Saturday 2nd November                                                               

I’ve been working at Serenity Harm Reduction Programme Zambia (SHARPZ ) for two years now and how much I have learned! Probably I could say that these two years have been two of the most difficult of my religious life.  I did not choose to live in Lusaka and initially felt like one turned upside down and shaken till all my pockets were emptied. All my lowness of spirit, misery and despair seemed to find an outlet and meaning in the men and women I subsequently worked with those two intense days every week. Alcoholism, drugs, depression, eating disorder, life on the streets, family disaffection- I was amazed at how I could apply the tools of the counselling trade when I was in such a mess myself!

Invariably though, when I most immediately and personally assaulted by my own fears, anger and hurt- that is when I must slowly once again turn to those inner resources within to befriend what is strange, frightening, definitely not wanted in my life, in a positive and gentle way.  That is when I am again grounded in wholeness and healing.  It is as though I have to get out my own map.  In such painful learning, knowledge of the way to healing becomes personal, and fresh. So when someone particularly broken or traumatised was referred to us, I felt my own lost spirit sit up, alert. I began to recognise how fear works, how it paralyses and pins down. Even though I felt tentative at first with a client, I knew from my inside what it means to be befriended when lost. When a way forward is shown, energy starts stirring, and with it, hope.  Of course I learned so much from Sr. Helen. We worked closely together each week; particularly in the weekly men’s therapy every Tuesday for the two hours. The men made it of course, but we felt like midwives, bringing life to birth.

Mutama joined our weekly group from out of town; six hours journey.  He was a thin rake of six feet.  He had been briefly in prison after one night’s drunken fight with a fellow security guard, who later died in hospital. Mutama had been drinking since he left school.  Estranged from his family, only Rachel his younger sister supported him and brought him to our programme.  He responded well, and alternating between sobriety and break outs, managed an erratic yet steady  return to independent living and friendlier terms with his father, (so precious to both), finding rented accommodation and moved permanently to Lusaka.  Rachel, by now working in Botswana, was sending him money, and urging him to undertake some small business enterprise. Between them they devised a chicken selling trade whereby Mutama would go at dawn to central market and buy cheap from a Chinese business man and sell in the compounds at a slightly higher price.  Lu was his partner; Mutama brought him to join us in a session!

Then for a month or so, Mutama dropped out. “What’s happening, Mutama?” I asked when at last he answered his phone. “Ah Sister, I’m so lonely! I don’t know anyone here!”  More family conferencing ensued. Then in the New Year, Mutama began more individual therapy with us and as well resumed accountancy studies in a top Lusaka Accountancy College; even working with Beth our Administrator, (who spent hours with him on the computer) for hands on experience, in pro bono work.  Fantastic the difference! Mutama was happy- occupied, and supported. He had companionship, hope and studied hard.  I’m not sure how assiduous he was with his chickens, but who could ask more? He seemed to be getting thinner and thinner.

“Sister, Mutama is ill.  After his final exam, we’re taking him back to Copperbelt for tests.” An email from Rachel, by now married in UK. “I’ll be in Lusaka at the end of the week.” That’s how we sat down; Beth, Helen and I, with Rachel. Despite the constant communication this was the first time I’d met her, though Mutama had shown me her photo. “Who’s that little girl?” I asked him. “That’s Rachel!” said Mutama grinning, “She’s my young sister!” And here she was; not only Rachel but Mutama’s step mother.  She and Mutama had long reconciled. “You see Sister, Mutama is HIV positive!” We all drew in our breath sharply then sat still for several minutes, silent and stunned. We didn’t think of HIV! I thought of Mutama’s long struggle, and all he had mastered. Then Rachel started sobbing.  We just sat closer, hardly daring to look at each other.  It was a bitter acceptance we shared; and we prayed quietly together.  Then bade gentle farewells and watched the two women walk sadly away.  Maybe he can pick up with ARVs, I thought. “You get well, Mutama, I told him, when he rang.  College has given a room for you! You can yet marry and have children!” He was 26. But everything packed up on him; liver, kidneys and he died. God! We mourned him and prayed for him in a small prayer service, one month after his funeral; recounting his stories, his joyful returns to family intimacy, his pride in academic progress, his being able to work!  That’s when we began talking about sexual health far more explicitly, consciously in the group. We owed that to Mutama.

