A few weeks ago, I reread Norman Rush’s book about whites in Botswana. It’s called, well, “Whites.” Considering that I hadn’t lived in Botswana the first time I’d read it, I wondered if I’d look at it differently now. It’s safe to say it struck me harder this time. In particular, an exchange between two expat Americans stuck in my head:
“Answer this question. Do you like it in Africa?”
She said she did.
“But you can’t quite figure out why you like it, am I right?” he asked. “Because, I mean, hell, it’s inconvenient. Gaborone is dead at night, the movies are ancient and all mutilated because they have to come through South African censorship because that’s where the distributor is located. But still we like it here. Drought, poor people…even when they get a decent movie, they mix up the reels. We want to be here anyway, but we can’t figure out why. Except that one night I figured it out. It’s because it isn’t our country and we can’t help what happens. We can offer eople advice and we get paid for it. We get good vacations, we eat off the top of the food chain, we get free housing. Hey!, but we’re not responsible for what happens if Africa goes to hell, ecause we’ve done our best. Also, at the same time, we’re not responsible for what happens in America either, really – because hey!, we weren’t home when it happened. Say we get fifteen percent compliance on birth control here, which is what we do get and which is terrific by Third World standards. O.K., it’s not enough. But what can we do, we tried. We told them. But we’re too late. We all know it, but somebody pays us to keep up the good work, so we say fine. Why am I telling you this? I forget."
Certainly, I forget too. But what lingers is this idea of responsibility. I thought to myself, if Rush had asked me why I’m here, I suspect I’d have said just the opposite. I’m here because I do feel responsible. Not the kind of responsibility that makes the state of affairs my fault – I’m not so arrogant as that. But the kind that says, I’m a human being, I’ve had a lot of privilege, and I have a responsibility to do something with it that might hopefully help someone other than me. The kind of naïve, idealistic responsibility that makes it possible for me to get out of bed every day in a region of Namibia where nearly half of the population is HIV-positive and where some women still think they can’t even talk to me without their husbands being present. I’ve seen a lot of things, living here. Things that no one should ever have to see, much less live through. And despair is a constant undercurrent. But the idea that I’ve come here to escape responsibility, well, it’s absurd. And probably a little bit right.
After all, I can go home. I can leave whenever I want. I even have a fantastic job waiting for me in a place that I am sure will be good for me. I’m working with a Zimbabwean academic who is now based in the US, who reminded me that “we can’t change things here.” We. Can’t. And he’s right. But he’s also wrong. I hope.
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