Supernatural

I can only imagine what happens during a Sande initiation ceremony. Drums keep time as initiates sway, twirl, and clap to the beat. Each movement is culturally symbolic and invokes ancestral spirits. Libations flow to Xala, the supreme deity of the cosmic universe, ancient prayers of prosperity are whispered, and elderly hands carve membership onto young supple flesh. The raised marks on the arm or neck identify the person and tribe. It is a mark of affiliation and affinity that binds them to their clan and culture. Young girls learn to be good women and wives. Social boundaries are clarified and reified for all to see. But, what happens when the social boundaries are transgressed whether real or imagined? How are deviance and the unwritten social sanctions imagined and experienced within the Kpelle society? I think that is best understood when things go wrong in the society. It is at the breach of normalcy that one can examine the perceived social norms of a society. At the fissure or rupture, one can examine normalcy and deviance. According to Emile Durkheim, deviance fulfills four unique functions for a society. It defines and reifies cultural norms and values. Deviance makes clear the demarcation between morality and immorality. Those who respond to deviance are unified in their struggle to denounce it. Yet, deviance can be bring about social change because it applies pressure to the existing boundaries. Kpelle society like all societies in the world is dynamic and subject to change. I am witnessing a society in flux. A young baby girl lies on her back in a crowded hospital room. She shares the room with two other infant patients. A sickly baby boy lies on a mattress with his mother who coos and whispers “I love you.” The next mattress over is a tiny premature baby girl. Her face is round with skin like brown velvet. She is without her mother, because she died in childbirth. Her family hasn’t sent for her, since they are probably still grieving. I try to think what it most be like to loose a daughter, wife, and mother of four. I wonder to myself as I softly murmur sweet nothings to the baby wrapped in the pink blanket, “Who will take care of the other children?” “Will the mother’s parents offer the available sister to the widower to perform a sororate marriage?” These may be some of the questions that the family must answer before they can pick up their little bundle of brown velvet. For right now, she lies next to a Kpelle surrogate grandmother. She’s taking her lunch right next to her—refusing to leave her side for just a few minutes. What the hospital lacks in modern medical technology the people make up for in love and devotion. However, not all the infants have an around the clock love support team. An infant was born hydrocephalic with only the hospital staff and the occasional curious spectator to provide for her. She lies behind a thin curtain. There is no modern prenatal care that would have diagnosed the condition. There are no neurosurgeons in Liberia and no medical evacuation plan for sick children. Although the staff immediately understood the constellation of medical conditions to be hydrocephalus, the family thought it was a supernatural curse. The body is not only physical here, but also metaphysical. Some conditions are understood to be the cause of abstract social transgressions. The parents thought she was a gena or supernatural monstrosity sent to warn and punish them for something. “Throw her away in the dark bush! Do it late at night so no one will see” are the instructions the parents gave to the hospital staff. They absconded with their guilt and shame to the bush to make peace with Xala. A gena could be understood as a culture- bound syndrome, because it takes a constellation of symptoms and reinterprets them according to cultural symbols and access to medical technology.
There’s a lot more I can say, but that will have to wait till graduate school.

Why are things so hard?

Nothing is quite right here. The line at the bank grows longer and longer everyday. We wait hours to make a deposit or withdraw. There are only a handful of ATMs in Monrovia and most don’t work when you want it. Running around taking care of multifarious tasks may take the entire day. Yesterday I withdrew cash from the bank and tried to pick up packages from the post office. It took four hours and the package was being held for a bribe. Things should not be this hard, but it only gets harder for the most vulnerable of Liberian citizens, One such person is the smallest baby girl languishing in a dark corner of the ICU unit of the local hospital. This place is poorly supplied and the staff re-use gloves and surgical needles. Cures and treatments are hard to find. Prayer and witchcraft mingle with hypodermic needles and prescription drugs. A small three weeks old infant suffers from hydrocephalous. Her family abandons her as a bad omen. Her bulging forehead and dire prognosis sends her mother wailing back to the bush. There will be no shunts or third ventriculostomies to be implanted by skilled infant neurosurgeons for little “Helen.” She is without a family and slowly dying. It can’t be easy. A small donation cup rests above her head to pay for her care and eventual funeral. Hospital staff and visitors coo at the seemingly happy little baby. I wonder to myself, “How much would it cost to medically evacuate her to Ghana?” “How much would it cost to fly a neurosurgeon to Liberia for surgery?” So many thoughts cross my mind. However, my most pressing question is “Why is life so difficult here?”

Clouds Loom Overhead

Gray clouds loom in the distance. The rainy season is almost here. It rains without notice and gives a welcomed reprieve from the intense heat. The earth is parched and red dust covers green leaves. Such an afternoon storm blew over Gbarnga during a meeting with the Elder Paramount Chief Borwor, an elderly and wise man. He gave me flirtatious glances as we discussed traditional moot courts. Most of the conflict he resolves deals with land tenure and family disputes. An unfaithful spouse. Yet, he handles issues of paramount importance. Land. Wars are fought over land. As the wind sweeps over the front porch and knocks over the small card table, I grab my notebook and we duck inside the Chief’s house. His living room looks like a small courtroom. Benches on each side of the room with his chair juxtaposed between the two parties. Here is where he rules. I am in his realm of authority. The war ended in 2003 and tribal lands were re-drawn and the Mandingo may have received an unfair shake. I can’t be for sure, but many of the land tenure disputes involve Mandingo tribal land. Two weeks ago in the northwestern most corner of Liberia, a young woman was kidnapped and brutalized. She was found outside a mosque with body parts missing. Mandingos are mostly Muslims and were blamed for her murder. In my opinion, this is the work of the Heartmen. Heartmen are witchdoctors who use body parts for powerful sorcery. Hmm, sorcery and Islam don’t fit together. There is a strong historic correlation between Heartmen killings and political aspirations. A mutilated body is dumped near a rival and he is never able to recover. His career is over. I can’t be sure this is what happened in Voinjama, Lofa County, but this event tore apart the community. Mosques and Christian churches were burned alike and people are dead. Rumors spread throughout this transnational community. Many fled over the border to Guinea and others hid in the thick jungle bush. Peace Corps pulled out after a harrowing 19 hours hunkered down in their small unsecure house. Thankfully, UN has the largest contingent in the world in a country the size of Tennessee. We are safe.