It pains me that this was my answer, because it’s not true. It was a cute, snappy answer to a question that was, I felt at the time, too big to answer. I didn’t realize the implications of my words as I said them, but I see now that they reek of “voluntourism.”

It is true that it has been a dream of mine to see Angkor Wat since I heard of it’s existence from my traveling companions in India while visiting ancient cultural sites there. I was drawn to Angkor Wat because of its rich religious history. But it stuck my imagination because the jungle is retaking the area, growing around and over and even through the ruins. As it turned out, Pathfinders provided me an opportunity to visit the temples within a few weeks abroad, since our first project was at the Bridge of Life School in Cambodia. I was excited to bring a dream to fruition.

Beyond the cultural and historical sites that I anticipated visiting, I had an unstated reason that likely colored my conversation about Pathfinders in ways I wasn’t even aware of. Anyone who knows me well knows that I covet my passport for the stamps within it. And my mom and I have a friendly competition over who has visited the most countries.

I am fortunate to be affluent enough to even have such a competition with my mom. I have access to books, documentaries, and the Internet, which allow me to be familiar with distant cultures and their significant sites. I have leisure time to contemplate a voyage to the Antarctic tundra for no better reason than to see a few penguins. The very opportunity to participate in an undertaking such as Pathfinders is a privilege, and one I didn’t, and don’t, take lightly.

Pre-Pathfinders, I was aware of the concept of volunteering as an excuse to travel, even though I hadn’t heard the label “voluntourism” applied to it. The idea disgusted me. It felt exploitative. It felt hypocritical. It felt superficial. I’m embarrassed that I unwittingly associated Pathfinders with that kind of service, even if briefly.

Using the most basic definition, Pathfinders is voluntourism. We traveled to do service. But voluntourism also connotes insincerity. The reason voluntourism is a bad word is that the picture it paints is of westerners paying an organization a fee, one that, granted, helps the organization serve its community, in exchange for an “authentic” volunteering experience. The kind of projects one does on a voluntourism trip can seem invented for the purpose of giving the volunteers something to do rather than projects that grow organically out of the challenges faced by the community. It is the kind of volunteering that gets in the way as much as it helps.

Pathfinders specifically sought out organizations that were, if not founded, then run by locals. We took on projects that were community directed. Who else knows what a community needs? We offered what resources we could, but approached each community by asking, “How do you want us to help?” I can’t say we were 100% successful at avoiding the pitfalls of voluntourism, but we did all we could to avoid them.

I was excited about the sites that we would see, but more excited about the circumstances that Pathfinders would create—a neutral place where interfaith encounters could happen organically.

We didn’t announce our humanism when we started a new project, though it would come up on it’s own almost without fail. It was never right away, always happening after we’d already worked, laughed, and ate with the members of the organization and the community we served. We met as people first, and we talked about our beliefs later. It’s easier to talk to a flesh and blood person about our differing beliefs than it is to talk to a representative atheist or Christian or Jew.

Through Pathfinders, we were able to create natural conversations with people we met about the experiences we shared. Some of these people had never met an “out” atheist before, and I hope some preconceived notions about the goodness or evil of atheists were adjusted. The service itself had nothing to do with our individual beliefs, but through it we formed connections across religious differences. The director of the organization we worked with in Ghana, for example, was a devout Christian. In the office, during our down time, we talked. We talked about women’s rights and US relations with African nations and, yes, God. We didn’t agree on everything, but we departed friends each with a better understand of how and why the other lives.

In this way, traveling was only a means to important ends—people communicating with people and sharing beliefs, strangers breaking bread together and becoming friends, and human beings from diverse backgrounds exchanging ideas about cultures, beliefs, and lifestyles. That is what Pathfinders is all about.

This piece was originally published with NonProphet Status. You can read it here.

Witchcraft accusations are very real. And very destructive.

I am not alone in my ignorance. Most of the people I’ve talked to about my experience visiting Kukuo—one of several camps for alleged witches in northern Ghana—reacted just about the same as I did: “There are still witchcraft accusations? That many? In the 21st century? Accusations that are taken seriously?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. And Yes.

In Ghana, these very real witchcraft accusations are founded on, what is to me, very shaky evidence. An accuser need only say they saw the person in a dream and that is enough for an accusation to be taken seriously. Later there might be a test where a chicken is slaughtered and the position the chicken takes when it dies reveals the truth or falsity of the accusations. Such trials are not mandatory and happen infrequently.

A witch’s hut in Kukuo.

Dream evidence is especially problematic because of malaria. Malaria is a huge problem in Ghana and in northern Ghana it is largely misunderstood. Many residents only know that an illness is occurring, not the cause. The illness is not associated with mosquitos at all. The illness is often attributed to witchcraft. Witchcraft accusations increase during malaria season. It does not help that a symptom of malaria is vivid dreams.

