Humble Pie

Sometimes, the best thing to do is to admit that you are useless.

A week of continuously scraping myself off the floor, although an excellent ego detox, does have the adverse side-effect of ridiculously low self-esteem.

Everything is new; wild, unpredictable. I have no idea how to navigate this world that seems so bizarre, and foreign and disorganised.

Walking to the shops feels like inching along a tightrope with a frenzy of motorbikes and taxis and cyclists and cars swarming below as one claustrophobic mass.

Even upon successful entry into the shop, I then have to make my tongue and lips spit out sounds that will vaguely resemble a sentence.

What makes it hardest of all; is that the pervading feeling of uselessness is just as apparent at work as on the streets. ( I am an intern at a human rights organisation called “le Communauté des Associations Conte l’Impunité au Togo.”)

On my first day, struggling to stand against the tidal wave of French, I tentatively agreed to do a Transitional Justice project, equipped with the vague knowledge that Desmond Tutu had done something along those lines in South Africa, and that it could be interesting.

Here came the catch. A Transitional Justice Project involves doing things. In French. Using an already well equipped and highly functional brain.

Entering a room full of highly professional French Law students, I spent the first week hating everyone. How dare they waltz gracefully through their fourth language, whilst my clumsy feet dragged mud across the floor in my shoddy attempt to communicate in my second? How dare they be intelligent and funny and confident and popular all at the same time? Worst of all, how dare they remain immaculately elegant all day, whilst the 90% humidity and stifling heat turned me into a dishevelled, sweaty mess, four steps out of the front door?

Eventually, I realised that something had to change. After a grovelling apology to God for my pig-headed self-pity, I decided to be happy that le CACIT had an army of proficient, talented models as interns. I also decided that I needed to get over myself.

I spoke to the director the next day, and told him that I was not academic or knowledgeable enough to do Transitional Justice. I then described the ounce of useful Human Rights knowledge that was floating around up there, and asked timidly if it would be more helpful to them if I went and joined another Human Rights organisation; one that was more practical, and less academic.

After having announced this to everyone in the staff meeting, the director then did something incredibly encouraging. He used a football analogy. He said that in a game of football, you do not put a right footed player on the left side of the pitch. You put them on the right side, to play to their strengths rather than exploit their weaknesses.

Le CACIT wants to reach out to the English speaking world, so I would be very useful to them in terms of translation.  Moreover, I might also be able to help start a project to help mothers, who are bringing up their children in prison, find a better option for their child.

Both of these things feel massive and scary and overwhelming, but almost; possibly doable.

My mind leapt back to my afternoon on the beach. The breakers, a pride of ruthless lions, have had nothing to sate their appetite since the shores of South America.  Gathering pace, gathering desperation, they eventually gain their first sighting of the Togolese shore. With an extra spurt of ravenous energy, they tear into the coastline; carving as much of it as they can into their insatiable maw; dragging it down into the deep.

Standing thigh high in the waves; muscles tensed, feet anchored, you stand and wait for the onslaught. Most of the time you are tossed up the beach like debris, with a few crucial moments when you can scramble away before the lion’s claws catch your ankle and drag you down with him.

Today, it felt different. Yes, I was in the water, filled with dread and fear and excitement as I waited for the lion to pounce, but this time I knew, that when the roaring mass of white water rushed towards me, I would not be consumed. My legs may strain; my knees may buckle, but this time I knew, that I would be able to stand.

Things to pray for:

For energy; physical and emotional

That when I visit the Ghana office this week, they will be warm and welcoming, and give me my visa with no hassle.

For building relationships with the people that I am with.