Memories of Elmina

From Elmina there are a few select things I remember the most. The effect the church on me was obviously one. The creepy hauntedness of the castle. It was so obvious that there were thousands of ghosts throughout the castle, there's no way there couldn't have been. I'll never forget the smell of the women's cells. Around 100 women were placed into a tiny smell, all sleeping on top of each other on the floor in piles and piles, because there simply wasn't enough room. The only ventilation they had was a tiny window that lead into another room, one that held gun supplies, so the women were constantly breathing in thick chemical filled air, never exposed to fresh air. They were kept in there for months, and there were obviously no bathroom facilities, so all of their bodily output (blood, sweat, excrement, urine, menstrual blood) covered the floors of the room. Those same floors that they piled on top of to sleep every night. Hundreds of years later andy you could still smell everything.

Cape Coast Journal Entry, A Deeper Look into My Head

A few weeks ago we went on a group trip to Cape Coast. In Cape Coast is one of the largest and most utilized slave castles of the Atlantic Slave Trade. It is called Elmina castle, a large white stone structure primely located right on the waterfront. I haven't been able to write about the situation in blog form, but here is a small glimpse of what I wrote in my journal that weekend::::

"February 5, 2010
Some things I don't understand:
1. How the white man looked out along the perfect beautiful stretching coast of Elmina, saw the mothers, fathers, children, lovers and said--Yes. These people are mine. They should be commodities, not humans. It is my place in the worlds to do this. And I will.
2. How anyone can walk through the castle, come to the church was God supposably was, and still believe in him. Nothing good came from the AST. {Atlantic Slave Trade} So why would any God make it so? If there was a God how could he be witnesss to everything that happened and say Yes. This must be done. These people must die and sufer and their country must be digressed and pushed back developmentally.
Yes, Africans benefitted, I suppose, by going to America and making a place for themselves, but there could have been another way. This did not need to happen. If a God made this happen, I do not want him to be my God.

February 6, 2010
If a God had deamed a certain race heathen we would KNOW it.
Nature does not discriminate. The ocean rushes out to everyone, foam giddely jumping over and over itself to try to reach you faster. Sand embraces you, barely containing herself as she holds onto you, all over you. She comes in different colors too you see, it makes no difference to her. Rocks do not crumble from underneath you because you are black, white, yellow, purple. With our limbs and our skin and our brains--Why can't we learn from our founding mothers? The elements who have been here centuries before us, and have survived and thrived and been. The sea will never hide from the sand. And rocks will never move away from the touch of the ocean. And sand and rock will live side by side without ever a qualm. So why can't we be, like sand and rock and sea. Why can't we."

Wallets

---Recently my roommate was talking to me about wallets. And how when her boyfriend didn't have one it had bothered her so much-- it was a sign of his inactiveness. This really got me thinking. Wallets are such a sign of personality, of who a person is both literally and still so much deeper. A wallet can hold the characteristics of a person, show what they find valuable and important, how they view themselves and what they enjoy.
---A license gives you the basics--full, real name, hometown, age, eye color. It also shows whether or not they are an organ donor. A seemingly simple answer, yes or no, yet something that reveals quite a lot about a person. Answer yes and you can immediately know the person is not a devout Hebrew. As their bodies are sacred they are only allowed to be placed into the ground as they were placed on this earth--intact, holy, and unmarked.
---After a license comes the next expected thing, money. Naturally the amount of cash in a person's wallet can provide some information into a persons economic status. But look deeper. Big wads of cash? What are they using it for? Are they irresponsible? Or involved in something illegal? Or were they merely on their way to pay a bill. Do they only hold a few bucks? Are they poor or did they just finish spending their whole paycheck.
---What else is in there? Credit cards, library cards, mass cards, receipts, scraps of papers, notes? What do they say? What does it mean about the person? What do you think it means? Are you wrong? Are you right? Do you even really know this person at all?