Love, lots of it,

Marie

Holiday in Luapula

Monday 7th October

I managed a week’s holiday in Luapula Province, Kasanka village (630kms north east) last week with Helen and I completing our 4^th cycle of 16 week drug and alcohol therapy group work and declaring a week’s break from all appointments.  It has been more than a year since my last visit and I wondered how I’d “fit in,” after such an absence.  But country people don’t change much and readily swamped me with greetings, questions and delight.  I’d returned and when was I coming back?  Nine hours sleep was the order of the day, and by walking in a circle crossing the dry swamp and re-crosssing further west, had the chance to exchange waves of recognition from houses, pathways and when I reached the highway, even the little ones from the Primary School decided that I merited abandoning their morning line up outside class to come and greet me.  The highway is barely 50 metres from the school. These are Sr. Agness’ former Pre-School students.  Agness is currently in our Novitiate community in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe- and actually spent a few days in Kasanka while I was there, chasing up documents she needed from Samfya District.

Rogita was still there too, when I arrived though I didn’t see her till the following morning as I’d arrived on the night bus at 01.30! The dogs did though, ecstatic to meet someone and company in the night!  I’d thought my holiday was to be a solitary one and here was both Rogita and Agness!  Rogita postponed her Kabwe trip, as the Literacy School borehole drilling team arrived out of the blue.  They worked all day Saturday, overtime, in order to accommodate the project- and it was urgent as soon the rains would come, ruling out any further drilling until the following year.

Unfortunately my Bemba language has deteriorated to infant standard, and I could say little when the Sunday Congregation called me to the front to give an account of myself! Ho hum! My week was full of sleep, lazing about, coaching Agi with her reverse driving (she hopes to go for her driver’s licence in December) and doing some gardening.  Having arrived by night, for my Lusaka return (always a challenge!) I decided to risk a morning wait by the road for the Kawambwa “Peace Soldier,” the only day time coach, positioning myself at the Milenge junction, on the highway.  I’d just missed a chance in a private vehicle, so settled to wait with a book, wondering would I be forced to return in the evening for the night buses.  Whoosh, there it was! Stuffing my book hastily into my handbag, and shrugging on my back pack, I began waving down the coach as it sped past. “It’s stopping, Sister. Run!” yelled people from the other side of the road in encouragement. And sure enough it was, even reversing back, from further up the road.  So I ran and so did another young man in the middle of the road, grinning in support as I breathlessly climbed up.

.

Rogita, Agness and Elizabeth currently studying in UK

My heart was filled with gratitude, as the miles flew by, and we reached in good time.  There was a great atmosphere on that bus.  Perhaps because both passengers and staff are from the same place, Kawambwa?  But it was the two bus boys and two co-drivers who attracted my attention, who throughout the journey joked and teased, enjoying each other. I enjoyed myself and even managed workshop preparation for a course next month.  And to think and pray.  It was a good break; so different that it was like visiting another world.

Heaps of love, Marie

20th August 2013
 Lusaka, Zambia



 Here I am in Kalundu Study Centre Lusaka- learning how to programme and design on the web with 29 other Sisters from Malawi and Zambia. 

We all trouped in two weeks ago, bright and bushy tailed but as the process with all its intricacies and mind blasting possibilities were opened to us, our minds began to spin, our hearts to falter and our knees to knock. 

As our facilitators continued to unfurl blue griffin, gimp and dream weaver, our spirits withered and our bodies wilted! 

 And yet something is happening!  So bear with me as I practice blog links to website to see what can be produced.

This is the opening page of my website.  Back  for instructions! The only problem is that I have not yet succeeded in launching it onto the web yet- only one page was released. 

