Domestic Drama

Sunday, July 19, 2009

On this day, I learned of a disheartening situation that I became embroiled in. My female friend Karpo informed me that her friend was beaten by her husband because he believed she was cheating on him with me.

Apparently, this situation had been developing since I initially met this woman upon my arrival in Liberia. My host brother Joscee is a close friend with Karpo. Karpo is friends with this Minister’s wife—the woman who was allegedly sleeping around.

My initial meeting with this minister’s wife was quite brief. I met Karpo, her sister in-law Cynthia and this woman within my first 48 hours of being in Monrovia. I do not specifically recall our interaction but I believe it was limited to exchanging a few pleasantries and discussing briefly my purpose for being in Liberia.

Subsequent interactions with this woman resumed only last week as I was invited to a graduation party that was hosted by Karpo’s brother and sister in-law. This party was held at the minister’s house since they rent from him and he has a larger yard with which to entertain. I spent my day with Karpo, Joscee and others.

Then, this weekend, I spent an hour or two with Karpo, Cynthia and the minister’s wife. This time we were sitting outside the house chatting. I do not recall having any conversation with the minister’s wife. Anyway, she and her husband were to leave for a party later in the evening. Apparently, after they left, he accused her of cheating with me.

What is strange is that the minister never introduced himself to me and I still do not yet know his name or his wife’s. So the whole situation was perpetuated on gossip and speculation. Apparently, this may have been the very thing that caused the man to believe his concocted version of events. Being that we were never introduced and yet I continued to visit the home, often drinking with his wife and her friends, he came to believe that I must have had ill intentions and was acting on them.

Since this time, I have come to learn that people in the neighborhood are skeptical of spending too much time around this man’s house for the fear of being seen as interested in his wife or being assumed of wanting to take advantage of him/his family. I can only conclude that there are existing problems within the marriage and a foreigner’s presence has provided an impetus for a conflict.

I think the most important lesson I have learned from this drama is that skin color is an incredibly powerful tool that can be used to one’s benefit or demise, even without much force or intent. Here, white skin seems to immediately purport power, money and control. It has become clear that being white can be a security concern in and of itself.

It is disheartening that this jealousy has caused such disrespect. The benefits that we could achieve by working together and building a mutual understanding have been lost before they were ever built.

In addition to the personal discomfort and anger this has caused, it also exemplifies the challenge domestic rights still face in Liberia. When a minister’s wife is hit for allegedly cheating on her husband despite no real evidence to support the claim, and no one is concerned about him having hit her, it is clear that there are some cultural values that are astray. I can only hope that President Sirleaf’s attempts to address these issues are embraced.

And today, as I rode in a taxi to work, I saw a sticker that sums it all up: “Real Men Don’t Abuse Women.”

Musings from Liberia

Random musings which I find interesting (you may disagree)

Mice. While I realize they are probably just as scared of me as I of them, nonetheless, whenever I see one, I nearly scream. Their presence in my Liberian bedroom was initially apparent as I saw their droppings all over the room. Now, they have either multiplied quickly or have become much more brave as they scurry about in the evening as I write and reflect. If only a cat could be found. But that might open a whole other box of worms, almost quite literally, or fleas or other insects that I do not need crawling around in my bed with me at night.

500 ml bags of water. I have never been a big fan of plastic. This aversion stems in large part to the core material in plastics—that of petroleum. I prefer to avoid plastic jugs instead opting for the glass alternative. Taking my own bags to the supermarket is as much anenvironmental statement for me as it is a fight against big oil. Anyway, it seems I will have a difficult time escaping the material here in Liberia as my source of life is packaged in it. It appears West African countries have become big fans of 500ml plastic bags of water which can be easily opened with your teeth in order to allow for a quick quenching of your thirst. I have enjoyed a great many of these bags and have now resigned myself to buying large sacks of them to keep a constant supply of potable water available which seems better than using waterpurification tablets on a continuous basis.

Water leaks. Yes, while plastic bags can be great, as is witnessed when plastic bags have too much weight or get caught on anything sharp, they rip. I am not sure how the bag sprung a leak (though the first paragraph may signal a culprit) but I awoke one morning this week to find a water trail on the floor and my backpack drenched. My original idea of prepping my bag for work the evening before by placing two bags of water on the side seems to be misguided. While my computer survived the inundation (thanks in no small part to the carrying case Jay lent me) my papers had to be air dried at work in order to avoid taking on the mildewy odor that is quite common in this humid climate.

White man. I find it quite obvious that my skin color is white and in fact have never really questioned it. Lest I be in need of reassurance of my skin color, I find that anytime I am out in public, children and adults alike enjoy calling out “White man”, as if it were my name. While I became accustomed to “aramuie” in Morocco—which literally means Roman—I did not usually find children chanting to the extent that they do here. When I first encountered this phenomenon—largely when I was in Lofa County—I smiled and waved to the adoring fans. Now, as this has become more common and a bit annoying at the same time, I have come to ignore the heckles. It seems as though the chanting has grown more intense as I ignore it. Just this morning, a couple children chanted “White man, white man, white man”, for several minutes while I walked down the street. These children were out of eyesight but still seemed to enjoy their moment of viewing a foreigner.