Dog Days of Summer

As a kid, summer was my all time favorite time of year, not just because my birthday falls during the summer, or that I could spend my days being a geeky band camper, but because I got to go to the beach. Some of my first memories of family holidays are those spent at Coney Island, and later when we moved to Long Island, Jones Beach. My older brother liked to call us the Gaddafi bandwagon because when we traveled we traveled all together, this was particularly so when we made a beach trip. My parents, my brothers, my grandparents and any other relative that was staying with us at the time and of course moi would wake up at the crack of dawn and head to the beach.

We would pile into our 1970 something, puke green Volkswagon and because food at the beach was absolutely off limits, we would load up our huge red cooler and other beach bags with what you could probably feed an army with: chicken, hotdogs, hamburgers, potato chips, potato salad, macaroni salad, assorted sandwiches, Pathmark brand crème and pineapple sodas, Kool Aid fruit punch, fruit, water and of course, the grown-ups had beer. We had a small, round grill that stood on a tripod that my parents probably bought when they first got off the boat and we still had until my mother sold her house in 2001---like I said in my post Waste Not, Want Not, immigrant folks don’t throw anything away until JC himself tells them that the item has exhausted its utility. We would usually get there around 8 or 9 am and then not leave until well after the sun had set.

We spent our days building sand castles, jumping waves, throwing sand at each other and what I now know, driving my parents up the wall---but I’m sure the beer helped dull the nerves that we were constantly hanging on. Now that I am an adult, not that much has changed about my trips to the beach. I still carry my food rather than buy anything at the beach and I still love jumping waves. So I was pretty excited when we moved to Maputo, and to find out that we were only a 15-30 minute bus ride from the city beach, Costa de Sol. Most times we do take the chapa, but once in awhile, we get up early and we strap on our backpacks filled with a bottle of ice water, UNO playing cards, and French fries and egg omelette sandwiches to run the 5-6 miles it takes to get there.

I have visited my fair share of beaches and I have to say that Costa de Sol has been one of the more unique ones that I have been to. Back in the day, under the pretty authoritarian leadership of Machel Samora, the beach area and swimming was prohibited. In fact, policemen were posted there to stop people from swimming but also to monitor any illegal activity, such as drinking alcoholic beverages. One positive effect, as B describes it, was that the beach was a pristine white sand paradise with crystal clear blue-green water. Much has changed since those days and the beach is more on par with Coney Island during the 1980s, sans the hypodermic needles.

Today, there is much beer drinking at the beach as evidenced by the amount of broken beer bottles and their jagged pieces buried into the sand: on the beach and on the ocean floor. Needless to say one must tread lightly when walking. People also leave their garbage behind which leads to it being swept in and out to sea. Sadly, some years back, an oilrig sunk and its contents transformed that crystal, clear blue-green water, to a swimming area that is clean, and swimmable, but is murky and very much lost to what it once was.

When you arrive to the beach there are many food vendors with huge barbecue pits made out of large metal garbage cans that are cut into half and outfitted with grills. They sell either fish or chicken served with French fries or chima. There are of course many vendors selling beer and other refreshments. Women and small children walk the beach selling roasted peanuts, the seasonal fruit, cookies and at times, ice cream. While other people are selling their crafts: jewelry and home items made out of shells. And there is always the random vendor selling DVDs, q-tips and soap.

The time of day that you visit the beach brings in a tide of distinct groups. When we go in the morning, we are met with the street children and other homeless people who sleep at the beach at night. This time of the day can actually be the most dangerous in terms of theft as you may think that the beach is pretty deserted and secure and it being so early, that your things will be safely waiting for you after a dip in the water. But in fact, this is actually when your stuff will most likely get stolen—so B and I usually take turns cooling off after our run. At this time of day you are also most likely to see fishermen going out to cast their nets and market women with large baskets who will sit for them to come back in order to get the best picks of the fishermen’s catch.