Women—they are almost always women—are in constant danger of being accused. Especially if they don’t have a man to speak for them. Especially if they cannot produce children, due to age or biology. Especially if they have a little economic power. In other words, if they don’t conform to the gender role Ghanaian society requires they conform to.

For example, if a woman, especially a widow or single woman, runs a successful business, she might choose to help her community by giving loans. I spoke to several alleged witches in Kukuo. Most of their accusers were people who owed them money. For me the interpretation is obvious. This person did not want to pay. It is easier to accuse and have the debt wiped out than find the money to make good on it. This is a personal grudge. But there is a broader issue.

Wealthy men, even single wealthy men, who lend money to members of their community are rarely, if ever, accused of witchcraft by their debtors. Why? Why are women vulnerable when similarly situated men are not? Because these single, successful women are threats to the system. Not only does the individual accuser benefit when their debt is wiped out, but the community status quo is preserved when the woman is banished and her business redistributed.

An accusation leading to banishment means leaving with only the clothes on one’s back. But it often also means beatings—beatings in the woman’s home community and in every community she encounters on her way to one of the refugee camps for alleged witches. The camps are safe places, but not easy ones. In the camps the women still struggle to acquire basic necessities. From Kukuo, water is several miles away. Many of the women are reliant on what food is donated to them or what they can find in fields after harvest. Their roofs leak when it rains so they cannot sleep. Most of these women are in their 70s or older.

Their existence is not widely known and the fact of their existence is unbelievable to many, but these camps are real. I have seen them. These are difficult places to live, but they are, at least, places to live. Alleged witches are regularly killed in Nigeria and other west African nations that do not have camps.

I encountered these camps as part of a humanist service trip called Pathfinders Project. As humanists, from our perspective, there is no supernatural power at play. For every evidence of witchcraft we encountered we saw a natural, not supernatural, explanation. Malaria, dysentery, common childbirth complications. For every accusation of witchcraft we saw human, not spiritual, motivations. Jealousy, greed, power.

We met many alleged witches in Kukuo. I do not believe I met a single witch.

I do not believe witchcraft is real. I do believe these people do. (I should point out that while every alleged witch we talked to denied her guilt, every one affirmed the existence of witchcraft.) I also believe that witchcraft allegations are often used as a pretext to advance despicable personal agendas.

These women need help. But how? Addressing the situation in the camps themselves is easy. Okay, not easy, but easier. Easier than addressing the underlying problem. Clean water is manageable with time, money, and helping hands. So are the food, shelter, and other challenges are challenges poor communities around the globe face. But addressing these issues does not nothing toward ending the need for these camps, which must be the ultimate goal.

As a devotee of interbelief dialogue and cooperation, I do not believe it is respectful to address this situation by attacking the belief in witchcraft. Not only is it not respectful, it’s not practical.

So, how does one address this human rights abuse without attacking the core beliefs that are, if not causing, perpetuating it?

Education would help. Education, about malaria, for example. In the capital, Accra, in southern Ghana, there are very few accusations. Yet, the belief in witchcraft is still widespread. The lack of accusations cannot completely be explained by an understanding of malaria, but I believe it must be part—a large part. Why don’t the residents of Accra levy witchcraft accusations when they fall ill with malaria? It’s not because they don’t believe in witchcraft. It’s because they recognize the symptoms and causes of malaria. There is an alternative explanation that makes more sense. Witchcraft activity is delegated to another realm and Accra’s women are safe. Safer.

The hardest interbelief moments are the ones where the beliefs of each side are directly at odds. In this case there is no talking around our differences. There is little common ground to stand on together. Yet, I utterly believe that a Ghanaian alleged witch and an American humanist can work together. And not only on the common ground problems, but on the difficult, belief influenced problems too. The problems are human problems and humans can work together to solve them.

But in Kukuo it’s not just a humanist and an alleged witch who can work together beyond beliefs. The mullah in Kukuo—whose beliefs do not align with the alleged witch or the humanist—is committed to closing the camp by eradicating the need for one. Here is an opportunity for true interbelief cooperation that can make a real difference in the lives of hundreds women, if not more. I am excited to see it come to fruition.

This was originally published at State of Formation.

Last month in Haiti I joined a rural community coming together to build twenty latrines for twenty individual families.  All members of the community contributed to the completion of each and every latrine.

Not one latrine would have been completed without the involvement of all of us in community.  Community is essential to surviving in such remote, underdeveloped circumstances—but it didn’t feel like mere survival.  It felt like real unity.

In December I witnessed a community in northern Ghana that welcomes strangers banished from their home communities because of witchcraft accusations.  This community invites alleged witches to become part of the community even though giving refuge will be a burden.  The struggle of these individual outsiders becomes the struggle of the community as a whole.  And the solutions for the refugees become solutions for the community.