Ani on my Mind

An Ani lyric I find myself singing often under this African sun. Something to think about.
"they were digging a new foundation in manhattan
and they discovered a slave cemetery there.
may their souls rest easy now that lynching is frowned upon,
we've moved on to the electric chair." --ani

Lord of the Flies

---Last week I was sitting in Street Girls Aid with three crying kids in my lap, a girl putting her pencil in my hair, and a toddler trying to offer me his lollipop. As I sat juggling all these kids I noticed a man outside the courtyard wall. He was just standing and looking at the kids, until he picked up a rock and through it at one of the little girls. He walked along the wall until he came to a small group of boys who were playing on the ground. I put my kids down, gave the little girl back her pencil, and went over to the other volunteers. "Any idea what the hell that man is doing?" I asked. "Looks like he's just talking to the kids" my friend Ariel answered. "Well he makes me nervous," I said. "Let's keep an eye on him." "Alright. Let's just see how things play out."
---I went back to my still crying kids and kept my eye on the creepy man outside the courtyard. With his eyes rolling back to his head he would whisper to the little boys. My stomach was turning, and I knew this was trouble. As he burst out laughing I saw the three little boys begin to fight each other, ripping at each other's clothes and pushing each other. Ariel and I quickly broke up the fight, and told the boys to play nicely. I had barely turned my back before one boy was laying on the ground, getting his stomach kicked in by the other two boys. I ran over and grabbed the little boy off the ground and carried him over to the steps, letting Ariel reprimand the abusers. After telling the boys off, she went over to the man at the wall and asked him if he needed any assistance. "No, I am not talking to them." He replied. "Well then I think you should leave. Now." Ariel's motherly instincts were radiating, and her voice held the power of an American woman. He began to turn to leave, but made sure to yell something in Twi before he went on his way. In a flash, the two boys ran over to me with terribly devilish smiles. They grabbed the beaten boy's arm and leg and began to pull. I pushed them and grabbed the boy, trying to run to the other side of the courtyard. The man at the wall yelled something again, and suddenly I was playing tug-of-war with this little boys body, me holding his abdomen while all the children in the courtyard began pulling at his limbs. I screamed for help from the Ghanian women inside as the little boy was literally getting torn limb from limb. They're stern voices and sharp hands quickly broke up the battle, and the bruised boy was brought inside. Frightened, and spent, I told Ariel it was time to go.
---That twenty minutes at the crutch was one of the most bizarre, and frightening moments I've had in my life. That man scared the life out of me, the way he looked at the kids and spoke to them, it was surreal. On my cab ride home I had time to think about what in the world had just happened, and Ariel and I exchanged our reactions. The thing that couldn't get out of my head was actually the Ghanian women. I thought about what would have happened if Ariel and I weren't there, and hadn't had the courage to tell that man to get the (expletive) out of there. There would have been no way the Ghanian women would have said anything to him, and he could have stood there all day telling those kids to fight, and after that who knows what. It makes me reflect on my own society and how grateful I am that women have the place that we do. I only wish women were treated and respected like that in more countries.

Basic Street Girls

I have a friend Ana who is volunteering at a group called Basics. It helps prostitutes and young mothers get somewhat of an education. Unfortunately the organization can't fund the girls enlistment in public schools, but they have their own schools where volunteers teach. Ana is currently teaching a fifteen year old mother how to write the letter N. Listen to Ana talk about her experiences at Basics I can't help but make a connection to my own volunteering. The effects are so obvious. Ana is working with the teenage prostitutes and I am working with their attention deprived children. Many people find fault in the mothers, leaving their children in these unwatched slums that try to call themselves a 'day care.' I sympathize with the mothers, I can not blame them. I've watched the mothers tearing themselves away from their screaming children, waving goodbye as they lock them in the courtyard. They need money to provide what little they can for their children, and they do it any way they can. Their children need food more than they need attention.

