In the previous episode, the missionary found himself caught between young Philip’s hopes and the old wisdom of Alexis, the respected teacher who knew the ways of the clan better than anyone. Philip wanted a school posting far from home so he could save money, marry his girlfriend, and start a life of his own without the endless calls of family duty weighing him down. The missionary understood him and tried to help, but at the education board meeting Alexis gently steered things another way, arguing later that Philip’s success had been carried by the whole family and that walking away from them would be wrong. Over tea on the veranda, the missionary and Alexis spoke about progress, tradition, Europe’s social services and Africa’s family bonds, and though the missionary did not agree with everything, he slowly began to see that Alexis was not simply standing in the way of change, but defending a kind of social care the missionary had not fully understood before.
Although I have spent many years in Africa, it does not mean that I have become an African. I look at things with European eyes and Africans look at the West with African eyes, and what they see is often very strange. Africans have many questions about European ways and it is not always easy to answer them. I once attempted to explain to a group of Africans a photograph of the Elfstedentocht, a long-distance skating race in Friesland, in the Netherlands. For people who have no idea of winter, who do not know what ice or snow is, and what ‘hard, slippery water’ is, it is absolutely beyond them.
This morning, however, I thought I had an easy one. Two men were glancing through the magazines lying on my table. They cannot read and because of that they are all the more interested in the pictures. As I pass through the room, the two of them are studying the picture of a knight in a suit of armour: helmet, breastplate and everything that goes with it. It is in an article about the life of knights in the Middle Ages. One of the men wants to know: ‘Well, what’s this? Isn’t this man strangely dressed, even for a European?’ I think: I can handle this one and need not think long about an answer.
‘Look, this is how in the olden days our warriors used to fight. That’s an iron suit, the warrior is covered from head to toe, and cannot possibly be wounded by arrows or spears. That small screen in front can be lowered and then even his eyes are shielded. But a particularly brave warrior wouldn’t use it: he would fight the enemy with the visor open.’ I thought I had done very well in explaining this. These men had been warriors themselves, the scars on their bodies attest to it, and I thought they would consider such a suit of armour quite a useful invention. And I walk out and leave them to it.
When I return, the men are sitting there chuckling as if one had just told a dirty joke. Had I said something stupid again? I ask them what the joke is. Aupai, the elder one, who is reputed to have been a brave warrior and wrestler, says, ‘So that’s how you people fought, eh? And what about the women?’
‘Are women warriors?’ I ask. “The women didn’t fight, of course, but they often looked on at the duels.’ No, they understand that women did not join in the wars, ‘But did the warrior who fought in such a suit of armour still succeed in getting a wife?’
‘Why would he not get a wife?’ I don’t quite get what these men are talking about, and Aupai tries to set me straight.
We have been to circumcision ceremonies together. The young lads are circumcised with the whole community looking on. It is a very painful operation and the pranks the circumcision pulls with his knife are not what one might call comforting. However, the young men do not flinch, do not even bat an eyelid, while the circumcision does his job. During the weeks of preparation, they have been trained to face up to pain. The community standing around admired them and accepts them as full members of their society. Pain is almost celebrated here. The entire community, so to speak, embraces the boy undergoing the pain. The pain is not camouflaged, and no one says soothingly: ‘It only takes a second’, or ‘It doesn’t really hurt’, as a European might be inclined to say. The community will sooner say: ‘Boy, this will hurt, but you can stand it, because you are one of us, we’re with you.’ Such brave men are ready for responsibility; wives can be entrusted to them. An uncircumcised man will not get a wife.
‘Why are you whites so afraid of pain?’ Aupai wants to know. And I have no clear answer. First, I want to say that this is not true. But so much in our society is indeed aimed more at avoiding pain than at being happy. We have got used to insuring ourselves against anything that may be painful or uncomfortable: I think of the Disability Act, Unemployment Benefits, Compulsory Health Insurance, even the Burial Insurance. And if some pain does come our way at times, we have ways and means to kill it. It’s not that I disapprove of this, but these old Africans seem to look at it quite differently.
‘Suffering and pain aren’t good things’, I say bluntly. ‘No, they are not, but you should not be afraid of them, don’t avoid them; Jesus did not run away from pain and suffering.’ I very much feel like saying: ‘Tell me another!’ Shutting out pain means shutting out all happiness. These men laugh at a life that concentrates on avoiding pain. They remind me of the Arab saying, Only sunshine makes a desert.
Abstract arguments are not particularly in Aupai’s line. But he knows that I have sometimes watched his people’s wrestling matches. The fighters are naked. This sport is a mixture of wrestling and boxing. Aupai has fought many a bout. Like many Africans he is proud of the scars. You take quite a beating, but the entire village is watching and encourages and applauds you. The winner is carried around on their shoulders, he is slapped on the back, and the women and girls vie to touch him.
That’s why Aupai and his friend had such a good laugh at that silly knight in his suit of armour. He may have protected himself very well against all pain, but how is a woman to embrace him? Of course, Aupai is right; if we can no longer be hurt, it is impossible for us to be embraced or loved. In my explanation of the picture, I had pointed out that the open visor was a sign of courage; these men, however, dare me to remove my entire suit of armour. That will take some courage.
