I don't get why it won't let me copy from MS word unless I right click and change the "encoding" to "Western Europe (windows)"
Un Myste're
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Haiti!
Hello dear readers I am welcoming you to another of my blogs. I want to start with a reflection on my week, but before let me just underline the disaster in
How did we become so inured and desensitized to disasters? Anthropologists probably have looked at this phenomenon to understand the social structures and cultural constructs that allow us to bypass any serious, long term engagement with people who are suffering in places removed from our world, such as on the
Sunday January 31st
Hello dear readers I am welcoming you to another of my blogs. I want to start with a reflection on my week, but before let me just underline the disaster in
How did we become so inured and desensitized to disasters? Anthropologists probably have looked at this phenomenon to understand the social structures and cultural constructs that allow us to bypass any serious, long term engagement with people who are suffering in places removed from our world, such as on the
I am writing now after a long Sunday. I went to mass in the morning with my mother and I was supposed to meet up with an Italian lady, Barbara Castelli, that I met here in
She did not make it, had to pick up her daughter from a farm nearby
The youth mass in Wanaheda was resounding, it was loud, I heard the reverberations of dozens of voices of young men and women, blending together, alivening the whole church, reaching every one of the four walls and the slanted roof. The voices, so deep of the men were under the high voices of the ladies, it was rough, rugged, not professional, and full of life and potential. The church was really African for this reason, and that we also danced, in steps, during the offertory procession and as we stood in pews, singing songs in indigenous tongues. And there is the rhino stone for an altar. Covered in cloth, this black rock really made it all African.
When I was in the first mass, sitting next to my mother, I thought of the things I set myself. The goals and I have and I wondered whether I am living according to God’s Will or to my own, as the priest talked about in his homily (preaching). I though, all of a sudden of Dror, as I looked outside the rectangular window of the church, and how the peach brown hues of the wall broke to the light bright and blue of the world outside the window. The “bird of freedom” that is what his name means and I wondered to what extent he continued to dialogue with people, as he did at Brandeis under the DOME (Dialogue on Middle East). I wondered what he was doing and whether he found a job. I meant to write to him, but just as many other thoughts that flutter into my mind, it passed and it came again. The computer screen and the internet are not there at the instant – when I want to put my thoughts to posterity – so I am writing it now in my blog.
As far as the
About the “other”, I wrote about it in an article on non-communicable disease and AIDS, which I will soon send to the HIV clinicians’ society and a non-profit called Management Sciences for Health, with whom I want an internship. I wrote about how the Non-communicable disease are literally relegated to the “other” category of the patients health care card for ART treatment and how this categorization compromises surveillance efforts for chronic illnesses such as diabetes or heart disease. I guess I could have written more than just a paragraph about the “other” in this huge article, it reads like a major review on non-communicable diseases, but I think that would be a literary article as opposed to public health one.
Then, there are the flies, Drosophilas, in my kitchen. Our kitchen. I live at home, if you don’t recall. We have a peach tree and we collect small peaches, with small seeds inside, they are a mini variety. They rot quickly and flies congregate around them, flying over them. These fruit flies remind me of my lessons on development of the Drosophila melanogaster. I want to go into detail about the different genes, such as bicoid, hunchback, even skipped and the segment polarity genes, as well as shibire, a gene involved in the pinching on the
Christian salvation!
Last Sunday I read the Bible and more often than not, reading the Bible leaves my faith shaken, as was the case then. I read a part of the Epistle of St Paul to the Romans , chapter 9 verses 19-24:
“quote”
I find this verse very disturbing. It seems
I felt increasingly frustrated with this verse, but then I read further. In Chapter 10 St Paul speaks about how he prays for the Jews to be save “quote verses 1 to 2”
I compare this to our Catholic Prayer, The Chaplet of the Divine Mercy, which has the principal words of “For the Sake of His Sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world”. So if
So then he speaks about spreading the message and how that is necessary for people to be saved. However, then it makes no sense with what was said earlier. No-one can be doomed to destruction, because really, does it not mean that we can all be saved, so God does not purposefully make us for damnation.