Before that I worked at a school in Uganda struggling for recognition and legitimate placement in the larger community.  Kasese Humanist Primary School is one of three humanists schools in a nation that requires students to answer questions like, “Who is your Lord and savior?” in order to graduate from school.  Yet, at our going away party, a member of the board of education told us and the gathered crowd of faculty, students, and parents that he welcomed the school and its contribution to the welfare of the community.  The chief of the village similarly thanked us for coming and supporting a school that has done so much for the children of his community.

Communities such as these are novel in my life. I have never experienced such community in the States.  That’s not to say they don’t exist in the States.  I know they exist, just not in my experience.

To me, community means something more than a group of people with common interests or goals.  Community is more even than a support system.  A healthy community supports and uplifts every member.  A sick community leaves individual members to fend for themselves.  Yes, some of the fittest individuals will survive, but no individual can thrive as an island.

Living in an authentic, healthy community means every member is equal in the community.  It means meeting each person and saying, “It’s not just your problem.  It’s our problem—my problem.  We will work on it together.”  It means asking of every person, “What do you need to be happy?”  That’s what authentic faith communities do.  In my opinion, faith communities have traditionally been the primary communities serving in this function.

So, in that sense, it is unfortunate that institutionalized religions are losing numbers. Raised in a nonreligious household—one of the growing numbers of families dropping out of institutionalized religious communities—I’m sure has contributed to why I lacked the sense of an authentic community as a child.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe my experience is an anomaly.  I would like to think so.  But I don’t think so.  I think we in the States are largely losing authentic community.  And the communities we do have are often created from the inside out by a process of exclusion.  The lines of who is in are defined by who is out.  In terms of community, how authentic is that?

What we need today are not fundamentally exclusive communities, but authentic communities that participate in forging authentic community with others.  Christians with Hindus.  Jews with Muslims.  Religious with atheist. Inclusive not exclusive. I’m not suggesting that we erase the lines that makes individual communities unique.  I’m not arguing for one homogeneous community.  That is impractical and disrespectful to individual dignity.  I’m not even recommending that communities stop their private activities.  I’m suggesting that disparate communities meet each other as they meet themselves—as equals struggling in the same fight for happiness.

My point is not that we need to boost institutionalized religious numbers.  That is not my place nor prerogative.  Healthy faith communities create and grow authentic community.  But they are not the only healthy communities—and there are certainly faith communities that are anything but healthy.  Regardless of faith, healthy, authentic communities heal a violent world—especially communities that unite disparate people.  The extinction of healthy communities would entail the extinction of humanity.  Humanity might survive and thrive by expanding the scope of authentic community—from supporting and uplifting just us to supporting and uplifting all of us.

This post was originally posted on State of Formation.

A constant refrain as we visited Kukuo, a camp for alleged witches in northern Ghana, was that the accused women are part of the larger community not merely adjacent to it.  Their huts are scattered throughout the community and among the compounds of the other residents.

Kukuo from an alleged witch’s home.

Kukuo is special in this way.  The other camps for alleged witches exist next to, but separate from the community that houses them.  The alleged witches and their daughters and grandchildren who come as helpers to the camp make up about a third of Kukuo’s population.

Another constant concern relayed to us was how unsafe the women’s sending communities were for them—i.e. the communities that accused them of witchcraft, their home communities.  These sending communities are where these women raised families, businesses, and friendships.  These sending communities are where they struggled alongside their neighbors to survive.  Yet one day after decades together their communities turned on these women.  Ultimately, the communities accused the women of betraying the community itself.  They, allegedly, betrayed the community by wishing and perpetrating harm on it—by using “powers” to kill or injure their rivals.

While the sending communities banished their members on no more evidence than a dream and the happenstance of in what manner a chicken died, Kukuo was building these women huts and working to secure a safe place for them to return to.  For every woman who arrives in Kukuo the youth of the community are tapped to build them a place to live and protect her.  They protect her physically from her attackers and work to change the hearts and minds of the sending community so that she can safely return home.

The women are safe from their attackers in Kukuo, but they struggle.  They are almost all old women who cannot carry water from the well.  Their accusers usually have stolen their money and possessions so buying food is impossible.

All of an alleged witch’s possessions inside her home.

The Kukuo community provides them with a hut, but they don’t have the means to maintain it.  Many of the women cannot sleep lying down when it rains because their roof leaks too heavily.  But Kukuo is still the best option for most of the women.  Several of them told us they would not leave Kukuo even if the opportunity came.  Their home communities were too volatile—a second accusation too easy.

I am struck by the contrast.  One community beats and banishes their own.  The other welcomes strangers that will be a burden on themselves and their community without question.  In fact, when the Ghanaian government pledged to close the camps for alleged witches by 2012, the chief of Kukuo balked.  “How can we refuse those who come?” he asked us.  The government can do what it will, he will not refuse to help the women who manage to make it to his community, which is a trial itself.  The camps are not happy-go-lucky places to live.  But the camps are not the problem.

How can such contrast exist?

