual, diversity, helped me see I wasn't on the wrong journey. I had simply just taken the first step.