All of this only possible through Conrad Hilton Foundation who have financed this workshop for us Sisters in Africa; a learning opportunity  we otherwise would never have over these three weeks.  Much love,

 Marie

marie.bourkefmdm: 24. 3 2013Lusaka, ZAMBIAMy dear family and friend...

marie.bourkefmdm: 24. 3 2013Lusaka, ZAMBIA
My dear family and friend...: 24. 3 2013 Lusaka, ZAMBIA My dear family and friends ! Yea! Hello from Zambia; I hope all is well with each one of you.  Its Inte...

24. 3 2013

Lusaka, ZAMBIA

My dear family and friends! Yea! Hello from Zambia; I hope all is well with each one of you.  Its International Women’s Day and a holiday full of sunshine, birds and quiet.  Best of all the chance to write letters to you! I wanted to write on the day Zambia equalised with Ethiopia during the All Africa Cup of Nations. A friend of mine had organised a table right in front of the television at Arcades Shopping Centre for an evening cup of coffee; but it took me thirty minutes to make the half mile down Great East Road; it was so packed with Zambians with one thing in mind- get home early for kick off!  

I could even feel my blood start to pump with excitement, listening to the fever pitch of the radio commentator from South Africa, and watching the intent way drivers hunched over their steering wheels, Zambian flags flying from windows and masts, greeting each other with conspiratorial nods and thumbs up- manoeuvering in and out of a packed crawl.

What a match!  Our table was in the thick of supporters alternatively cheering and holding their heads, groaning in frustration. Nil- nil!  But we were eagerly catching up on personal news and had to periodically ask the score from the waiter and what had happened following an outburst of cheering- ask, then plunge back into conversation. I thought we’d won, so my delight turned to bemused puzzlement, disappointment and shock as I made my way back to the car to head home.  Good Lord!  Zambia, the defending champions; and we could not even score against Ethiopia!

I glanced round as I opened the car door, as right next to me, four or five young Zambian men were piling into their car; a smart one too.  The one nearest, cheerful with drink, yet struck by the unusual sight of a white lady at his elbow, and grief of the match we’d all been watching, blurted out in greeting, “Madam, how do you live?” Upon which his companions roared with laughter.  I laughed too, answering in Bemba, “Kuno kwine; ku Lusaka.” Then the driver leaned out and said to me, “What he means to say is, “Where do you do!”  We all had a good laugh together, and I added in terrible grammar how- my grief was great (ifilamba fyandi ifingi!) so we all greeted and went our separate ways in merry spirit.

Lusaka grows on me with such moments!  As I mentioned in my Christmas letter, I really love the drug and alcohol work I do.  It is intense and almost like a war front- no prisoners taken. Do or die. This year we have recruited ten young staff members whose work is either in research with John Hopkins University or training community leaders in local initiatives, either church or school based projects, mostly in the local languages too, so it is powerful, innovative, and exciting to watch develop. Similar initiatives are springing up in Namibia, Botswana and Tanzania.   I’ve seen some of the media presentations using Picture Codes, to mobilise local action groups for mobilising in the poorer compounds here in Lusaka as well as for the outreach programmes in the provincial centres starting this month.

Last week Zambia National Broadcasting Corporation (ZNBC) called in at our place, Serenity Harm Reduction Programme Zambia (SHARPZ) check us out on the web; www.sharpz.com and interviewed our Director, Fr. Phillip Baxter, giving, ”us” free advertising.  As a consequence quite a few rang asking for more information for help.  One older sister rang and as promised, arrived the following week with her youngest brother, and mother in tow.  So as usual after introductions and explanations of our programme and approach, I was to sit down with Kasonde for a full assessment after I’d given Mum a cup of tea; older sister was to head off to work.  So I busied myself in the kitchen and was surprised to find both Mum and older sister standing outside, in a huddle, looking upset.  “What’s happened?” I asked. “He’s gone,” they said. “Where?” said I wonderingly.  “Out the gate.  Down the road!”  Immediately I realised I’d assumed too much, had not spent enough time preparing  and encouraging Kasonde;  instead left him alone, to just panic, and flee!  “Okay,” I decided, “let’s catch up with him.” That’s how we all jumped into the little Ford, drawing in front of him at the crossroads.  “Kasonde, can we talk?” “Ah no, it’s “Peter”(as in Stuyvesant) time!”  He was feverishly trying to buy cigarettes, looking wild eyed. Meantime his women folk were persuading him into the car, so I got in and drove into the nearby church yard for privacy.