The safety comes from the local belief in the special nature of the land.  Kukuo is built on land connected to small gods that makes Kukuo a peaceful place.  This was explained to us by the chief of the village during our first meeting in Kukuo.  It was elaborated on when we met with the fetish priest who facilitates cleansing rituals for the alleged witches that neutralize their power.  One alleged witches told us she came to Kukuo—as opposed to the another camp for alleged witches—because Kukuo is a peaceful place.

We were told that Kukuo is 80% Muslim and 20% traditional religion.  But belief in witchcraft crosses the spectrum.  All the women we talked to all believed in the validity of witchcraft even as they professed their innocence of practicing it.  Many of them also easily talked about God—with Islamic language.

The fetish priest equally had no problem with the beliefs of his Islamic neighbors.  They are quite compatible with his. 

The fetish priest from Kukuo camp for accused witches who performs purification rituals on the accused witches.

As he explained his beliefs, there are small gods and oracles.  The small gods are like aspects of Almighty God and the oracles are like messengers of the small gods.  The small gods are connected to the place.  We had learned earlier from the chief that an important power, maybe the most important power, in respect to the alleged witches, is that the small gods will not allow malice in the hearts of anyone who comes to the camp.  The chief told us that if he had had bad thoughts about us as we walked in he would not have survived our meeting.  He would have died—if not physically, spiritually.  And the same was true for us, if we had bad thoughts about anyone in the camp.  This is part of why the women are safe there.  The other residents literally cannot have bad intentions toward the alleged witches.  

The resistants of Kukuo cannot harbor ill will toward the alleged witches once they step foot on the land.  Once the alleged witches undergo a cleansing ritual at the local shrine they become full members of the community.  The ritual begins with slaughtering a chicken—if it dies face up she is innocent, face down she is guilty.  But no one but the priest and the alleged witch—and occasionally her family—know the outcome.  The priest told us he cannot tell.  No one can tell.  If you tell you die.  Just like if you have malicious thoughts.  Every woman, whether she is guilty or innocent, takes a concoction.  If she was a witch the concoction strips her of her powers.  She is “born again.”  But she must confess.  If she is witch and does not admit it the concoction will cause her diarrhea and she will die within three months.  If she was innocent it harmlessly cleanses her.

The priest told us that only 20% of his community are of his traditional religion.  Yet, everyone believes in the purification ritual.  This is not true, however.  The local mullah was clear—witchcraft beliefs are not compatible with Islam.  The mullah told us that he has nothing to do with the alleged witches before they complete the purification ritual.  Only the chief and the fetish priest do.  The mullah told us he does not believe in it.  Not in the ritual, not in witchcraft, not in power coming from anyone or anything other than God.  Belief in witchcraft is simply not compatible with Islam.  The priest told us that traditional religion and Islam are compatible because Almighty God and Allah are really the same.  Islam and traditional religion just have different ways of relating to God.  The mullah disagreed.  He said that all power comes from God.  Witches can’t use that power.  Witches don’t exist.  A true Muslim does not believe in witchcraft and a true Muslim would not willingly submit to a purification ritual.

At the beginning of our visit, it seemed we had found a place where two belief systems had actually managed to live together in peace.  But leaving our meeting with the mullah it became clear that it is not so simple.  The mullah’s point of view is strongly opposed to the ease with with others conflate Islamic and and witchcraft beliefs.  The priest happily folds Islamic belief into his world view.  The alleged witches, most of whom are Islamic, still believe in validity of witchcraft.  Despite the mullah’s adamant stance that no good Muslim can.

Kukuo’s mosque with an alleged witch’s hut in the foreground.

The mullah actively works to better the lives of these women.  He helps make Kukuo a place safe from violence and fear.  He helps them set up new lives there.  And he tries, if possible, to get them safely home.  So does the chief.  So does the priest.  We were told time and time again that it does not matter if these women ever had the power or not—it does not even matter if one believes witchcraft is real—they are victims of human rights abuses.  The priest and mullah’s beliefs might be at odds, but they can live together in peace because their problems, goals, and actions are not.

This post was originally published at State of Formation.

The fetish priest from Kukuo camp for accused witches who performs purification rituals on the accused witches.

Here are three generations. Amientu Iddrissa (left) has been accused of witchcraft and her daughter (right) has come to live with her mother with two of her own children. The daughter’s husband left her when Amientu was accused. Amientu worries about how she will get by when her daughter gets remarried and leaves her alone in the camp.

Skenka Kwame who was accused of witchcraft along with nine other people. One of them was a man. Men who are accused of witchcraft must also be purified but they are allowed to return home to their lives immediately after. Women who return risk their lives.

Senetu Kojo’s only possessions.

Senetu Kojo has been at Kukuo for three years without any family help. Despite having her national healthcare card she can’t get the care she needs. The local pharmacy does not carry the medicine she needs and she does not have the means to get to the closest town. The paste on her face is an herbal remedy she uses instead.

Makola Market in Accra, Ghana.

