Skip to main content

Children




I am thoroughly confused by the Oroko/ Bantu/ Cameroonian/ African (pick your generalization) approach to children.

On the one hand, children are very important. In the village, it is more important for a woman to have proven her fertility than that she be a virgin when she gets married. It’s not at all unusual for high school girls to be pregnant, and thoroughly it’s normal for the bride to already have children on the wedding day. The only couples without children are ones who are physically unable to produce them—there’s no such thing as choosing not to have kids.

So important are children, that adults are identified by their names of their children. Friesens (and everyone else in the village) call their neighbours Sanga Grace, and Nyanga Grace (meaning father of-, mother of Grace—their oldest daughter), rather than Matthias and Judith, or Mr and Mrs Mosongo.

That’s the “children are very important” part. But then there’s, well, everything else—which is where I get confused.

Kids run rampant, all over the village, with very little supervision. Dan jokes, cynically, “Sure, it takes a village to raise a child, because nobody’s taking responsibility for them.” Many kids are half-naked or clothed in rags; their school fees play second fiddle to the prices of drinks to some parents; and there’s been cases where kids were left home alone all day without a bite to eat while mom and dad worked on the farm or visited in another village.

At birth and shortly after, the children are the apple of mama’s eye, carried everywhere strapped to mama’s back. But by one-and-a-half, two years of age, they’re pawned off on big sister to take care of (even if big sister is only a year older) and mama doesn’t seem to pay a whole lot of attention to them—other than yelling to chastise—until they’re at the cusp of adulthood. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of interaction between mother and child to aid in their development.

This is all generalization, of course, and from my limited experience of what I saw from walking around the village and observing people in church. Please don’t take my cynical impressions as “THE WAY THINGS ARE” in every family in every situation.

I’m not judging, I’m just puzzled.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My favourite nativity scene

“There’s no accounting for taste.” That’s my dad’s favourite way of explaining personal tastes that are incomprehensible to him, like living downtown, and riding bike in winter. The inexplicable factors which determine an individual’s likes or dislikes are probably the only way I can explain why my favourite nativity scene contains a horribly caricatured black magus, a random adoring child attired – to my fancy – like a Roma person, an old shepherd carrying some sort of blunderbuss. And a haloed holy family with an 18-month-old baby Jesus. This is the "Christmas Manger Set – the Christmas story in beautiful cut-out scenes and life-like figures." See how the 1940s-era family admires the realistic flourishes, like raw wood beams and straw protruding from the edge of the roofline; the rough, broken wood of the stalls; the tasselled camels; the richly dressed magi; the woolly sheep; the Bethlehemites on the path in the background, ostensibly out to get water, judging...

Upside down economics of Jesus: household action and global change

--Presented at a CAWG event in Altona -- In Living More with Less , Doris Janzen Longacre shares a story about envelopes from Marie Moyer, a missionary in India, who was studying Hindi with Panditji. Marie writes: “From his philosophic mind, which probed the meaning of events and circumstances, I learned more than Hindi.” Just before her teacher’s arrival one day before Christmas, she’d received and opened a pile of Christmas cards and discarded the envelopes as he walked in the room. She writes: “He sat down soberly and studied the situation, then he solemnly scolded me: ‘the reverberation of this wasteful act will be felt around the world’.” Marie was stunned. “What do you mean?” she asked him. “Those envelopes,” he said, pointing to the wastebasket. “You could write on the inside of them.” “Chagrined”, Marie apologized and rescued the envelopes with the help of Panditji, who “caressed each one” as he pulled it out of the garbage. This forever changed Marie’s relationship to p...

Broken people...

After reflecting with one coworker on how often churches in all their forms really mess up and hurt a whole bunch of people in the process -- and how "we gotta do better" -- I stumbled into another conversation with a coworker which highlighted our brokenness, and I suddenly realized what was wrong with my take in the first. I wanted the church to be better at fixing our mistakes, or better yet, at not making them in the first place. But maybe this "fix-it" attitude is partly the reason we keep blowing it again and again! My friend recollected an experience when a church community was in a terrible place: compounded mistakes, hurts, and frustrations had blown up, spewing pain all over all parties. (I'm sure anyone with a long history in the church can think of one, if not several, such occasions in their past.) A new Christian who observed all these goings on responded in an unexpected way. Instead of "you people are a bunch of screw-ups! How could this pos...