Harvest of Neighbors

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It is the harvest season in Botswana, but unfortunately for many subsistence farmers here, it isn’t always a time of bounty. Rain in this desert is unpredictable, often torrential, and the only thing small farmers can rely on to irrigate their crops. I’m sure it is no different for our hardworking neighbor.

This woman must be well into her seventies and seems to have the primary responsibility for raising four grandchildren and secondary responsibility for several more. In a previous blog I talked about the contrast of the living conditions between our next door neighbors.

Once we realized the needs of these neighbors, we began to help when we were mindful enough to remember. After work the children would stand at the wire fence and greet us and we would find something to share. These small acts reminded us of what it means to be neighborly and consider the needs of others.

Unfortunately, the adage, “Out of sight, out of mind,” is often all too true. The people who own the property where we stay built a beautiful home, worked hard to finish the interior, and furnish it nicely. The final touch was the construction of four sturdy brick and block walls, topped with eight strands of electrified wire. I want to share a poem about the unintended consequences of this structure.

The fence was there before
not to keep out chickens
or smiles and quizzical looks,
but to hold goats and donkeys
at bay from fragile new plants.

And through it I could see
a house with make-shift doors,
block walls with no window glass,
old woman and grandchildren,
eyes curious, hungry, searching.

And some days I could see
coming through the front gate,
three little bodies searching
under the African sun
for scraps of food within the trash.

I could see them chasing chickens
from the fat cakes, magwinya,
carelessly wasted, moldy and
thrown over the back fence,
happy for food in their bellies.

So I learned to reach out
through strands of rusty wire
with apples, popcorn and sweets,
with a dumela and a smile,
a hand offering samp and beans.

But now the walls are here,
arriving with good reason
when one at last earns enough
to buy some security.
They are built for protection.

They come with a promise
to keep things in order,
to save us from prying eyes,
secure from allowing in,
letting nothing get out of hand.

But now I don’t see in.
I forget to reach out
with apples, with my heart.
And walls built to protect
become thieves of compassion.


We do still remember on occasion to buy beans or rice or a bag of fruit at the store. We greet the children when we see them outside the gate, and some days make a batch of popcorn for them or find some other treat, but not as often as before.

Today in this harvest season came a knock on the door. The grandmother stood a distance from our little house as the landlords’ daughter held out a watermelon saying it was a gift from the mosadi mogolo (old woman). I accepted the melon, quickly set it aside and went to greet the grandmother, standing quietly, shyly away. Making my best attempt at proper Setswana, I expressed my gratitude for the melon from her field. Her smile grew. We hugged one another, grateful to remember and be remembered by our neighbors, grateful for a shared harvest season.

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Photos

Mosadi Mogolo
Our beautiful neighbor with some of her harvest.

Comments

[Vashti]

Well Done!
So well said, Mom. I very much enjoyed reading it. Miss you so much. I look forward to sharing my harvest this season with you. xoxoxoxo

[Aimee]

beautiful...
thank you Shannon. This is so beautiful and a great reminder of how fortunate we are and how important it is to share. :)

[Carol Hackney]

Thanks for the great story. And the question comes up again, do fences really make good neighbors?

[Ken]

I hope you'll keep blogging once you come home. Always a pleasure to read and good reminders of life lessons. I will give more effort to not being a thief of compassion! Way too easy to get caught up on "self" when hiding within my fence... See you soon :-)