Harbor view from roof of Elmina slave castle near Cape Coast, Ghana.

Man resting after diving for mussels near Cape Coast slave castle.

Men playing soccer on the beach in front of Cape Coast slave castle.

Senetu Kojo’s only possessions.

Most of the women we meet were accused by those indebted to them.  In the polygamous society of northern Ghana, women are commonly accused by younger, rival wives.  These accusations can come from anyone and at any time.  The foundation of an accusation is usually unexplained sickness or death.  An appearance in a victim’s dream can be sufficient evidence.  

Ghana’s camps for alleged witches, more commonly called witch camps, are a depressing place.  Here women who have been banished from their home communities, and often beaten and tortured on the way out, find a safe place.  They are safe because they are purified in a cleansing ritual performed by a traditional priest at the camp shrine.  If they had powers before, now they are gone.  Here they are safe from violence and further accusation that would likely come from their neighbors or their own family.  But in the camps they struggle to live.

At the camp we visited, Kukuo, women must walk miles for water each day.  In the wet season the walk is farther and steeper.  At Kukuo, the women cannot afford to rethatch their roofs, which needs to be done at least every three years, so many cannot find a dry place to lay their head.  Until the rain stops, they have to sit up or risk pneumonia.   When they left their homes their possessions were taken or destroyed.  They are forbidden to take anything with them.  So at Kukuo they do not have the capital to start a new business or farm.  Simply acquiring food is a sometimes insurmountable obstacle.  Often a granddaughter lives at the camp with an alleged witch helping her to survive.  Without a helper, for these alleged witches, some of whom are in their 70s, 80s, and 90s, the task of survival becomes exponentially higher.  But, merely being at the camp, for the granddaughter, increases the likelihood of an accusation of her own.  Guilt by association—or inheritance.  Kukuo is a safe place, not a carefree place.

Which is why the experience of husking corn with these women was so enchanting.  Action Aid/Songtoba, which advocates for the rights of the alleged witches, had donated three acres of corn to the alleged witches.  For some of the women, all their food comes through these kinds of donations.  The corn was delivered and left in a large pile in one of the larger, non-witch huts in the community.  (One of the unique things about Kukuo is that the alleged witches are not segregated into their own area.  In Kukuo they live among, and as part of, the larger community.)  To get the dried kernels from the husks the women begin by beating the corn with sticks.  They work rhythmically together singing to keep time.  Our guide and translator told us the songs were thanks to the Kukuo community for not abandoning them and for recognizing their humanity.

The beating does not rid the husks of all the kernels, so behind the beaters is a second line of women manually removing the holdouts.  Some do it with their hands.  Others rub the cobs together.  A couple had pieces of metal that looked like large cheese graters that did most of the work for them.  I sat with these women to remove my share of kernels.  The old woman on my left was laughing, smiling, and singing.  She gave me some smiles that I returned and she tried to talk to me.  Unfortunately, I don’t speak her language.

An alleged witch clapping to the work music sitting on a bed of kernels.

Fortunately, we got over our language barrier to communicate when Conor took a turn beating the cobs.  She loved it.  She giggled and slapped my knee and shook my shoulder indicating that I should take in this sight.  Her giddiness probably had something to do with the color of his skin, but I think it mostly had to do with his gender, which was conspicuous in the room full of old, accused witches.  When he finished he had half a dozen kernels stuck in his beard.

When there was a lull in the action—when we were waiting for a fresh supply of cobs—I would run my hands though the kernels looking for buried cobs.  The old lady next to me was doing this too, but she also threw kernels at me.  At first, a few at a time, but she quickly started throwing handfuls.  Laughing I threw some back at her.  During another lull she buried my feet in the kernels.  It was wonderful to interact with an alleged witch in this way.  So many of our other meetings with them were about their tragedy—how they came to be at the camp and their conditions now that they are there.  This meeting was playful and joyful.  This interaction was so at odds with the rest of our visit.  I am so glad I met this woman.  Without this woman our visit to Kukuo would have been full of only tears and frustrations.  But if she can laugh and sing and play inside a camp for alleged witches, I can leave with a little hope.

I moved back from the surf and sat down to read. I hadn’t finished a page before another man approached me. He sat down next to me. Right next to me. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He asked me some questions. Did I live around here? What was I doing in Ghana? How long had I been in Ghana? Was I alone at the beach? This last question was the most frequent question asked of me on that beach. It came to feel threatening. Because of the sheer number of times it was asked. Because of the relative lack of women on the beach. I was one of a handful of women on the beach. I counted six, including me and Michelle, to the dozens and dozens of men I could see. It was asked with the friendliest of tones—but still felt threatening. This man asked me to join him and his friends down the beach at a house, party, or bar. It wasn’t exactly clear to me where. Not that that mattered—I wasn’t going. His friends joined him and stood around me. They did not exactly make the invitation more inviting, from my point of view.