Concerning the Jews, in Roman 12 Paul affirms how that even though the Jews may reject the Christ, God cannot break his first covenant, His promise to them and reject them “ Romans 12 verse 29-32”
Again, the universal mercy is reaffirmed here.
It just makes more confused. Perhaps this faith is syncretic and there are elements that are not completely consistent. Nonetheless, I am in love with Christ and I believe he will figure it all out.
I just remember the talk I had with David Lewa, I think the last day of reunions 2009, we were outside Spelman and he was about to leave, to take time off. We spoke about this and we prayed, we stretched out our arm and held them and prayed. I was questioning this idea of condemnation and he prayed for me. David Lewa is a great guy, another example of a Christian that draws others to Christ by virtue of his sincerity.
All theology boffins, Zach Marr, JD Walters, Jay Han would you comment on this? Morgan, my friend from
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Heart diseas and Mondesa
When we think of heart disease, we think of heart attacks and strokes – something white people tend to suffer from. We the logo of the heart association on tubs of unsaturated (expensive) margarine, the kind used by white people on television adverts. Indeed, those we consider as white people are often genetically predisposed to suffer from heart disease. In South Africa, for instance, it was found that 1:200 Afrikaaners have a family history of coronary heart disease. However, let us not delude ourselves into thinking that cardiovascular illnesses – a blanket term for several heart diseases – are limited to whites only. The risk factors necessary for the development of cardiovascular illness are a diet high in fat and refined carbohydrates, smoking, alcohol consumption and lack of exercise and these cut across racial lines. A confluence of these risk factors occurs in the township, where people have few dietary options, live amidst substance abuse and rarely have access to recreation facilities for exercise. Therefore, the finding that most deaths due to cardiovascular illness occur in the Kayletchia township of Cape Town and the fewest in the wealthier southern suburbs was not surprising for South Africa. So infact, it is poorest people, who are often black, who are most risk of cardiovascular illness.
It is against this background that the poor community of Mondesa in our very own Swakopmund, Namibia, is loosing an outlet for soccer playing, for recreation, for cardiovascular exercise.
I planned to finish this letter above to The Namibia, but I opted to write an article on chronic diseases instead, where I will tie in this travesty of closing the sports filed.
It is against this background that the poor community of Mondesa in our very own Swakopmund, Namibia, is loosing an outlet for soccer playing, for recreation, for cardiovascular exercise.
I planned to finish this letter above to The Namibia, but I opted to write an article on chronic diseases instead, where I will tie in this travesty of closing the sports filed.
Visit to the AIDS clinic
I walked in fleeting steps through the L shaped corridor, blue walls with doors every so often on either side, it resembled any other corridor in the central hospital, but it actually was the antiretroviral therapy (ART) clinc where AIDS patients pick up their medicine and see the doctor. I turned into the longer arm of the corridor looking for room 8. Locked. So I headed for the open door of room 9 where I could see nurses in white uniform talking inside. Just outside the room sat a young man, in his twenties, perhaps only a few years older than me. He had a clean haircut and a body to die for; he did not look like an AIDS patient. He looked to meet my eyes from where he was seated and I turned away. Did not want to stare. I thought about the way he looked at me, as if to ask “Who are you and why are you not seated waiting, like the rest of us?” Really, what was I doing there? I was looking for a doctor at the clinic so I could interview her “Do you know where Dr Miriam is, because room 8 is locked”, I asked the nurses inside room 9, “Go to the other side”, a young lady told me and so I headed back to the shorter arm of the corridor. On my way, I looked around and saw that it was a normal day at the hospital, patients were waiting outside almost every door and I would have to wait. Perhaps I could sit down and talk to them, tell them about my article on chronic diseases and how these illnesses changing the normal way we deal AIDS patients and how they cope with their illness. “Pharmaceutical governance of the body through ART and medications that fight cholesterol would become difficult for AIDS patients”; I would explain, “because of the adverse interactions between the two medications.” “Take it from me, its going be much harder living with AIDS now that you have to cope with risk factors for diabetes, cardiovascular disease and cancer,” I would say. Honestly, how could I even ponder this? I do not even have HIV, I have not worked in their community, nor do I have a degree in medicine. All I had was shirt, black, with “the words fighting AIDS together” written in orange. This was from Princeton, from when I did the AIDS walk in New York City with other students in 2008. Had I started that talk, I would have come off pretentious.
