Deborah's day

I've just got back from up north. I had a wonderful time there. The quietness of the place and simplicity of life was therapeutic after the noise and stress of Bunia. As well as working with the translators, I had the luxury of time to observe people's lives. Here's something I wrote while I was there.

Deborah (not her real name) is in her early twenties. She’s got a chubby two month old baby called Alice. She finished primary school, but didn’t go to secondary school. Deborah has been working for the O. language project for about a year as cook and cleaner. While I’ve been here for the last ten days, she’s been working full-time, from the crack of dawn at 5.30 a.m. till bedtime at 9 p.m., taking care of ‘hospitality’ for us. There is no running water here, no stove, no electricity, no water heater, no washing machine.

Deborah and Alice

Deborah’s day starts with lighting an open fire (three large rocks form the fireplace, with branches of firewood pushed in between) so that she can heat water. Then, with Alice tied securely to her back, she sweeps the ground all around the mud hut that I’m staying in, with a broom made of a bundle of sticks, leaving neat circles traced in the fine dust. She carries hot water in a metal pail to the outside bathroom and calls me to tell me it’s time to get washed. Meanwhile she takes water off the fire to make tea, and fries sweet potatoes for breakfast. She sets the tea and potatoes out carefully in my hut, brings water for me to wash my hands before eating (this is an essential ritual that can’t be skipped however recently I’ve washed), and prays for the food, as we say here.

fetching firewood

outside my house

Once breakfast is over and I’ve made my way to the translation office, Deborah does the washing up, leaving the plastic plates and cups to dry in the sun. Next it’s time to fetch water from the spring about 300m away. She carries the water in plastic jerry cans on her head, Alice still on her back. She has to fetch firewood, too, from further away, which is likewise balanced on her head. The morning’s activities also include scrubbing and wringing clothes and spreading them out to dry on the grass, going to market, preparing tea for our mid-morning break, and cooking lunch, which might be rice and beans, or soft cassava meal with beef cooked in palm oil, or, as a special treat, chicken. She feeds Alice as the need arises as she prepares vegetables or waits for water to boil. 

washing hands before lunch

Lunch is served at the office after hand-washing and grace. Deborah waits in the wings to clear things away, and bring anything extra that’s needed. I’m told that in the culture here the person serving must not eat with those she or he is serving; to do so would be embarrassing, out of place, unheard of. When I try to help clear away the plates they are quickly taken away from me, and I get the feeling that I might be suggesting that Deborah is not doing her job properly, or not coping.

bathing Alice

coffee on fire

Straight after lunch it’s time for Alice’s bath, in the sunshine in a plastic bowl. She revels in it, and howls when she’s hauled out. Then there’s more washing up, more water heating, feeding Alice when she’s hungry, and maybe time to sit and chat briefly with passing neighbours before she has to think about what to prepare for supper, and checks that the paraffin lanterns are clean ready for nightfall. At about 4.30p.m. she starts thinking about heating water for evening baths and calls me around 5.30p.m. to tell me the water’s ready. When I get back to my darkening hut I find a paraffin lamp lit ready to welcome me. By 6.30p.m. she’s brought me supper, accompanied, of course, by water for hand-washing. She brings more tea, too. After the day’s final washing up, she may find time to sit around a paraffin lamp, tell stories, and laugh with friends.

washing up

I can barely communicate with Deborah beyond a few basic phrases in her language. She does not speak French, Swahili or Lugbarati and I can’t speak Bangala, the regional language here. I would like to tell her how much I appreciate her hard work and her tireless, cheerful, unselfish service. I’d like to hear her hopes and dreams for the future. I want to understand better what it’s like to be an ordinary Congolese woman, for whom serving without complaint is an expectation, indeed, often a part of her identity. My life is so very different, but here in a village in north-eastern Congo our lives touch for a week, and her life has profoundly touched mine. She challenges me to think more deeply about what Jesus meant when he said that he didn’t come to be served, but to serve, and that we should follow his example.