Siyaphila

Tuesday, March 31, 2009
In Room at Newcomer's House (Mtshabezi, Zimbabwe)
Morning

"We have life."

I was born in St. John's Hospital in Smithtown, New York. I lived on
Suffolk Avenue and Robert Crescent on Long Island, High Street in
Grantham, 115th Street in New York City, and 18th Street in Santa
Monica. I have lived all of these days and I don't think I have ever
gone a day hungry. Or, in truth, ever experienced a day of any real
need or want. I've never had a day with the basic necessities of life
out of the reach of my arms.

So, it is now Faith who crumbles in these arms. Big brown eyes stare
unassuming, unknowing, history-less. She knows not of the why's or the
when's. She is just big brown unassuming and unknowing eyes. She looks
up at the world that she see and she sees no periphery, no front or
back. She is unaware that she was a half-inch, or half moment away
from not being apart of this life. An orphan girl, found, left at some
front door in the bush, or on the side of the road, in a ditch,
buried, with rocks around her neck, meant to not be, meant to stop
from being. But now, amazingly, she crumbles in my arms, the most
peaceful child in the entire orphanage. She doesn't complain, she is
without cry, or giggle, but just pure contentment to stare. I tend to
fall in love with big brown eyes, and Faith doesn't disappoint.

Andrew and I meet Jenny at Isaiah's Umuzi Wothando orphanage in
Bulawayo. I had heard about Jenny from a variety of sources and the
new seeds of good that she has been planting, and the garden of good
that she has been tending. Jenny is an interesting woman. She has
lived in Zimbabwe for four years, coming from England, and she has
helped to facilitate three orphanages in the Bulawayo area. She
focuses on rescuing orphans, raising them properly, to find homes for
them in Zimbabwe. The state has failed at this essential societal task
with heroics. We learn that in some cases there are state raised
children who have spent their life cooped in a single room at a single
hospital, and Jenny has worked long and hard to be able to rescue
these children, to raise them in a proper home like Isaiah's.

Jenny gives us a quick tour, tells us about her projects, and then
quickly has to depart for other business at another orphanage. She
expects us to be on our way, but we say, "we were actually planning on
just being two pairs of extra hands."

"Okay, great," she says, "we can always use the help."

We quickly find out why. The Ndebele women who take care of these 18
babies, infants, and toddlers, running around the house all day,
crying, needing to be changed, needing to be fed, needing to sleep,
are saints.

On another day Andrew and I spend the afternoon driving Gwanda Road
picking people up on the side and driving them to wherever they want
to go. We do this every day actually, but we thought we would be more
intentional today. A free taxi service if you will. And I start
thinking as we drive through the afternoon big sky. We often consider
"this life" as a singular event, a singular thing. We say "my life"
and we lament on my sorrows or my failures. I talk about me, and I
respond by saying I, and when I talk about life, this really big and
important thing, I talk about myself. I disengage the overall story
and replace it with my story. Someone comes up to me and they ask,
'how are you doing?' and I immediately respond by saying 'I'm doing
well, I feel good, I feel bad.' (I'm not necessarily criticizing this
process but just merely discussing it.) And in the few moments when
Andrew and I drive and we stop talking, or stop laughing together, as
the travelers behind us sit patiently quiet, I start thinking of how
different it is here in Zimbabwe. The simple social customary greeting
is:

Salibonani, hello
Salibonani, hello
Lenjani, how are you?
Siyaphila, we have life.

We. Have. Life. There is an incorporation factor, an inclusiveness, a
wholeness to the interaction. In truthfulness, some of the time the
Zimbabweans respond by saying ngiyaphila, which is the singular
translated as "I have life," which when considered is no less romantic
or poetic, saying I have life, I'm living and breathing, seeing and
doing, being. But in the overall majority of interactions the proper
response is the plural, siyaphila. Obert offered his explanation to me
about this one day. He said, "we say siyaphila because we include all,
we believe in community, in an extended family. This is how we respond
in our culture."

It's poetic and romantic, it's collective, and encompassing. It's
connecting stories, your story into my story into our story.

Andrew sits on one side of the porch holding and feeding Blessings
with one hand and playing and simultaneously trying to protect her
from the other children with his other. I sit on the other side and do
the same with Faith in my arms.

One of the women tells me that it would be good if Faith takes a nap.
I say, okay, and then look down at Faith helpless. Other then saying
"take a nap," I'm not sure what else I could offer. I start to rock
and sway her but she keeps starring at me seemingly unaffected. I
think of what best puts me at ease to sleep, soft music. So I start
softly singing to her, me to her, over the noise of the children
playing, my lips to her ears.

Can't you see the sunshine, can't you just feel the moon shining and I
can slowly feel her body relax ever so slightly…there ain't no doubt
in no one's mind that love's the finest thing around and I start to
see her eyes slowly close, still staring, but slowly, very slowly
closing…signs it might be omens say I'm going, going…and she closes
her eyes.

I ask one of the women surprised, "She is asleep I think, what should I do now?"

"You can put her in her crib inside, it says her name on the side."

I walk inside and lay Faith down. The movement from porch to crib, the
constant noise and banging of trucks and blocks and instruments cannot
wake her. She is certainly asleep, on her back, arms over her head,
sleeping contently, her bright future now in front of her. I'm told by
one of the women that a few families have been visiting with her,
wanting to adopt her. I don't blame them, she is beautiful, and there
is something about her peace and contentment in the wake of the other
more rambunctious children that is comforting.

I think that siyaphila is so important to a person like Faith. The
person who rescued Faith entered into her story, and made it now their
story. Life is not about just her, but about them, and about us.

And for a few moments while I hold Faith I started to think about how
amazing adoption is. How it gives life. How it combines stories. Maybe
even more so then natural childbirth (not to diminish that of course.)
But it's the rescuing nature of it that is interesting. Even more so
here in Zimbabwe. It's not so much choosing to raise a child in your
family, but it is better represented as choosing to rescue a child
into your family. It's giving life to someone who may have never had
it. It's a wonderful idea, and more wonderful when enacted. When
someone reaches out their hand to only help, or save, when it's not
expected, or not deserved, or you didn't know.