The morning also brings the healers and members of the Zion church. The ocean’s waters and salt are deemed to be cleansing properties and are very holy to both the traditional healers and the Zionists. Recently, we saw a woman who, according to B, had an evil spirit that needed to be expelled. The healer tied a chicken to a small shrub and then he started a small fire close by. Thereafter, he passed a stick he was holding over the woman that had some sort of animal hair tied to the end. After saying some prayers with this stick, he accompanied her to the sea and sat her in the water, and then continued reciting prayers while passing the stick over her body. The evil spirit was being transferred from her body to the chicken. And the water was cleansing her soul to be reborn new again. When I saw them leave I saw that they left the chicken and asked B why they weren’t taking it with them. “They have to leave it so the spirit that is now in the chicken does not find her again. The thieves hanging about here will catch it and eat it.” “Well won’t the spirit pass into them?” “Chickens don’t have a soul for an evil spirit to corrupt.” “How do you know, are you a chicken?! Maybe it will be an evil chicken, pecking people all the time, because the evil spirit is trying to get out or something.” “Ok. We are not going to have this conversation. The street kids eat it and then they continue doing the bad things they are already doing but worse because the evil spirit is in them now.” “Ok. Thanks.”

The Zionists also conduct their services on the beach during early morning hours. There are usually several groups of 4-6 people—although they are of the same religion they all attend “different” churches. The fact that they deem each church different form the other is a bit confusing to me because their church services are on the beach and held literally in the water with only about 5-10 feet between each “church.” It would be nice to know what each group is doing differently from the other. When they enter the water, they make a circle holding hands, and at least one member is in the middle. The middle person usually has a spirit in them of someone who has passed on and the spirit is using him or her as a vessel to send a message. There is usually a lot of screaming and thrashing in the water. It all looks very scary and violent. Many are known to speak in tongues during one of these possessions and thereafter not have a clue of what they said or did.

The late morning to early afternoon brings families with their young kids: there are lots of coolers, beach toys and kids getting on their parents nerves---and sometimes on mine as well. Some beach goers play soccer, some are parasailing while others pretend they know how to play capoeira by doing some turn like kick motions, beating on a drum and plucking at the berimbau. But I’ve been to enough play sessions to know the real thing from the “I want to impress you so I can snog you later on under a starry night” kind of capoeira.

The late afternoon moving into the evening brings couples, partiers and the police to catch the couples and the partiers who will most likely hook up on the beach. The police are not there to control such illicit sexual behavior---but to catch people in the act so that the couple will pay them something for not issuing a fine. Long gone are the days of Samora’s police force: in some ways that is good but in others, not so much.

We only have a few more weeks before our summer is over as the strong winds have arrived and mornings have gotten quite chilly, with the sun rising later and later each day---sure signs that winter is coming. We can still go to the beach and swim, as the water is always warm to hot—but when you get out is when you will freeze your butt off, as the temperature does drop quite low here in Southern Africa. I have to re-program my mind to look forward to winter days where we can just sit and watch the tide as the sun sets, play some UNO and if the police are not out and about, make a small bonfire to warm ourselves up. One thing I do know, there will always be something interesting happening to keep me entertained.

An Africa Survivor Lesson: Spotting the Bribe and Weaseling Your Way Out Of It

My good friend Tomoko and her husband donated a second hand laptop to me and sent it to me here in Maputo. I think in most other places the process of retrieving the package would have been fairly simple albeit a few procedures to be followed, but not here in Maputo.

We were notified by text message that the package had arrived. We decided to go the next morning. I awoke with a worried look and B said “Tranquila. It will be fine” “But aren’t they going to open it and charge us something ridiculous?” “NA-DA. They don’t have a right to---it is used, not a new import.” “Okay. If you say so.”

When we arrive we let the postal worker know that we have received a package and show her the text message. “Who is that? We don’t know if that is from one of our employees?” Ummm, ok. So we had to call the number to prove to her that it was an actual employee of the postal office. At this point B is starting to get irritated “Why would one of your workers send us a text message without giving us the package number or code or without giving his name in the text message? What kind of operation are you running here?” (Aishia lays her hand gently on his forearm to signal that I want the laptop not a fight.) An employee brings out our package but instead of giving it to us he carries it to customs. My right eye starts to jump---sure sign of impending irritation headache.

