In-country blog post 1: What happens in Zambia

What Happens in Zambia…

Yesterday, Mr. Wam took us to the boarding school where Elisabeth, his daughter, studies. The school was a long, rocky drive from Lusaka, hundreds of kilometers south in a town called Shimabala. The area was beautiful, with rolling hills and roads of red dust that made the green of the treetops look all the more intense. A few pictures and Mitsubishi-suspension jolts later, we’d arrived at the school.

Soon, Elizabeth came running to our group. She was elated, with an infectious smile that made her stand out from the hundreds of other girls wearing the same baby blue shirt and dress combo. After enjoying a meal with her, our entourage made our way to the area behind a building on the edge of the premises, where other parents and students were sitting and talking.

The area had all the key ingredients of a good family cookout in my childhood neighborhood: the smell of cocoa butter and charcoal, the sound of some obscure gospel song in the distance, the sight of layers of smoke and flimsy plastic chairs. As we approached the group and recited our usual introductions, I felt at home – more so than I’d felt in a few days. Everyone was just so welcoming, greeting me with big smiles as if they really were as happy to see me as they said they were.

Soon, I found my seat beside a group of old men, staring contently at the thicket of Umbrella Thorn trees a few yards from the grill. Once our conversation began, the oldest of the group, a cordial man with hazy grey eyes and a brown hat, asked about my research at SAIPAR. I responded, mentioning the copper industry and the land disputes between chiefs and investors. I was careful as I spoke – it’s always tricky explaining someone’s country to them. I couldn’t help but pause after each reference to try and sense whether I was stating the obvious or assuming too much.

Once I’d finished my spiel, the man asked If I knew about Wounded Knee, the 19^th century massacre where self-proclaimed Americans murdered Native Americans. I told him I did, and he drew an analogy between the event and the situation in nearby villages, reminding me that land disputes aren’t a Zambian, or African phenomenon. “While you’re here, you should try to find the similarities between Zambia and America. Every place is similar in more ways than you’d think,” one of the men noted.

As I look back on this experience, I can pull from it a profound lesson. Sure, America doesn’t have very many customary land vs. formal leasehold title disputes anymore, but the understanding that people often hold different values and beliefs about the word around them is important in any country. You don’t need 73 tribes to have a pluralistic society. We’ve got one right at home.

The man’s advice was important to me because I’ve already realized that it’s easy to travel to the other side of the world and forget that some of what I learn here can be useful in my future. As I continue in my research, and learn about the conflicts that arise here in Zambia and the ways these conflicts are often addressed, I now aim to look for takeaways that can help me understand my own home. After all, as the man said, every place is similar in more ways than you’d think.