Street Girls Aid

---I have begun my volunteer service at a NGO called Street Girls Aid. Street Girls Aid works to get street girls off the street and into schools. Many women sell in the markets, fabric, clothes, food, whatever they can spare. However many many many of these girls don't have any tangible goods to sell, so they turn to prostitution. They have a field-service program, where volunteers make friends with the girls and try to lure them off the street. For volunteers like myself who are only here for a short time however, this is not a well-matched job. Instead I work at the day care center, a place where the woman are urged to leave their children for the day, at a whopping one cedi a month. In actuality, this is indeed a large sum of money for most street workers, as many earn as little as 1 pesawas a week (100 pesawas = 1 cedi). At first I was quite discouraged from the news that I would be baby-sitting as my volunteer work. However as soon as I entered the crutch (what Ghanians call day-care) I knew I was needed.
---There are about 5 other women volunteering at the crutch, three Ghanian and two German girls. The children range from anywhere between one to five years old. There are about 100-150 kids a day. Five women, watching after 100-150 attention deprived children. A mad house? A danger zone? A answer to a prayer from 100-150 women? I don't even know how to describe it. As soon as I walked in the gate I was swarmed with all the kids, screaming "Hello! Hello! Hello!" I spent my 3 hours there playing with them, keeping them out of trouble, and giving them as much attention as I could. I left covered in dirt, tears, snot, and urine.
---I came to the crutch thinking I was going to be disappointed. I felt that I had so much to give, and baby-sitting restricted that. After going into that courtyard however, and seeing all those kids, it was more than obvious that there was where I was needed. Many of the volunteer opportunities offered by NYU are geared toward helping children. At first I thought this was simply an 'easy way out' I suppose. But boy was I proved wrong. The kids are where the need is, so then that's where I belong.

A How To For My Blog

So internet is very terrible in Ghana (except for rare, wonderful occasions). So what I do is write my blogs, and then when I get a glimpse of internet I upload as many as I can. So read them as if they're updated on normal intervals, but unfortunately they'll have to sometimes come in sets of three like this. Enjoy!

A Book Report

--I wrote this as a blog, but realized it would do better as my book report that I have to do. But I'll put it up anyways, so you can know what some of my reading is like. I guess. I dunno, read it or skip to the next one.
---I am reading a book for my literature class called "So Long a Letter" by Mariama Ba. It reads the diary of a African Islamic woman, abandoned by her husband on his conquest of a co-wife. Ramatoulaye decides to remain in her town, with her twelve children, constantly confronted with the shame her husband has placed upon her. This new co-wife, Binetou, is the same age as her eldest daughter, and was ironically introduced into the scenario through friendship with said girl. Ramatoulaye's courage and perseverance is remarkably admirable. She adopts the duties her husband had left behind, paying bills, repairing the house's leaky faucets, extinguished light bulbs, broken windows, while still holding onto her womanly tasks of cleaning, cooking and caring for her children. Her modern feministic views were obvious from the beginning, even during the happy parts of their marriage, yet by the end of the story the woman shreds all cocoons that held her back. She adherently rejects the proposal of her dead husbands younger brother, shaming him for asking her while still in mourning, reminding him that women do have hearts, brains, and options too. Her strength only continues to grow. After her mourning period ends she learns to forgive her husband, and wish him only the best in his afterlife. She listens to both her head and her heart, making smart decisions that although at times hard, will lead to the best results. She rears her children with a modern touch yet still with a respect for the past, teaching them to love each other, respect each other, but to remain smart, capable, and strong. The book ends with a changed woman. In the beginning of the book her suffering is heart wrenching. Her constant inner struggle between leaving, starting somewhere new afresh, and her staying, remaining headstrong and brave, thrusting her strength into the face of those who doubt her. Her lack of confidence, and self-inflictiong doubt and pain are brutal. Yet over time, with the help of her children, she transforms. She becomes a strong, independent, loving woman. Free of the stereotypes and pressures placed upon her by society she lives her life as she pleases. Raising her kids in a way too new for her community yet fully confident in her practices, declining marriage proposals that were so very convenient but not true to her heart. We met Ramatoulaye living her life as a woman, yet she departed from us divinely human.

The Obruni Price

--I previously wrote about being a minority, yet still having the upper hand. Most times I feel this way, sometimes though, the minority bit really hits home.
--When I go to the market, or try to get a cab, I am always told double or triple the actual price. I get so jipped! Now Ghana thrives on being a bargaining country, its a cornerstone of their economy. However even in this style I am giving the 'obruni price.' I get so frustrated! I would like to think that I am somewhat of a traveler. I've done my fair share of flying, training, driving, walking, and I think I am pretty damn good at it (best when I am with a certain special 4 girls). Its offensive to me that when in Ghana I am treated like a dumb blonde slizzy freshman getting a cab at Newman Towers for the first time! Or from those not hailing from Loyola, getting ripped off on the streets of Manhattan! I am a good bargainer! I am a good traveler! Please don't treat me like some lost bo-dunk Southerner in Times Square!
---As I reflect I see that this is only one of the few ways I am treated as a minority, a obruni. However it also shows to me how easy I have it. I complain of being treated unfairly because cab drivers want me to pay them 10 cedi for a 2 cedi cab ride. My African-American friend here wasn't allowed to rent an apartment in the Manhattan because the building was evidently only filled with white people and she was turned away as soon as the realtor saw she was black. I never thought I would learn so much about the United States when I was in Ghana.

