Ramadan Night 16 - The Second Entry

He is only a man
Who invents a lie
Against Allah, but we
Are not the ones
To believe in him!
S.23 A.38

I have written a couple of posts about either atheists attacking religion or people espousing one faith deriding another.  This verse brings something else to mind though, something even more deplorable - those who profess to be Muslims then misrepresent God's word for their own devices.  One  might even say that these latter liars create the fodder for the other groups to attack our faith, not that there is always a reason for some people to hate.  Of all the affronts to Islam, the betrayal from within is the greatest sin.

I am a novice in my faith, and there is a lot for me to learn.  I don't, however, feel or see the things in my study and worship that would motivate me to murder innocent people. As a matter of fact, it seems contrary to most of what I read in the Koran. But I am not saying violence itself is never warranted, that would be foolish and naive. No one of any faith, should allow that faith to be desecrated, or allow themselves to be annihilated in the name of world peace.  

How then do we defend our faith?  How does a minority fight for its right to exist?  How far should the few be pushed by the many until they are allowed to push back?  How does a father fight for the rights of his family?  When can a mother kill to save the life of her children?  When do the members of a just and civilized, democratic society decide to afford the children of the world the simple truths they themselves hold self-evident? These are the questions I ask whenever someone decries terrorism unilaterally, whenever a liberal espouses peace and passive resistance at any cost, whenever someone asks me "why can't those people just learn to live together?"  Sometimes I try to take out my mental scales, hoping to weigh the difference between terrorism and state sanctioned genocide - I cannot defend one over the other, as many people in the world seem willing and able to do.  I do know there are some acts of violence that cannot be condoned for any reason.

I often find myself bemused by the "rules of war", as if that awful beast is ever tamed that efficiently.  If you initiate violence and malice, do you have the right to dictate the response?  If you line up sympathy and resources heavily favoring one side, I doubt you can expect the other to stand up in the open and fight "fair."  Even worse, you could pretend there is no inequity, much like the zealots who flock to a bullfight, thinking they are seeing a noble and epic battle between man and beast - while the bull is tortured for days before, and practically crippled by the picadors before being presented to the brave matador.  Hard to find nobility here, hard to find it anywhere when the scales of justice are permanently skewed. Still, as Muslims, we have been provided guidance for our behavior, direction in the proper means of our own defense.  There is no excuse to exploit these guidelines in the name of God.

I arrived in Yemen as a thirty year old liberal, passionately promoting peace.  I left with a different perspective.  Living and working in a refugee camp for the victims of a thirty-five year civil war in Ethiopia exploded my naive notion of peace.  I was shocked to see that these victims of unspeakable violence, were not pacifists, nor did they espouse a love of peace.  In their reality, there were wicked and evil men who would not be stopped with docile diplomacy or stern admonishment - they were men of violence who would need to be stopped violently.  I understood the efficacy of that.

When we watch these terrible events transpire in the Middle East, we need to understand the untenable positions that many Palestinians, Syrians, and Yemeni find themselves in.  That context alone should help us judge their actions, to judge whether or not they are acting within the laws of God.  To ignore that context however is tantamount to complicity to commit murder - a crime so many of us unwittingly commit.

Riot

I was standing at the end of the walk in the threshold of the building above, talking to the assistant headmistress about the schedule of my sight visit, when the riot broke out. Minutes before, I had been admiring the new structure, noting how clean and bright the furnishings were. In less than a minute, everything had changed - the world turned upside down.
I believe something as chaotic, violent, and senseless as a riot ought to have a larger name. These four letters seem painfully inadequate. A riot has no master, has no form, has no dignity. It is a wave that gathers strength and spills out in unpredictable fashion. It is loud and crass, and yet curiously quiet. I can understand how one could be caught up, carried along, killed in a riot. There is nothing so surreal as this amorphous monster, I can see how one could be stranded staring in disbelief as the rules of man and even physics seem to evaporate in seconds. I have seen a riot, I have seen hell spill up and over a community.
I loved visiting central Tanzania for many reasons. Prince Charles had a tea plantation in the region, subsequently there were good roads. I loved the rustic country side, but being in Landrover three weeks out of each month made me appreciate the odd smooth ride. The two lane blacktop bisected a game reserve, so I got a free safari each time we travelled there. And finally, there was a beautiful lake that had been stocked with Largemouth Bass. I never forgot my fishing pole.
On this particular trip, I was checking in on volunteers, doing site visits. A site visit was fun but exhausting. I would arrive in the morning with my driver, visit with the headmaster/headmistress and other administrative personnel, observe the volunteer in the classroom, and visit and talk with teachers and students. Whenever I could, I would co opt a class, and have some fun with the students. We ate a modest lunch with the teachers, and I would finish the visit by inspecting the volunteer's living quarters. We would leave in mid-afternoon, and make our way to the next village school, sometimes hundreds of miles away. As I said, it was fun, but very taxing.
We were well back in the central highlands that day, making our way to visit a volunteer I was very concerned about. His name was William, and he was teaching secondary math at a small village school. I knew William had been drinking a lot in several months, and was away from his site far too often. I was prepared to bring him back to the capital if he hadn't made progress since last I saw him. I did end up bringing him back to Dar es Salaam, but through no fault of his own.

We arrived at his living quarters just after 7am and took him up to the school. William was awake, but not particularly coherent. John, our driver, pulled up in front of the school in the visitor's spot, and we prepared to get out. As I was unbuckling my seat belt, I noticed a group of girls congregating for assembly. Two things struck me instantly - there were far less students than there should have been, and those who were there were milling about restlessly. Something didn't feel right. I had William get out, and then asked John to take the car back halfway up the hill and park it by William's house. He did so without asking any questions.