The customs official opens the package and starts to go through its contents. And then looks at the U.S. postal form pasted on the box that states clothes, toys and household items. “Toys? Where?” I ignore him and start admiring the Jiffy Pop instant popcorn my friend threw in for me. “What is this?” pointing to the laptop covered in tissue paper, “It’s a used laptop.” He immediately whips out a piece of paper and a calculator. “How much did you pay for it?” “Why?” I ask. “It is an import.” “How so? It is my laptop for personal use that broke here and I took with me to the US to be fixed.” “You are bringing in a new laptop.” B’s brows burrow way deep into his forehead and he says “It is not an import. It is her laptop that she brought with her. It is old. “ He is now using his outside voice at volume level 10. “How much did you buy it for?” the custom official asks me in a skeptical tone of voice “I bought it in 2002 or 2003. The value of the computer has diminished. You cannot charge me for the value of something bought almost 10 years ago!” I say to him “How much?” he asks again. Ok, he wants to play it like this. FINE. “$100 or $150.” (In Mozambique they cannot charge you for items under $100 in value) “You paid $100 or $150 for a laptop?” “YES. I bought it in 2002 or 2003 and I only bought the hardware. The software is what raises the price. My cousin gave me the software.” Ugly, old custom official with a scowl permanently on his face begins to poke at his 1983 calculator and starts chicken scribbling on a piece of paper. Not a piece of paper with official logos, or stamps or formulas to show how he will arrive at the fee, just some random piece of paper that he probably found on the floor.

At this point, B is repeating over and over how the computer arrived and how it left the country: "She worked in Malawi, she moved to Mozambique, when the computer broke we took it with us to the US where we attended her brother’s wedding. Her cousin (dat be you Mustafa) did not fix it before we left so he sent it by mail.” Ugly, old customs official’s scowl is even more scowly-like and he calls over a tall, youngish man with a big ol’ beer belly---he is evidently living well off his bribes. Young customs official is belligerent and tries to bully us. The fee that the old ugly customs man came up with was $50 and both B and I argued simultaneously to a now crowd of four customs officials: how can you charge us a tax for an item that is second hand AND at the original price it was purchased at almost 10 years ago? Their argument: you did not declare it upon departure (which is bulldoody as no such rule exists) and you do not have the receipt (from 10 years ago?!?!). Big Belly Bully then says “Ok, wrap it up, send it back and when they are ready they will pay the fee.”So the postal worker starts to tape the box and I grab the tape from him and say “Fine” with the words squeezing my gritted teeth. I start taping the box up with layers and layers of tape so one of the officials says “Senhora, you are finishing our tape.” I notice B step out and at the time I thought he was looking for another postal worker but he said he had to step out and laugh. I was so irritated—I wish I had used up all their bloody tape. I answer the customs official with “Well I want to make sure this box is secure and the laptop doesn’t ‘disappear.” B leaves again.

I collect my nerves and notice another customs official wrapping things up with another customer and who has not been part of the fracas. I explain to him in a cool and calm voice the situation we are in and that all I ask is that they give me an official form that states how they are arriving at the fee they arrived at (OF course they were not going to do that because then they would have to actually hand the money over instead of line their pockets with it). He gives me a deer in headlights stare, but is listening and that is good. Another official comes over, again one that was not part of the original fracas. B is back and is now calmer and he explains the situation. Things are looking better as these two officials are seeing our point of view and are also nervous that we are asking for an official form. Big Belly Bully rushes back at us with our package slip and a stamp and says “Just go. GO.” The official speaking with B says, “No, no, we have to explain the procedure so we don’t have to have this conversation with them again in the future.” What flippin procedure? Ok, we continue the charade. Big Belly Bully goes back to his desk and yells out to B “Are you Changana?” and B answers yes and they converse a bit. B later tells me that Big Belly Bully says “Of course you are, that is why you are so hard headed.” Translation: their scare tactics didn’t force us into paying his beer money for the night. We left paying only the official $5 postal fee for packages. Dear Jeezus. I welcome packages anytime. But send it to B instead of me---because a package from the U.S. to an American recipient is just too much for the customs officials to handle. Their eyes light up like a Christmas tree shaped in dollar signs.

Living on the African continent never ceases to amaze me at how I am honing my survivor skills: bullsh#$ing my way out of a situation and getting what I want to boot. Cheers until the next Africa Survivor Lesson!

Beat a drum, not a Woman

The title of the post is taken from a T-shirt that I wear often---and I always....always...have women come up to me to tell me that they love it. I got it when I participated in an anti-violence against women march on International Women's Day in Swaziland. This year, International Women’s Day falls on Saturday March 8th and my thoughts are once again with women who are surviving sexual and gender based violence around the globe. But mostly my thoughts, and my heart, are with the women right here in my own Maputo neighborhood.