So I just continued on to room 9 and 10 on the other side. There was no room 8. I figured that since patients were sitting on a bench outside room 9, the doctor is probably seeing somebody there. “Is doctor Miriam inside?” I asked a man seating in front of me, “Yes doctor is in” he replied pleasantly, “Is Dr Miriam?” I posed to make sure I was at the right door “I don’t know” he answered as I turned back to the other room 9 to ask the nurse for more specific directions. As you might expect, I was escorted back to room 9 where the doctor was and I sat down alongside the other people. People indeed, because if HIV becomes merely a virus kept at bay by the drugs in their bodies, there is no need call them AIDS patients.
I was next, and I entered to speak with Dr Miriam. I introduced myself and told her how I was writing an article on chronic diseases under the auspices of the HIV clinicians’ society. I pulled out my notebook and began with the questions I had prepared, so as not waste any time. She assured me that I was not obstructing her patient flow, which put me at ease. We spoke about Dyslipideamia, otherwise known as abnormal metabolism of fat, and about cardiovascular disease. It was a conversation I tried to guide, but then I realized that me saying less allowed her to say more. Obviously, but I just had to add to nearly everything she said. Most notably, she talked about her periodic assessment of the cause of death in ART patient booklets of deceased perons “ Once a month I go through the files to see what could have happened to kill the patient. I do this informally, by myself.” In the context of our interview about cardiovascular disease and ARV, she said “ it is not easy to see that this patient died because they started this ARV or…” and I cut in saying “because the effects of ARV, lack of exercise and diet are synergistic and bring about chronic disease” and she just affirmed it say “yes exactly”. But why did I just not let her go on? This was not a showcase of how much I know about. I probably would have learnt more had she continued that sentence, but now I will never what would have followed that “or”. On the other hand, my familiarity with the material at hand allowed us to establish a rapport quickly and she spoke to me as if I was a health practionner “ Yes, you are right, we do see dyslipidaemia, in our case lypodystrophy with patients that have been on NRTIs for 10 months or more.” I knew what lypostrophy was and so I only needed to clarify which NRTI (nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor) she referred to and she told me “especially stavudine”. But this was just to break the ice between us, to open up the forum, not to show off.
At the end of the interview, I assured she would just remain a “Medical Officer at ART” clinic. I sensed she was reluctant to answer the question “Can I use your name in the article?” which prompted me to offer he confidentiality. Trust was fostered and at the very end she shared her perspective on the whole exercise “You know I really like this research you are doing, because I think it is important. I worked at a district hospital before I cam here and people are just so focused on HIV and TB only, they really miss out on the non-communicable diseases. I remember there was one patient [HIV positive] who was loosing weight and the CD4 count was high. I don’t know how many sputums were collected, but the patient did not have TB. Then someone did a blood sugar test on this patient and it was 34.”
“Is that high?” I asked to understand the patients ailment. “Really high!” she exclaimed in reply. I then tried to determine what the normal range for blood glucose what were the units of that 34, but I realized it was not important. Clearly, the patient was suffering from diabetes, because their glucose was not being used by the cells, which resulted in the wasting away of the patient, since the body breaks down fats and proteins for energy. Indeed, the wasting syndrome is typical of AIDS patients suffering from communicable disease such as TB and so the health providers at the district hospital were fixated on that possibility. I wonder to what extent this has to do with the fact that the patient ART booklet provides a list of opportunistic infections the patient may suffer from and TB, while all chronic conditions such as heart disease are relegated to the blank space next to the word “Other”. It is up to the doctor to then detail this “other” condition on the following pages in the ART care book. Absolutely, I suspect that the list of AIDS opportunistic infections that was compiled by the CDC in 1987 impinges upon the inclusion of chronic conditions in the idea of AIDS.