They finally left me, but they did not leave me in peace. Soon yet another man sat in front of me. I had my knees bent and my feet flat on the ground making a triangle. This man slid one of his legs right under mine. At first his leg was just there, not actually touching mine. But through the conversation it inched closer and closer eventually resting on my ankle—for a second before I pulled away. The conversation was just like the last. Where are you from? Are you alone? Come with me.

After he left I had some time. I read a little. I watched the waves—much like flames, waves mesmerize me. I said hi a dozen times to a dozen people who greeted me as they walked past. Then two men sprinted toward me from the water. When it became clear that the two men were not going to run past me, but were running rightfor me, my flight instinct kicked in. I had a vision of these two, rather large, men lifting me up and taking me with them without even missing a stride. I had a vision of them grabbing my arms and pulling me into the water with them. The Kindle in my hand was the least of my concerns in this scenario. I had myself up on hands ready to bolt, but I didn’t. I stayed seated. They didn’t kidnap me. They sat down next to me. On either side. Both within an inch of my skin. From there the conversation mirrored the previous ones. Was I at the beach with my husband or boyfriend? Where is the exact location of your hotel? Do you want to swim with us (and our 15 male friends already in the water)? The two men eventually returned to the water, though the more talkative of the two returned—twice.

I made sure to be home before the sun set.

This was the first day of our time in Ghana and it was particularly bad, but it is not an anomaly. At a tro tro depot we frequent, we (Michelle and I) are grabbed at as we walk through the crowd. It’s worse when I am alone. A man on the street near where we live shouted to me to come home with him to have a good time. When I didn’t answer he added that he’d make me feel good. When we walk down the street we (Michelle and I) are told me are beautiful and have gotten marriage proposals from complete strangers. (Full disclosure: Conor has gotten a marriage proposal from perfect strangers too.) On one tro tro ride the man sitting next to me, after a few cursory questions, asked me to be his “one lover.” He insisted for a minute or two after I said no, but the conversation eventually ended. We were, however, stuck together in the tro tro for about ten minutes our thighs touching and his eyes never left me. Not just watching me out of the corner of his eye either. He had his whole upper body turned toward me to stare.

The second weekend we were here we went to another beach. This one was much more organized—tables and chairs, a cordoned off area to swim, a lifeguard. The four of us swam together and a handful of men still asked to help me swim. From what I can tell, because all but one of the other women in the water were doing this, helping to swim means standing in the water with a man with his arms wrapped around you so that he can sometimes grope you when the wave hits. Don’t get me wrong. If that’s what you want to do, do it. I’m just not interested in doing it myself—with any of the men who didn’t bother to ask me my name first.

I don’t want to give the impression that every Ghanian man is like this. That same day at the beach I had a wonderful conversation with a man. We talked about religion and African history. We talked about the tough balance between making money and getting an education and how reaching that balance differs in Ghana from the US. We talked about the myriad differences between the New Mexican desert and the Ghanian coast. He said he was glad we were friends. And then he left. No marriage proposals. No offers to help me swim. No invasion of my personal space. Yet the whole time I was waiting for it. When he left I was surprised it hadn’t come.

These kinds of encounters—the invasion of space/marriage proposal kind—are a large part of the experience of being a non-Ghanian woman in Ghana. Unfortunately, because so many of my interactions with men here are of this nature, it makes me distrustful of all interactions with men. So the few interactions that are not of this nature are tainted by those that are.

Cape Coast Castle. The archway leads to the male dungeons. The stairs lead to the castle church.

I visited two slave castles recently—Cape Coast and Elmina in Ghana.  I am rarely so aware of my skin color.  I’m conscious that white privilege is why I am even able to say that.  It is absolutely not fair, but it is my experience.  Certainly in Africa I have been more aware of my skin color than in the United States.  Here I have often been the only white person in a crowd.  I walk down the street and hear people shout “obruni,” in Ghana, or “muzungu,”in Uganda, referencing my skin color.  Several tro tro conductors have said to me, “Obruni sit here” when they could have just as easily said, “you.”  It’s a small thing, but it shows how I am defined by my skin color in ways I am not in the United States.  It’s not the first time I’ve experienced this kind of attention.  In China, there must be a thousand photos of me that were taken surreptitiously—and some hilariously blatantly—by strangers on the streets.  Here the attention rarely feels malicious.  Mostly it seems to be result of novelty and nothing more.

Elmina Castle

But, on tour at the slave castle, my whiteness felt on display.  As our tour guide explained the physiological and physical torture these men and women were subjected to, I felt the eyes of history on me.  I am white.  And the men who carried out these seditious atrocities—who were blind to the humanity in the people imprisoned in their castles—were white.  Though I’m likely not descended from these specific men—they were British and Dutch and to my knowledge I am not—our shared skin color is enough for the connection to be made.  But for me the connection is real.  Though I am not directly related to these men, I am directly descended from men who profited from their common enterprise.  

Logtown. The plantation home in Louisiana that my ancestor built.