Sexual and gender based violence (SGBV) is widespread and it comes in many forms: physical, sexual, psychological and emotional. The United Nations defines SGBV as “any act that results in, or is likely to result in, physical, sexual or psychological harm or suffering to a person based on that person’s gender, including threats of such acts, coercion or arbitrary deprivation of liberty, whether occurring in public or private life.” On the African continent SGBV often takes the form of: sexual assault, child marriage, intimate partner violence, dowry (bride price) deaths , honor killings, female genital cutting/mutilation, and during times of humanitarian crisis, such as war or natural disasters, rape is often used as a weapon to punish or force women into submission. Also during times of humanitarian crisis many women and their girl children become forced participants of transactional sex work in order to meet their economic needs.

In various places around the world women experience SGBV and believe that part of being a woman is to resign oneself to the suffering of abuse. While working in a domestic violence unit in the DC Superior Court I was one of the few Spanish speaking in-take legal officers and so many of my clients were recently arrived Latina immigrants. On many occasions women would seek assistance for physical abuse but after speaking with them I would discover that they were experiencing sexual violence in the form of marital rape. After counseling them on SGBV many women would look at me confused and say “But I am a wife, I have to have sex with my husband whenever he wants it”---that was almost ten years ago and sadly, I believe that not much has changed in developing nations or in the U.S. for that matter.

While working on SGBV I have seen many forms of violence perpetrated against women and children: children with massive burns over their bodies for stealing a coin from their mother’s wallet; young girls entering into initiation rites as young as 8 or 9 (where they have sex with a man as old as 70); a two year old girl being sexually molested by her 70 year old father while also being physically abused by her mother who would drip boiling water on her thighs every morning; a woman tied to a tree and burned alive by her husband for the most minor grievance, such as burning her husband’s dinner; and in the U.S., an immigrant Indian man killed his wife by slamming her head repeatedly on the floor----the neighbors thought that during the prior 6 months before he murdered her that he was practicing basketball.

In the U.S. we have a justice system that does not always respond to the needs of women experiencing SGBV, but the structure is there and there are many women’s and children’s advocates trying to make it better so that women and children can get the treatment, protection and legal remedies they deserve. Unfortunately, my time working in international justice systems has shown me that these systems do not meet the needs of women and children experiencing SGBV. Of course, that does not mean action is not being taken—there are many development entities taking steps to eradicate disparities in addressing SGBV in developing nation’s justice systems—hence the reason as a development consultant working on justice issues, I know what justice systems can and can’t do at the moment in protecting women from their perpetrators.

While living in rural Mozambique, the women I saw experiencing SGBV did not go to the authorities: it is here where I witnessed more than any place I have lived, women being resigned to the fate of being used and abused. When women issued complaints at the police station, the perpetrator would be brought in and he would be “spoken” to and told not to do it again or in most cases, he paid the police officer on duty to make the charge go away. In both situations, he would return to his wife to continue the abuse. In such a situation, I would think that I too would be resigned to believe that this is the fate of being a woman.

Living in Maputo there is not much difference except that here if the abuse is loud enough and visibly cruel enough, then neighbors will issue a complaint against the perpetrator on behalf of the woman. In most cases complaints on SGBV get issued by neighbors as many women experiencing violence are financially dependent on their intimate partners/husbands and often cannot go back to their familial homes—thus they do not file a complaint in fear of losing their sole provider. Most women cannot return to their families because their family may not have the money to financially support the woman and her children. Or in other cases there may be tensions between a new step-mother and the woman, who is the daughter of a previous wife. While in some cases it is because her lobolo (bride price) has been paid and the family has spent the money and cannot return it, therefore, she is forced to stay with her perpetrator.

In 2012 one of the first people I met in Maputo was a beautiful young woman who invited me to her 21st birthday party at her family’s house. During the party her boyfriend stood up and spoke about what a wonderful woman she was and that he was going to marry her. Thereafter, when I would run into them, all seemed well, but little by little her smile was less wide when she was with him and when she was alone-she always seemed to be a bit worried. But B and me didn’t comment as we knew she moved from a house with pretty good economic conditions to now living on her own with her partner, so it would take some time to adjust to living with less luxuries. But about two weeks ago, I saw her in the distance and waved. She had her hair closely cut and I yelled across the street to tell her that I liked the new style. Again, she just smiled at me. It kills me that she didn’t say anything to us at that moment. Or that I was not closer to her to see that on top of her head were about 10 stitches on the huge cut that her partner gave her when he smashed her with a beer bottle. Two days later she was in jail for allegedly pouring hot oil on his genitals.