“I’m so sorry, Kasonde,” says I twisting round to face him in the back. “I did not explain properly.  We won’t push you or force you at any time; you go at your own pace- whatever you can manage to cut down; that is how it will be.  According to what you can manage.  You don’t need to run.”  “I’ve been running all my life!” says Kasonde, “that’s how it is!”  Anyway, after a bit of talking I saw the look of panic and defiance die down, and even soften into some humour of the situation, as he watched me.  “I’ll come tomorrow,” he told me. “Okay,” says I not believing it but hoping.

Imagine my surprise the following morning.  There Kasonde was- and I could not smell so much drink on him either. He stopped schooling in Grade 9.  No wonder he bolted. Even now, when I showed him the papers we’d work on to assess the seriousness of his condition, he groaned out aloud, when he saw these under my arm.  “Don’t worry,” I assured him, “You will be fine.”  And he was too. He had good firm handwriting.  But the amount of spirits he was taking!  “Wow, Kasonde,” I told him, “you’ve got the top score!”  At which he just giggled. But, my God, his mouth set into a determined line, as I described the plan ahead.  He was ready for the fray! What a goer! After de-tox, weekly group work, here we come.

You will see below a photo of Lana Turvey (with our dog!) who volunteered to work a year in Mission Overseas and worked on all kinds of projects,  with Fr Bernard Zulu the national coordinator and is now back in Australia- in Sydney.  I enjoyed her and I miss her. Much love Lana and thank you!

This comes with much love and prayers!   

 Marie

Public Transport- the heart ache and the Hassles

Kitwe, September 20^th 2012

My dear friends and family, here I am and happy to be giving an account of myself at last!  I hope that you are all well and enjoying the gift of life and loved ones.  I am amazed that I am in the same year that we were burying father! I am sure that you are also wondering at the elastic quality of time!  I was on holiday a few weeks ago and after spending a great nine days at the Poor Clare monastery outside Lusaka, headed off to Copperbelt and then Kasanka for another ten days.  I was wonderfully restored. Below, I travelled from Kitwe to Luanshya to do a few jobs, and was inspired to scribble a bit of a letter!

I was lucky, the last of 20 passengers of a mini bus headed off for Luanshya, but the seat was at an odd angle, supported as it was by a 50 kg bag of cassava underneath, and my long knees were meant to hold the sweet potatoes in front- so that I muttered in Bemba under my breath, “I’m to suffer for luck here!”  At the same time as I was hastily scrambling into place, the kid of a conductor was also commenting, “Is a Musungu (white person) joining us?  Will I need Chi-sungu (English)?”  “Ah no, she’s Bemba!  Didn’t you hear her?” This was from the passenger in front.  I liked his face; lined, and leathered by philosophic experience and humour.  No, I was wrong- there was one more place, because a young man managed to insert himself next to two front -seated, serious looking business men.  Entry for him was via the vacant driver’s seat.  So, we sat alert and ready, cloths tying up personal belongings, suitcases held on laps and faces peering over, merchandise in cardboard boxes for selling … “Where’s the driver!”  That question came from behind, and over the suitcase.  He smiled at me when I looked around.  Sure enough, there the driver was – in post box red cap and T shirt looking upset, because as he told us, he had been forced by the police- I could not catch it all- to pay a fine, and the conductor, who looked only 16 years old himself, was respectfully listening, and addressing him as “Bashi Michael,” the father of Michael.  Paying a fine would upset the fine balance between a day’s profit and loss.  Everybody else seemed to listen sympathetically too, as the police don’t enjoy a good reputation in Kitwe. (See below)

