When we were there for the first time, the road was long and tedious. It was probably the tiredness of that day. Or maybe a bit of the delight of the new place and its details, which stopped me every now and then. We left the car on the red ground, ploughed by deep holes, created by water flowing down during rain. And we continued walking. Along the brick wall of the base of a large Western organization. For the first time in my Mozambican world I saw so many bricks and I felt a bit like I was in Europe. And at the distant bend, a vast view of a valley cut by a river awaited us, where the baobabs leaning over its banks looked like inconspicuous trees. My husband, who spent his entire childhood and early youth in Pemba, had never been here before. Around the bend, a short road and again a vast view of lush vegetation, numerous baobabs and the ocean spread out before us. In the place where the path ended, just above the escarpment, there was a house. We came to it. To them.
A mother and six children. The oldest seventeen, the youngest less than a year old. None of them had ever finished even the first grade of primary school. Many years ago, they moved to Pemba from the village. At that time, their husband and father were still with them. But he had recently passed away. And the house had been completely destroyed by the last cyclone.
She and her six children were left. Without work. Without prospects. With whatever would grow from the ground and fill their bellies. If it did. Like the raw mapira (sorghum) grains she had treated us to. There was also part of a new house, which, thanks to the help of others, had been able to start rebuilding.
I stood at the edge of the yard, which sloped steeply downwards – first it turned into their small, chaotic farm, and then into the bush. I thought about how much it would cost in Poland for land with such a view. And how unimportant it is here, because after all, the view does not feed or provide any future. It just is there. One with the ocean or with the crumbling wall of the neighbour’s house – it makes no difference. It has no bearing on survival. And how much do you need to have to enjoy the view? I suspect (although I don’t know at all) that the limit is somewhere close to satiety. It’s not a metaphor. The limit is a well-fed body. But again, culture matters here. Because who in Mozambique buys land and builds a house on it for the view?
But she. And six children. In a fairly large city with schools, offices, a hospital, clinics, an airport, a port, factories and large businesses based on natural resources. And they seem to still be living in the bush from which they moved years ago. And that question that haunts: what can be done for them to make sense?
You can bring food that will last for a while. That’s good. But you can’t feed this family for the rest of their lives. Helping is not about making someone dependent on you. You can help rebuild a house. That’s good. You can help the mother find a job. Children in Mozambique take care of each other, so the older ones will stay with the younger ones. But every job will require walking or taking a bus, and who will take care of the farm then? And are we really able to do it better than she herself, if she wants? Children to school? School is far away. Will they even stick with it when there is a seventeen-year-old at home and there has never been any idea of sending them to school? After all, you can’t take six of someone’s children through ten or twelve grades. Encourage them, stay with them. Especially from a distance. So how can you help? Or maybe it’s enough to come? Pray? Listen to stories. Do what you can now. And let them live their own way. Somewhere in Pemba, but more in the bush. Simply. Feed on what they grow. Because the most important thing they already have – Jesus. There as well they can focus on expanding His Kingdom.
So the last week of my visit to Pemba brought me more questions. And even more questions. I read books to children who didn’t know what a tiger was. Because they hadn’t seen one in any book. Because they don’t have any books. Or on TV. Because they don’t have a TV. I understand. But next door, ten minutes on foot from their homes, they have an ocean where whales occasionally emerge. White people sometimes come here to see whales. But these children don’t know what a whale is or that they’re there, next to them. Not all of them, just the ones I was reading to. Who, again, from the deep bush in northern Mozambique, have settled in Pemba. Because you can live in the same world and see it completely differently. And know so many different things about it. About the one here, within arm’s reach. This raises my question: How much do I know about the one I live in now? And can I really help in it? I can only try and make mistakes. Learn from my mistakes and once again do the best according to my conscience.
Because who said that we, white people, are needed here at all?
Although I saw hearts moved. Walking, which was much easier after prayer than before. Straightened back. Lighter pain. One life entrusted to Jesus. And what I cannot count, because no one told me about it or I did not notice it. And what He started and will continue Himself.
He said. To us. The paths that God sends us are strange. You can ask about the meaning. But it is best to simply walk them.
/ I hope that my texts leave something in you. Even if it is a pause. Even if it is just one question. If you want, you can buy me a virtual coffee so that I can continue to put effort into writing and develop in this direction. Thank you! Link to the Buy Me A Coffee platform. /