On 'Coming Home'

---During my stay in Ghana I have found that too many white folk have too many opinions on Africans and those in the African diaspora(excluding of course professors or other experts of Africana studies). I have listened to many discussions on the topic and how many Caucasians feel attacked as being white. Listening on a conversation, I noted one person say they felt ostracized from the "secret club that I can't even be a spectator of. I am the outsider in an enemy way." I could barely keep my jaw from smacking against the floor.
---Africans have gone through too much for others to be able to relate to. Learning about slavery, and the suffering and slaughter that Africans went through is not enough. Those not of African descent cannot understand. They cannot walk a step in an African's shoes.
---Many African-American's emigrate back to Africa, hoping to find some connection to their past, which may lay anywhere on the gigantic continent of Africa. (On a side note, many people, including myself, forget that Africa is a continent. A very, very, very, large continent.) Many African-American's refer to this journey as 'coming home.' After talking to a Ghanian I have been informed that this is "bullshit." As he explained it, 'white Americans' come to Ghana with their cup half empty, waiting to learn and experience anything and everything. Whatever expectations they may have can be altered, and then added upon. 'Black Americans' however come with their cup overflowing, expecting to be pulled into Ghana with open yearning arms. According to my Ghanian friend, this is nothing but the truth. Ghanians see 'black and white Americans' in the same light, as an obruni--a white foreigner.
---I could only imagine how harsh this could be heard by African-Americans, yet as I looked around to others listening to the conversation, the 'white Americans' were all nodding in agreement. Although many times I feel this 'coming home' aspect is pretty cheesy and unrealistic, I can't relate. Many of my fellow study abroad students try to compare their lives to that of the African diaspora, saying "I am not running around Germany or France calling it home and looking for where my great-grandmother lived. I don't understand why African-Americans need to." Again, I believe it is a feeling and an experience only those of the African diaspora can understand. To compare their experience to mine would be offensive. I know exactly where my family originated from, and I know they all came to America with their own will. As with all movements, there were push-pull factors that lead them to move, but they were not forced to leave their homes. Comparatively, Africans were uprooted from their countries, packed into cells, beaten, raped, and murdered, and then shipped to America, where they were lived the rest of their lives as slaves. There was no choice, no push-pull factor, only severe force and brutality. I could never imagine.
---Ghanians believe the saddest way to live is alone. I believe the saddest way to live is without a place called home.

Monkeys!