Well, Michael’s father (the driver) was moving out onto the congested  road, pulling on his required blue shirt uniform, strapping in his seatbelt as he changed gears , ( reminding me of one of my father’s inherited driving habits,) and we were on the road. Businessman no. 1 was on the phone as the conductor called for money up front, especially money with CHANGE.  “This could be interesting,” I thought, “a corporate effort;” so I obediently checked my purse for small notes and handed them over.  So for the next ten minutes, “Who gave me 20? Who gave me 50?” as money travelled around in exchange.  I was glad things were getting organised because the potato sack was threatening to escape my grip of knees and hand by this time and I called for conductor assistance. “Ngafweenko!”  I sensed the deep satisfaction of my friend in front, listening to my Bemba accent.  I was enjoying myself immensely.

A few weeks ago in Lusaka I attended an unusual meeting representing the Drug and Alcohol set up I work with in SHARPZ. (Serenity Harm Reduction Programme Zambia)  In that meeting, different associations had gathered to pool their resources to work out what could be done for drivers, conductors, call boys- all the casual workers of Lusaka’s public transport system- and who were dying of HIV and AIDS.  Peter, an older man and drivers association representative had written a comprehensive account of the life of thousands who lived off the returns of organised chaos; introducing us to the “scene” whereby so many of his colleagues had since died, and he counted himself as a survivor who needed to use what he knew, to find a way forward for the ones following behind.

Why? Why were so many dying in this time of media and health delivery?  Many who thronged the transport centres for work are uneducated and casual workers.  Many are positive but in such a rough and volatile environment few would admit this for fear that at the next dispute when insults flow freely, one’s status would be out and public consumption within hours.  Not only would this mean humiliation and derision but one’s job would be in jeopardy where the pool of young, unemployed is never slaked.  Many of these teeming youths are up at first light and most get home very late, perhaps drinking on the way as a means of relaxation.  The daily pressure, and the reason for hell bent driving is the fact that these are drivers for mini bus owners who exact a starting fee of K350,000 ($70) before any income comes their  way- both driver and conductor. Daily passenger trips into town would be K5,000 ($1)  so we get packed into buses unceremoniously.   It’s a transaction executed swiftly and roughly! It’s understandable.

So if a driver is HIV+ often he sends his conductor or “boy” to the ART (Anti Retro-viral Therapy) clinic to collect his medication and by the time he has “signed” for it, the bus is full, the engine running as he has “diverted’ a block from the bus route to do so without losing vital time and passengers. So, no counselling, no education on medication, side effects, information or prognosis, no liver test, no blood or urine analysis; running blind. No chance to check in his or her own language why the head aches and dizziness.  Many rely on each other for exchange of “information,” like “If you sleep with her, you need at least two condoms!” And the women are there too, equally needy and financially strapped. Sometimes (Peter explained) not all passengers will disembark, but a woman remains riding on the bus. Then there are the women fruit and vegetable vendors. The question has to be asked “how do they manage such a turnover of fresh produce each day, for the pitifully small returns sold daily?’   Sadly the answer is in supplementary income, so that often a small girl will take over the stand while, “Aunty” disappears for a while as an escort.

Yet there is a network of support in the loose associations of the industry, so that with informal dues paid monthly for funerals for example, a bus can be packed off with mourners for the cemetery for several hours and on its return be ushered straight into the loading station for passengers without queuing- an unscheduled trip quite unknown to the owner.

One planned health intervention was to set up running DVD with educational messages in the vernacular languages whilst buses queued for their loads, which often take 40 minutes or so. This could be good together with a small health station to educate and counsel to break down some of the stigma and fear. I came from that meeting softened and more enlightened as well as wanting to reach out to such people caught up in such a web of need and want.

