I will always be white. I used to think that after some time, I would become a local. I used to imagine a house without walls or security. A place where anyone could come. I used to imagine myself in the yard, like other Mozambicans, surrounded by people. Today, I live in a house with a high wall so the children can play safely outside. Today, only someone we know better comes into our home. Today, I spend most of my time inside. This is where my hands and head rest.
I’m not afraid to walk the streets alone, but I don’t. I don’t like it when someone constantly accosts me, gesturing that they’re hungry or want money. Sometimes even tugging at my clothes. Does anyone behave like that towards my husband? No. The white is someone who has a lot—that’s how we are seen here in Mozambique. The white is someone who often responds by giving, compelled by an inner feeling that he/she has more.
While giving in itself is very good, unwise giving can perpetuate harmful phenomena. For example, begging. It can reinforce the belief that white people always have, always give, and there’s no point in trying. I see this especially in the culture that forms around Western aid organizations. Locals believe they’ll receive help there if only they can reach the right person and prove their lack. And very often, it’s their entire idea of life.
I enjoy watching profiles of travelers who come to Africa for a short time and experience local life. In markets, bars, on beaches. I’ve had similar experiences. It was exotic and exciting for me too. But over time, when you live here as a white person, you have to reckon with a different reality.
House robberies. Because the locals have a preconceived notion of what’s inside a white person’s home. We don’t even have a television, whereas for the average Mozambican, a television, even if placed against a clay wall, is a treasure. We don’t have any audio equipment, but when we moved a very young Mozambican man who only occasionally works somewhere, he had his entire studio with him. And I still remember a large empty house we often passed on walks in one of the areas where we lived. And the story that a white man once lived there and was murdered. And that’s not the only story I know.
A whole separate story (which I’ll probably tell here someday) is witchcraft in Mozambique, which can have a very real impact on people’s lives if they don’t know Christ and His power. But even then, they often don’t remain indifferent to it, so you have to be sensible.
Every now and then, you also hear about children of foreigners being kidnapped for ransom.
In the offices, the simplest matter becomes a problem. Suddenly, there are additional fees, documents that have to be submitted that were never even mentioned before, and constant delays. But if you want to be here, you want to stay, you have to grit your teeth and wait. It’s partly a story about money. Partly about power.
I also wondered for a long time if I would ever be able to become friends with a Mozambican woman. (Since I definitely succeeded with a Mozambican!) But so far, I haven’t developed any close relationships here. I remember once telling my husband to invite his friend’s wife to our place. She came with her little son, a little younger than Jo. I imagined we’d sit down, talk, and the kids would play. Conversation was completely impossible, though, because I tried to strike up a conversation about children and cultural differences, and she didn’t try at all, responding perfunctorily. Eventually, she lay down on the mat and fell asleep. There was no communication between us. And yet, I knew her before, and I know she’s articulate. Just not with me.
So I asked B., an American who has lived in Mozambique for over twenty years and works very closely with the local community, if she’d ever managed to make friends with anyone from Mozambique. She said she has two closest friends, but she couldn’t call it friendship in our sense of the word. Yes, they often talk about many topics, but there are also things they never bring up. She also knows that they discuss certain things between them, but they never tell her.
Unfortunately, there’s also an aspect of need and its fulfillment in this friendship. Does someone really like you, or do they just want something from you? And unfortunately, this is also what my husband, who married a white woman, is also facing. He’s wealthy in the eyes of Mozambicans. (Oh, how I wish they weren’t mistaken about our money!) That’s why T. doesn’t go around telling that his wife is white. When he calls me and is surrounded by strangers, he speaks only Portuguese.
And then there’s shopping! I only shop in stores where prices are displayed on/next to the products. Tony buys at the market; the prices are lower for him. When a complete stranger comes to fix a car or something at home, we (my children and I) try to stay inside a room so the price doesn’t double.
That’s why I no longer have any illusions: I’ll always be white here. Even if I show my Mozambican ID. This gap is in the heads.
This is also one of the faces of the mission. One that’s less talked about and quieter. One that you don’t experience on mission trips. Or, you won’t notice it so acutely. Only when you live somewhere. Not within the walls of the organization, but among the local population.
This is also one of the faces of the mission. It’s an issue we need to do something about, address within ourselves. We shouldn’t let fear or hurt guide us. (Because being treated that way hurts too.) We should find our own way to love others. Even if we will stay always white.
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