So I just continued on to room 9 and 10 on the other side. There was no room 8. I figured that since patients were sitting on a bench outside room 9, the doctor is probably seeing somebody there. “Is doctor Miriam inside?” I asked a man seating in front of me, “Yes doctor is in” he replied pleasantly, “Is Dr Miriam?” I posed to make sure I was at the right door “I don’t know” he answered as I turned back to the other room 9 to ask the nurse for more specific directions. As you might expect, I was escorted back to room 9 where the doctor was and I sat down alongside the other people. People indeed, because if HIV becomes merely a virus kept at bay by the drugs in their bodies, there is no need call them AIDS patients.
I was next, and I entered to speak with Dr Miriam. I introduced myself and told her how I was writing an article on chronic diseases under the auspices of the HIV clinicians’ society. I pulled out my notebook and began with the questions I had prepared, so as not waste any time. She assured me that I was not obstructing her patient flow, which put me at ease. We spoke about Dyslipideamia, otherwise known as abnormal metabolism of fat, and about cardiovascular disease. It was a conversation I tried to guide, but then I realized that me saying less allowed her to say more. Obviously, but I just had to add to nearly everything she said. Most notably, she talked about her periodic assessment of the cause of death in ART patient booklets of deceased perons “ Once a month I go through the files to see what could have happened to kill the patient. I do this informally, by myself.” In the context of our interview about cardiovascular disease and ARV, she said “ it is not easy to see that this patient died because they started this ARV or…” and I cut in saying “because the effects of ARV, lack of exercise and diet are synergistic and bring about chronic disease” and she just affirmed it say “yes exactly”. But why did I just not let her go on? This was not a showcase of how much I know about. I probably would have learnt more had she continued that sentence, but now I will never what would have followed that “or”. On the other hand, my familiarity with the material at hand allowed us to establish a rapport quickly and she spoke to me as if I was a health practionner “ Yes, you are right, we do see dyslipidaemia, in our case lypodystrophy with patients that have been on NRTIs for 10 months or more.” I knew what lypostrophy was and so I only needed to clarify which NRTI (nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor) she referred to and she told me “especially stavudine”. But this was just to break the ice between us, to open up the forum, not to show off.
At the end of the interview, I assured she would just remain a “Medical Officer at ART” clinic. I sensed she was reluctant to answer the question “Can I use your name in the article?” which prompted me to offer he confidentiality. Trust was fostered and at the very end she shared her perspective on the whole exercise “You know I really like this research you are doing, because I think it is important. I worked at a district hospital before I cam here and people are just so focused on HIV and TB only, they really miss out on the non-communicable diseases. I remember there was one patient [HIV positive] who was loosing weight and the CD4 count was high. I don’t know how many sputums were collected, but the patient did not have TB. Then someone did a blood sugar test on this patient and it was 34.”
“Is that high?” I asked to understand the patients ailment. “Really high!” she exclaimed in reply. I then tried to determine what the normal range for blood glucose what were the units of that 34, but I realized it was not important. Clearly, the patient was suffering from diabetes, because their glucose was not being used by the cells, which resulted in the wasting away of the patient, since the body breaks down fats and proteins for energy. Indeed, the wasting syndrome is typical of AIDS patients suffering from communicable disease such as TB and so the health providers at the district hospital were fixated on that possibility. I wonder to what extent this has to do with the fact that the patient ART booklet provides a list of opportunistic infections the patient may suffer from and TB, while all chronic conditions such as heart disease are relegated to the blank space next to the word “Other”. It is up to the doctor to then detail this “other” condition on the following pages in the ART care book. Absolutely, I suspect that the list of AIDS opportunistic infections that was compiled by the CDC in 1987 impinges upon the inclusion of chronic conditions in the idea of AIDS.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
If you were thrown in jail
“If you were thrown in jail, and you were innocent, what would your first though be?” was the question I heard on the radio, from a man, clearly a journalist.