Well once again this comes with blessings and love,

Marie

An Old Man with a Hessian Bag

My dear friends and family,

I am so happy to be celebrating this quiet autumn morning, looking out on to lawn, falling leaves, sunshine and shade.  I laughed when I overheard Sr. Ann (with whom I live) saying to Ellen our Regional Leader on the phone just now; that, "Marie is taking a day off today .." laughing at myself that is.  Like most people, I am good at beating myself up with inner compulsions to work and work!  Sometimes I catch myself measuring off my days; my father lived to 90; maybe I have 25 odd years left to count on?  At times I have the sense of life passing me by without resting by the wayside to observe what's going on around me; so many simple gifts are mine every day; gifts deserving time to ponder, else I'm in danger of skittering on surface water like a dragon fly, merely flitting; not exploring inner depths.

An old man crossing

Since returning to Zambia and life in Lusaka, I have continued with an inner restlessness.  How I love to be in the market, in the village, traveling about, moving with ordinary folk!  I live in our Regional house here in Lusaka and my role is more back up support; requiring more technological flair on my part.  It's okay.  Lusaka too seems to be rapidly expanding too, into shining malls and enmeshed traffic but the other evening I saw a very old man crossing over a two lane feeder highway bringing evening rush hour traffic to a surprised standstill.  He crossed over tentatively, dragging an old hessian bag with him of empty tins and plastics, hobbling in front of the waiting bumper bars, as he finally hauled his bag slowly up and over the concrete kerbing.  What a marvellous image of our poverty, I thought.  I could sense the other drivers drawing in their breath and pausing; all thought of racing for the next light replaced by concern, and perhaps an inner jolt of who and how we are.  It would seem that we human beings need to step back like that at times, in quietness and courage in order to move more mindfully though our days.

Drug and Alcohol Work

I work two days a week in Serenity harm Reduction Programme, Zambia (SHARPZ) as a drug and alcohol therapist.  I love it. Drugs and alcohol misuse seem to be on the increase here and I'm reading everything I can lay my hands on, as well as having lots of training in order to work with people, where they are in their courageous attempts to regain their freedom.  In our living, it is easy to fill our emptiness and poverty with something or other.  Usually we cannot free ourselves from such addictions on our own; we need the support from family members and friends.

Luka

Luka hardly spoke and when he did, it was to murmur to himself.  He had been taking marijuana and his sister and her husband brought him straight from five days of Detox.  I felt so out of my depth, I asked another Counsellor to help in an assessment interview. Does he want to come to "see" us twice a week, I asked Luka?  Luka mumbled that he does not "want" to come, but he will.  Wow.  Time for me to take a breath!  He was 27, single and dependent, but a fine figure of a man.  The following weeks of halting conversation (me asking questions, Luka responding in barely audible responses) seemed to indicate trauma as a boy, through loss of his father and then not long later, loss of his mother, with Luka shutting down emotionally by the time he was 18 and since then with increasing depression, numbs himself with drugs.  Such misery.  What amazed me was the measure of love in that family and the way they were counting their monthly bills to calculate what they could set aside for Luka's rehabilitation.  His older sisters and brother had taken care of him over the years but these moves around Zambia probably intensified his confusion and feeling, "a problem for them," as Luka termed it.  Yet, Luka also bears in himself and carries family grief and loss.  When he dresses himself carefully, agrees to go on family excursions, his sister and husband are overjoyed.  Small steps; let us hope and pray!

Coffee

I was so pleased to welcome Jane Bertelson here last month.  We repaired to my special coffee spot, where I confess; I ate most of the food!  Another Australian often at our place is Lana Turvey, a volunteer on loan for a year from the Sydney office of the Pontifical Mission Society. (PMS)  My favourite text from her is, "Wanna coffee?"  Oh, joy.  Now that is a distinct plus to city living!

The owner servant

There once was a man           

who owned a donkey. 

They were friends.                             

the donkey always served

him with love and devotion.                                      

They spoke in silence.

It was a soundless alphabet

Which bore fruit....

Each month for one day

The owner

became servant.

When asked the reason for

such a strange custom           

he answered

Only by being a donkey

have I attained wisdom.

           

Poet Artist, Assisi 2006

Lots of love, May you each be with God, and God be with you! (Blessing of St. Clare of Assisi)

Marie