At EM, we've been developing training resources based on the tough topics that we are all forced to address when we step into cross-cultural settings. The first resource we've put together is on the topic of Human Dignity. Our entire staff has contributed in some way, taking time to share personal stories and challenges. The following personal story is from Heather Moline, a member of our Leadership Development team.
She stifled a laugh while silently scolding him with her eyes, the way only older sisters know how to do. The younger children burst into laughter, rolling over onto their backs and snapping their fingers in the air.
"What did he say?" I asked, wishing that I could understand more than a few common greetings in the Sesotho language.
There was a moment of silence and then the little ones rolled over again, laughing recklessly with mouths wide open.
Mosa glared at her brother, Samuel, and then looked back at me. He laughed nervously and she playfully swatted at him with the back the wooden spoon, pausing to stir the Papa that was cooking over the fire.
"Please tell me," I asked again.
At first she hesitated, looking for approval from her grandmother. Then she looked me straight in the eye and said, "He wants to know why white people always smell so good."
I had been living with Mosa and her family for two weeks. Their village was tucked into a quiet valley in the mountains of Lesotho, Africa, an agricultural community where sheep, cattle, and donkeys graze freely. During the day, Mosa and I helped with chores around the home - bathing the baby, sweeping the floor, kneading homemade bread and carrying water from the spring.
I was amazed by the way Mosa's 75-year old M'me worked. She was tireless, humming and laughing as she went about her daily routine. I don't know if I ever saw her sit down for more than a moment, and she usually had her grandson bundled to her back as she gathered firewood or collected eggs from the chicken coop. The entire family woke at 5:00 most mornings and they usually didn't go to bed until almost 11:00. I slept well at the end of every day, exhausted from the physical work and the unrelenting heat.
When we weren't helping her grandmother, Mosa and I also worked in her maize field, carefully weeding around the new plants. Before I arrived, Mosa had dug 994 holes and planted almost 3,000 seeds with her own two hands. She was hopeful that it would be a good crop so that she could provide for her family. We prayed for rain every night.
Over the past few months, Mosa had been learning about farming from a local missionary and was now trying to implement the principles of organic, no-till farming in her own village. One day we even helped her neighbor plant a small field of maizeÃ'Æ'Æ’Ã'‚¢Ã'Æ'¢Ã'¢â‚¬Å¡Ã'‚¬Ã'Æ'¢Ã'¢â€šÂ¬Ã'‚ÂÂduring which I gained a whole new respect for the digging Mosa had done. My hands and back ached after a full morning of swinging the jembe into the dry ground.
My host brother, Samuel, was fifteen and attended school during the day. In the evening, he cared for the sheep and donkeys that belonged to his grandmother. He didn't speak much English, but enjoyed teaching me phrases in Sesotho. At night while we sat around the fire with the rest of the family, Samuel and I would take turns singing songs. His new American favorites "How He Loves" and "The Star Spangled Banner."
It was after one of the songs that he leaned over to me and asked the question. When Mosa finally translated, I felt embarrassed, unsure of why he was asking me such a thing. Surely, I smelled no better than anyone else in the house. In fact, I probably smelled worse! I had been walking around the village all day with Mosa and hadn't taken a real, hot shower in almost two weeks.
What Mosa told me next surprised me even more.
"You see, he is asking because we know your smell. When we get clothes for free, they smell so nice. The clothes come from South Africa, from the rich white people there. And after a few times of washing the clothes, it goes away. We are very sad when the smell goes. We do not smell nice."
I stared at her in disbelief, unsure of what to say.
"That's interesting," I said. "But maybe it is just the kind of soap that they sell there. My soap is from South Africa. I don't think it matters if you are Basotho or white."
"No, it is our smell that is bad. We are not nice. You smell nice," she insisted.
Samuel nodded and pointed to the skin on his forearm, puckering his lips and shaking his head,"No very nice," he said.
And I realized that nothing I could say would change their minds that evening.
I loved my time with the Matsipa family - our days were full of hard work, our evenings were rich with laughter and singing and prayer. We had more talks, but none that struck me quite the same way as Samuel's curious question.
The truth is, our world is divided. Split down the middle and gaping. And we are often all too content to let the chasms grow.
Rich and poor.
Black and white.
Local and foreigner.
Young and old.
Educated and uneducated.
Big and small.
Everyone has been assigned a value.
Some give, some get.
Some are important, some are disposable.
And I don't think I even recognized the seriousness of the disparity until Samuel asked his question. The truth is, I am no more valuable than my brother or sister in rural Africa. But there is a deep-rooted belief in the culture that perpetuates their feelings of inferiority, and it goes all the way back to Biblical times - the African people are supposedly cursed because of Noah's son, Ham. They believe that somehow, because of this ancient curse, they are inferior to everyone else. Destined to be poor and helpless.
And unfortunately, sometimes in our eagerness to give, we reinforce the lie.
Instead of being upheld as the kind, hardworking, and faithful people that they are, they believe that they can't survive without the handout, without the help of someone from somewhere beyond their own borders.
And the lie lives on.
When my Basotho family wore the well-intentioned gifts of donors in South Africa, they might have appreciated the gift for it's usefulness, but they didn't feel bigger in the receiving. If anything, they were reminded by even the smell in the fabric, that they are second in life. And although they received a new t-shirt or a new sweater, something much more valuable was taken from them.
The gift has become a sort of death-grip mortar.
But as sturdy and as insurmountable as these walls seem, I am convinced that they can crumble under the weight of genuine, loving relationships.
I worked tirelessly during my time with Mosa and her family to prove to them that our differences don't have to divide us. We can speak different languages and have different skin colors, but ultimately, we are the same. We all need food and friendship. We all get an ache in our backs after a long day of work and feel refreshed by water from the spring. We all have fears and hopes - things that keep us awake at night and things that get us up in the morning. We all pray prayers of desperation and prayers of thanks.
It doesn't matter who we are or what we have - God hears us. He loves us. He has created us to be a striking reflection of himself.
And yet there is still this thing called injustice. There is still inequality.
Some really are rich. Some really are poor. And there are certainly times when people in positions of wealth are compelled to provide aid to those who are struggling to survive.
But my new sister and her family don't need this kind of charity. They don't need anything from me, in fact, they have something invaluable to give.
During my time with the Matsipa family, I began to recognize their richness. Qualities like determination and contentment and unwavering faith that only really develop when life gets hard - when you have to fight against the ground to feed your family, when caring for your dying your parents means giving up your education, when following Christ means being rejected by your friends.
And suddenly, when I recognize what they can teach me - they are champions.
As people who are trying to live out our mission in the world, our giving and receiving should demonstrate this same attitude. Putting the dignity of others first. Putting our own agendas last.
I believe that if we begin to practice this kind of living, centered on mutual giving and receiving, our world will start to look a little different. The lines will start to blur. The smells will start to fade. And the walls will eventually come down.
MORE | For years, leaders of all kinds have asked us to develop a resource they could use to talk about the tough topics surrounding service and missions. Check out the preview of our first session "Human Dignity" and download the new resource for free.
Site developed and hosted by Skycog, Inc.