When I went to the police station where she was being held, the officer refused to let us in but after some sweet talking by B, I got in but he didn’t. When I walked into the station “cell”, she was lying on the floor, and that is where I saw for the first time the huge cut on her head. She was also handcuffed to a metal folding chair. She was squeezed in between some planks of wood and a motorcycle—so it wasn’t a cell it was the station’s supply room (of course I didn’t have my camera that day!) We were told she was handcuffed to stop her from fleeing. In fact what they were doing was doubly incarcerating her which is against Mozambican law. But they were also punishing her as an incentive to make the family negotiate expeditiously for her release particularly since she is four-five months pregnant: they had to make her life pretty miserable and uncomfortable. I was able to find her some free legal assistance in case the police actually transferred her to have her case placed on a docket for trial—which under Mozambican law they should have done within the first 24 hours of arresting her or the Monday after arrest if it occurs on a Friday, which, of course, it just so happen it did (without notice of the charges against her—they saw her walking by the station and picked her up).

She was released this week—so basically she has been sitting in a closet handcuffed to a chair for a week. Thus, the family “decided” to take took the negotiating route. As part of the negotiation process she had to apologize for what she did to the Aunt, the complainant, of her partner. I’m sure along with the apology was an envelope of cash. When I asked one of her family members, “What about the perpetrator’s apology to her?” The response I received was, “Well he is in more serious condition than she is.” But she told me that she did not pour oil on him, it splashed on him. The police state that her partner was sleeping on his back when she poured the oil on him. But at this point in the case (arrest) it is not for the police to play judge and executioner but for them to do their jobs properly: arrest, process paperwork and transfer the suspect to the designated facility for holding.

Folks in the neighborhood have already played the role of judge and executioner too as many condemn the young woman and believe that she poured the oil on her partner’s genitals with intent to kill or disfigure and that it was not an accident as she claims. All say that she should not have poured it on his genitals as that was “too, too bad.” When B and I started to defend the woman in the hypothetical situation that she did do it with intent, by saying that after years of abuse, she was driven to protect herself---all others in our conversation could not understand what we were saying. They could only see the individual act and not the accumulated years of abuse and mistreatment and what effect it could have on a woman psychologically.

In Mozambique and Malawi battered women’s syndrome as a legal defense to homicide or assault and battery does not exist. However, 90% of the incarcerated women that I met while working in Malawi on access for justice issues, told me they were there for killing their husbands and that it did it because they felt that if they did not do it, they felt their husbands would have beaten them to death, if not that day, one day in the future. When I asked them if they told this to the judge during the trial they all answered that they did not understand what was happening during the trial and thought it best not to speak at all. However, silence during trial signals acquiescence, and as a result many women plead guilty without ever having their voices heard or their cases adequately presented as none of them could afford a lawyer.

In Maputo, I have contacted a few of the NGOs supposedly working on SGBV and/or monitoring police brutality and procedure several times, but either the phone number is disconnected or my email queries go unanswered. My next step is to go in person and ask what we as a community can do to tackle the violence that is being experienced by women and children here and to make police more responsive to their needs. In the meantime B (the best feminist I know) talks to women who we think are experiencing domestic violence at home---and educates them on their rights and he offers our help in mediating disputes that couples may be having with one another (which we have done a couple of times now). At this point, the best we can do is to prevent situations from escalating to severe physical harm or death.

I hope on this International Women’s Day that sexual and gender based violence is not something that we discuss only on March 8th, but that we continue the conversation everyday: whether it is telling our daughters that they don’t need to be Cinderella and wait for a Prince Charming to rescue her, or refraining from calling a woman a bitch or a whore, or if we know of someone experiencing domestic violence thinking about how we can intervene, even if it is just slipping a piece of paper into her hand with the number of a helpline. Anything we can do to stop the persistent and pervasive cycle of violence is one step closer to fully cherishing the women that we are: daughters, mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, partners, lovers, homemakers, professionals, tower blocks and best of all…… friends. On this upcoming International Women’s Day: I wish my Sister Friends around the world all the love, respect, dignity and happiness that you deserve!