My great-grandfather—and his father and his father and his father—grew up in a plantation home in Louisiana—a plantation home built and operated on the backs of slaves.  I am a direct decedent of the man who built it.  I have visited this building, by the gracious invite of the current owners.  I walked through the impressive rooms and sat under the magnolia tree outside.  I envied the interior design of the guesthouse out back.  Then reminded myself that this guesthouse was the slave quarters.  I was standing in the home (if that word is even appropriate) of people my family owned.  I can’t help but wonder if any of the people who lived in the slave quarters were ever quartered in the slave castles I now visit as a white tourist.

On the day I visited my ancestral home my whiteness was glaring.  On the day I visited the slave castles my whiteness was humbling—almost embarrassing.

HH Filhiol. My ancestor who made death threats against blacks during the 1868 elections.

As I write this I feel compelled to note that my family recently discovered that one of the patriarchs of my family during the Civil War was quite possibly an abolitionist.  We know certainly that he supported the Union.  I feel the need to share this to lessen the blow—I am less guilty by association.  The fact of the matter is that, whatever this guy advocated politically, he was a slave owner.  Like Thomas Jefferson, who just never seemed to get around to “freeing” the “help” that he “owned.”  Honestly, the fact of the matter is that it doesn’t matter—at all.  My family prospered because of slavery.  And even if my great-great-great-grandfather was a closet abolitionist, his kids fought for the Confederacy—one died at Chancellorsville, and another allegedly threatened blacks with death if they voted Republican in the 1868 elections.  (My dad has his signed copy of The Clan—on which the epic racist classic film Birth of a Nation was based.) 

My family was able to afford good educations when even most whites could not.  My family has rarely been hungry or unjustly prosecuted.  (Well half my family—my other half is Jewish and came from Eastern Europe to the United States at the turn of the 20th century.  But that’s another story entirely.)  I feel compelled to share the detail about my “abolitionist” ancestor because I want it to be included in my family history.  Putting it next to the fact of slavery in my family’s past has the illusion of assuaging some guilt.  To the extent that both are facts, both should be remembered and neither should be forgotten or buried.  But this one fact does not forgive all the others.

A sign at Cape Coast that reads, “In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We, the living, vow to uphold this.”

That day in Louisiana I was not overcome with sudden understanding of how utterly reprehensible slavery was.  I already knew that.  But I did finally understand how I, who was born about 120 years after slavery theoretically ended in the United States, still profited from the institution of slavery.  My family has had its struggles and its dips in fortune, but our baseline started at a higher level than most Americans, especially nonwhite Americans.  Because of slavery.

At the end of our slave castle tours, our guides asked us to remember that though the atrocities of those castles were committed by white people against black people, now is the time to move beyond such racial divisions.  Now is the time to remember we are all human.  Both guides implored us to find in the emotions that the tour stirred in us the commitment to combat the slavery that, though often less conspicuous, still exists all over the world today.  While I agree wholeheartedly with these calls to action, I cannot—we cannot—ignore the real racism that also remains.  Often in more subtle and ambiguous forms.  I start by acknowledging my white privilege that is oh so easy to forget.  Denying the existence and results of that privilege is too hazardous to carry into the future of the world.

In Ghana I can hardly walk a block without seeing a church or mosque.  Within a block of the office where I am working there are a dozen businesses with religious names that are unrelated to the service they provide—Jesus is Lord Mechanic, Christ Man Machine Repair, Blessed Salon.  The only business I’ve seen in Ghana where the religious language has anything to do with the business is Let There Be Light Electricity.

In addition to the numerous churches and business signs the vehicles on the road add to the religious cacophony with the religious slogans plastered on the windshields or bumpers.  Many make sense—”Jesus is King,” “Allahu Akbar,” “God is Great,” “Am Blessed,” “Gye Nyame” (“except for God”).  These seem to be simple affirmations of faith.  Some, rather than give a slogan, only reference biblical or quranic verses or passages.  Others are more cryptic—“Enemies are not God,” “1+1=3,” “Manchester United.”  (That last one may be worship of a different kind.)  One windshield asked me, “1+1=4 But Why?”  I don’t know.  Taxi, please tell me why.  I do get one of the math ones—“1+1+1=1.”  That’s definitely the math of the Trinity.  One taxi merely states “Is God.”  No punctuation or capitalization.  I am at a loss.  Is God what?  God is?  Is the taxi or taxi driving claiming to be God?  Because I do believe that may be blasphemy.

Many windshields give me direct commands.  “Be Humble.”  “Repent.”  “Sin No More.”  “Testify.”  “Witness.”  “Stop on Red.”  Wait.  I think that one was on a street sign.