--No insightful thoughts in this blog, purely facts. But facts about a day that was so amazing I just had to give you all a play by play of everything that happened.
Eight others and myself headed out at 10 this morning to find the Solo Monkey Sanctuary. We knew what town it was in, but also had heard it was very very very difficult to find. We finally found two cabs that were willing to make the journey and set out on our way. As soon as we arrived in the town we began asking about Solo. No one had a damn clue. We had directions from a friend that said, "after the 'Welcome to Israel' sign, make a right next to the soccer field." Awesome. Thanks.
--Well we passed the 'Welcome to Israel' sign, and made a right on the next street after the soccer field, but nope. Everyone said we were going the wrong way. Finally we found a cabby from the area who was willing to lead us in the right direction. We went back to said soccer field and drove onto it. At the back of the soccer field was a tiny dirt road that looked like it could fit maybe one tiny tiny car, but required Hummer driving gear. After a lot of bumps, twists, and what felt like driving through people's front yards, we came to the forest! We met a man named Keemasi who was the owner and caretaker of the forest. He ended up taking us all over his beautiful property, and into the village, which turned out to also be part of his property, and his father was the king, making him prince. We were all shocked that we were getting a tour from someone who was so prestigious! And he was a rasta none the less! As we walked through the town it became obvious that Keemasi was someone very important. Everyone knew his name, and most people came up to him to shake his hand.
--After touring the village Keemasi took us down to the beach to see the fisherman and go for a swim. Well we came down to the beach and it was Filled with fishing boats! It turned out that the area we were in was famous for fishing, and boats from all over the world came to fish right where we were standing. We walked along the beach and Keemasi stopped alongside one of the boats, and suddenly motioned for all of us to get in! We happily all jumped in the boat, and before we knew it were were getting shipped across the coast to a tiny island, his brother's beach resort!! The hotel and ugly stuff was on the mainland, the island was strictly for swimming and relaxing. It was stunning. It was paradise. It was all ours. We all had brought bathing suits but couldn't be bothered, and we thew off our clothes on our run to the water, jumping in with our bras and underwear. The water was so warm, so clean and so beautiful. We swam and splashed and sang for two hours, finally dragging ourselves out of the water to go back to the forest.
--We walked up a big hill that overlooked the forest, hoping for monkey sightings and most definitely got our fill! As it was their dinner time they were all our hopping from one tree to the next, gathering fruits before nightfall. It was a magical end to such a fabulous day.
--I want to keep writing and elaborate and tell all I've learned from the day, and all I saw inside the village, but all my adventuring has gotten me preeeetty sleepy. : )

The Black Stars

I went to watch Africa play Egypt for the Africa Cup in the town of Osu. They closed down about two blocks and placed a giant mega tron television in the middle of the road, paired up with giant speakers to match. I was immediately welcomed into the crowd and I started celebrating. Everyone was screaming and chanting and raving at every chance they got--a missed shot, great defense, everything. I bought a FanIce (a small plastic bag of ice cream, yumm) and during half time took the opportunity to get a Ghanian flag painted on my face. The screaming and chanting continued, but with only four minutes left in the game, Egypt scored. For the remainder of the game the crowd was practically silent in comparison to the beginning of the game. The crowd lingered after the game was over and the jumbo screen was shut down. I walked around and saw that for the most part, the Ghanians were still pretty happy. I asked a man if he was sad Ghana had lost and he said, "What? Why would we be sad? We got second place!!" I was shocked. I have never in my life heard a team celebrate after loosing, saying 'We got second!" It really made me reflect on Ghana as a whole, and the positive attitude they all have, even after all the horrors that have been committed against them. Obviously second out of fifty two countries is an amazing placement, but most sports teams don't think like that, they only know they didn't come in first. But Ghanians are just so different. They don't seen to consider the 'what if's' of their country, only on the here and now. They do not reflect on the setbacks that the slave trade caused them, and think about where they could be if the past was different. They don't think Instead they praise their successes so far, and leave the past behind. It's something that I really admire, and am definitely going to try to keep in mind as I live my life.

A Slumdog Millionaire

---A common theme throughout the NYU students is their feeling of displacement. Of being the minority for once in their lives. Coming to Africa I knew this would be something I would deal with, I just didn't know what it would be like. After three weeks I can so far say that it is so different, and so similar to being white in the United States.
---As much as of a minority I may represent here, it doesn't change the color of my skin. There may only be a few Caucasians in Ghana, but they're all still wealthy, well off, white people. I feel as if I am constantly stared at for two reasons, one being that I am white and therefore something rarely seen walking through Accra. The other being that I am white, and therefore my pockets must be overflowing with cedi and American hundred dolla bills. As I think about this, the first thing that comes to my mind is that I may be white, but I am definitely not packing heat in my pockets. Many Ghanians are under the illusion that Americans are all millionaires, with plenty of money to share. Yet as I say this I realize that, compared to the life they live, I am a millionaire.
---As I think about my worth as a white woman here, and how much I can give to the Ghanians, I reflect back to my own home, and wonder why people don't care about the beggars and homeless in our own country. Is it because they're white? Cause they're not under the hot African sun? Why do people give their money to infomercials of starving Africans, when there are starving people in their own neighborhood? Comparatively yes, I am slightly wealthier in Africa than I am in the United States. But the money I have in Africa is the same money I have in America. Yet here I find myself in the mindset of the wealthy. What are the differences that make us feel like millionaires in Africa, but not in Manhattan?