William and I walked up the gravel walk to find the assistant headmistress standing in the doorway. She ushered us in, and William went over to sit down on a chair. We started to explain pleasantries, and she was delighted with my Kiswahili - Shikamoo, Habari za asubuhi, Habari za Kazi, Habari za familia? (You are respected, how is the morning, how is work, how is your family). This sort of ritual was very hard for me to pick up, being a task oriented westerner - imagine my chagrin each morning I came into our head office and had to repeat this a dozen or so times before I reached my desk! As we finished greeting each other, I turned to her to address the odd behavior of the students outside. By that time there were more, and they were all obviously anxious about something. As soon as I opened my mouth to ask, I thought a tornado had struck the building. I was deafened by what I thought was the sound of thunder and breaking glass. Shards were spraying from the rear of the building, and I couldn't hear anything. Amazingly, the headmistress' first instinct was to grab William and pull him into the corner where she pushed him to the floor and protected him with her body. John came rushing in the front door and yelled "It's students, they are making a fight." I realized then that noise I had mistaken for thunder was the sound of hundreds of rocks hitting the corregated steel roof, and I  looked down at me feet to see dozens of rocks amidst the broken glass strewn everywhere.

The clamor seemed to subside for a moment, and I had John take William and his guardian out to the Landrover. I told him to back the car all the way up the hill and I would be right up. As they left, I made my way to the rear of the building, partly to see if there were any other staff about, partly to find out exactly what was happening. As I  peeked out through a broken window, I saw at least a hundred students either hurling rocks or searching for new  reloading projectiles. They were moving as a mob moves, erratically closer to the school, and I knew it was time to leave. As I turned to run out of the building, I remember thinking it so odd that all these children had bothered to put on their school uniforms the morning they decided to raze their school. Later I realized many of them had few other options (for clothes, not crimes).

I ran up to the car, embarrassed to be passing others, knowing I had to get William out of the area. I had John continue to back the vehicle up the road as I walked beside surveying the mayhem below. The students were no longer advancing up to the community, they were too busy ripping apart the school. A few of them started to turn their attention to the hilltop, where all the teachers houses were. I knew it was time to leave. We put as many people as we could into the Landrover and drove out to the nearby village a few kilometers away. John, William, the headmistress, and I then drove 25 kilometers to the nearest town, where would find the police.

On the way, the headmistress provided some insight into the situation saying the students were upset because some of their peers had been suspended for drinking "pombe" - beer. She also subtlety indicated that the Headmaster (who was in town on "business") had been very hard on the students for quite some time, and that this last incident was the thing that pushed them over the top. As a matter of fact, she believed the Headmaster was out of the school deliberately, knowing there would be trouble.

When we got into town, we went to the Ministry of Education department who then notified the authorities. Once there, I sat down with the local officials and the headmaster who was conveniently there. The meeting cleared a lot of things up for me. He was arrogant, almost gloating over the news at it seemed to reaffirm whatever he had been telling his superiors about the quality of his students. When I proceeded to detail what I had witnessed, he stopped me several times suggesting I had misinterpreted something. After his third interjection, I politely asked him to refrain from interrupting me again. The room stiffened. I concluded my statements with the observation that I did not believe the events were precipitated or actualized by a small group of malcontents, instead that there were systemic issues involved. He boiled, but not over - I delivered that last bit of information as a bonus with my eyes riveted on his. When I returned to the main office a few days later, I made the decision to place no more volunteers at that school until there were appropriate changes made to the administration.

I took the headmistress back to the school, and left William at a nearby hotel. I could smell the smoke miles before we arrived. I watched her face instinctively as we crested that hill again, and saw the heartbreak and sorrow pervade that beautiful, caring face. The school was gone, as were several of the homes of teachers and staff. No one had been killed, but several cows and pigs had been butchered, as well as many pets. There was debris, dust, soot, and blood everywhere, with only a few dazed witnesses milling about. It was incomprehensible. I made sure my valiant counterpart was ok, stopped and collected William's personal effects that hadn't been destroyed, and I left to regain custody of William, my primary responsibility.

As for William, well that is the rest of the story. William was completely unfazed by the whole episode - it was as if he had been catatonic. His affect was very flat and unemotional, at least until I mentioned that he might be changing sites. That woke him up. He became very excited, and even had a suggestion for me that I place him with two other volunteers at a larger school not too far away. He rambled on and on about that contingency until we arrived back in Dar es Salaam to sort things out. Once there, I delivered my report and stayed late to write out commendations for John and my brave headmistress.

William didn't make it to his new school, nor did he return to the scene of the riot. William went home to the US. We worked with him through the week and discovered that he wasn't adapting too well to the culture or his teaching experience, and that he had been abusing drugs and alcohol in his efforts to cope. He was very angry he could not join his friends, but admitted in the end that such a move would only exacerbate his problems. I was sad when I took him to the airport for his two day odyssey back home, he truly didn't know what he was going to do once there, other than receive some professional help he so badly needed.

I never did find out what happened to the school, the children, or the community. I moved on to other pressing matters, always present when supervising a hundred or so college-aged volunteers. Most of those matters were delightful and comic, a few were tragic. We lost two volunteers in the coming year, one killed by an elephant on a cheap safari (Natalie, posted here in August 2010), the other asphyxiating on his own vomit in a drunken stupor. By in large though, those hundred "kids" loved the country and its children, and did miraculous things for them. I am so proud to have been involved.

As for lessons on riots? Avoid them.