These kinds of commands are not unheard of in the US.  I lived in Colorado Springs for four years.  I’ve driven across Texas a dozen times.  I’ve seen the billboards that command me to repent and remind me that the Kingdom is at hand.  I’ve been behind vehicles with every rendition of the “Jesus fish” there is.  There were bathtub altars in my neighbor’s yards growing up.  There is no denying that in the US religion is everywhere.  Yet, as a nonreligious person, I can go days, sometimes weeks, without hearing or seeing religious language.  (But let’s be serious.  I don’t go weeks.  I love talking about religion.)  In Ghana I can’t go outside with out being reminded of God.  I guess that’s the point.

But as much as we argue about what separation of church and state means, as much as we, mostly nonChristians, complain about being bombarded by religion in the US, as much as we worry about when to say “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Holidays,” or just say “Good morning,” the US is a relatively easy place to be nonChristian and nonreligious.  I’m not saying it’s perfect.  I’m not saying the US is not a place where people are discriminated against, sometimes violently, for their nonChristianity.  I’m not saying we need to stop working toward equality and true interbelief existence.  I’m saying that living in a place where I am continually and constantly reminded on my religious otherness highlights how far the US has come toward that existence.  It’s useful to have a reminder now and again.

It’s also useful to remember that some of this religious language can be uplifting for even a nonreligious person like me.  My favorite business name is the restaurant where we eat breakfast and dinner every day and lunch most days—Aroma of Christ Restaurant.  How great is that?  Everyone just calls it Aroma.  I get the aroma connection to good food.  But what exactly is the aroma of Christ?  I never learned that at divinity school.  Should that have been covered in New Testament or Christian theology?

A version of this post was published on State of Formation.  Read it here.

When we arrived at this service location in Ghana, the Alliance for African Women Initiative (AFAWI), the co-ordinator, Philip, gave us an extensive cultural orientation.  His most pressing advice was to greet everyone.  Even strangers on the street.  Especially old people.  He said that if we don’t greet the shop owner next door when we pass on the way to the office and then need to do business with them, they might not acknowledge us.  So for a few days we greeted literally everyone we passed.  That got old fast and we’ve become more strategic.  But Philip was right.  The older people clearly appreciate and like it when we greet them.  This is part of the culture of respect in Ghana.  Philip explained that most Ghanians are a proud people who would rather take a dirty job than do something disrespectful like steal.  Therefore they expect and deserve respect.  I agree.  Though Philip did warn us emphatically to be weary of pickpockets.  There are always people willing to steal.

Ghana is loud.  At Aroma, where we eat dinner every night, our conversation is accompanied by music blaring from the front of the restaurant and telenovelas dubbed into English blaring from the back.  While we tried to hold a Teen Club meeting—our service project here, working with a local junior high school after school program—I could barely hear the students talk because of the roar of the students playing outside.  I could be wrong, but none of the Ghanians present seemed affected by this noise pollution.  At Aroma one of the servers likes to dance to the music while watching the television.

People really do carry things on their heads here.  That image of Africa turns out to be true.  In Uganda I saw people carrying bags five and six times the size of their heads on their heads.  I saw women hauling full jerricans of water.  With water splashing back and forth inside I don’t know how they kept balanced.  In Ghana what is being carried on people’s heads constitutes an even greater level of impressiveness.  Many people carry whole trays of food that they are selling.  I’ve seen buckets of water and soda bottles.  One man was carrying a table with the four legs hanging around his head like tassels.  That’s right a man.  That image of Africa—of women carrying heavy loads on their heads— turns out not to be the whole truth.  Women and men alike engage the practice.  Impressively I’ve seen a man carrying a sewing machine on his head and a woman carrying five trays of eggs stacked on top of each other.  What’s most impressive about the eggs is her confidence to carry them.  We went to the beach one day and there were some acrobats performing for money—beach performers if you will.  One of their stunts was for one to stand on the other’s head.  It was impressive, but I wonder if it was less impressive for the Ghanians in the crowd for whom carrying things on one’s head is just a part of everyday life.

Just like in Uganda children are excited by our white skin.  They yell the Ghanian equivalent of muzungu, obruni, and wave when we pass.  Philip told us the adults really want to be our friends.  They will want to be very hospitable to us.  But, he warned, for their sake rather than ours, if they say, “you are invited”—in other words ask you to eat with them—they don’t mean it.  They are  being hospitable, but if we sat down with them it would likely be a hardship for them.  If they insist on you joining them they genuinely want you to eat with them.  The pervasive desire to be hospitable to whites is a legacy of colonialism.  Because, he said, colonialism was not viewed as oppression.  It was viewed “as an opportunity to see another color.”

To conclude our orientation Philip warned us not to use the word “silly” explaining that it is a great insult here.  I don’t want to insult anyone and silly is an not exceptionally common word in my lexicon.  But ever since he told me I can’t say silly, every circumstance I encounter cries out, “this is silly.”  I find some of my greatest joys in silly things.  And I find blue light bulbs, carrying very breakable eggs on one’s head, and telenovelas constantly broadcasting in Ghana excessively silly—in the American English sense.  I do believe my silly tongue will get me in trouble here.