“I dunno, but I hear that people get raped in there and I would not want to be raped,” was the reply from another man and it came with a bit of chuckle. Though I do not know who the respondent was or the context of this interview, both of them are more than aware of fear of rape in the prison.
“I dunno, but I hear that people get raped in there and I would not want to be raped,” was the reply from another man and it came with a bit of chuckle. Though I do not know who the respondent was or the context of this interview, both of them are more than aware of fear of rape in the prison.
Update January 17th
Lets take a dive in my world, I want to throw you right in the deep end and see if you can keep up with what I am saying (I hope you will, otherwise you may end up clicking your way out).
I somehow received an appointment today. I have no job now, but still I am appointed, as the editor of the “Beacon”. It sounds more prestigious that it really is – the newsletter of our St Boniface Parish.
“The pudding (suliach) in Bulgarian was nice, why did you eat so little” asks my mom, asking about the rice pudding I made.
“ I did not want so much and anyway, I want to leave for you and Pikki [brother]”
Alright, back to the Beacon. It is a not even a newsletter that is sent to peoples mailboxes, but is instead a black and white printed leaflet that is distributed on special masses (that is services for you non Catholic folks). I got myself appointed by opening my big mouth and saying that it would be great if one of us started a newsletter for our youth group, which presents a critical reflection of any of the debates and discussion we will have in our incipient youth group. The parish council member, a plump lady called Auntie Jennie, then said “yes, indeed, we need our Beacon to come out in a new format, we want it to be like a booklet” said explained holding up the booklet for a mass to come in February. “Now you are the editor of the Beacon” she just declared and that was it.
Now I will meet her at Church every Saturday at 11. “Eleven when you are sleeping, we meet on Saturdays to do the Beacon” she told all of us sitting in front of her. “Eleven at night or in the morning?” I asked, stupidly, and got the answer expected “Eleven in the morning!” they all exclaimed. “I am awake then, 11 at night I am sleeping, but in the morning it is fine”.
I am glad about this. Really I am, it is hardly a burden. As we held hands and began singing afterwards, in a circle, I thought about the software I would need to learn to produce those leaflets – the formatting – but then I realized that it would probably be real easy – or a cakewalk (as Matt, the manager at Princeton University Dinning Service, Whitman used to say) – compared to LaTeX, the typesetting software I am using to type math notes for the Fulbright candidates who must take the GRE on February 6th. Phew, that was a lot to write about. Then again, I am entering this field of writing and it is really stimulating.
I sent my poster article , the one on “Bread and Health”, to the major press houses in Namibia. As for The Namibian, my number one bet, I am still waiting to hear back from them. They at least replied, through the editor,Gwen Lister, who said had to meet with the NewsDesk to decide what columns they would have for the year. I am still waiting to hear back from others, which include the HIV clinicians society – for their newsletter (if it exists) - , the New Era and Insight. M’kariko told me that Insight pays N$ 1 per word for the articles. She knows because she wrote for them and now she wants to do Journalism in the Stats, which is why she applied for the Fulbright and is studying Math with me. I taught what I learnt, that 1/7 is 0.142875 and that’s for all of you too. Memorize this decimal so that way you may know that N$ 1 is just under 14c in US$.
So how much more of this writing must I do now?
Well to tell you more, because there is indeed more, I am also looking for work. I stopped by the Namibian Institute of Pathology and I found out everything I could want to know about what research they are doing – next to nothing. The research that is, they are doing next to nothing research. Let me rewrite that sentence: I found out that they are doing next to nothing in the way of research. They do initially process the blood samples for HIV drug resistance studies, but then they send the sample to South Africa, where the RNA is extracted and sequenced for mutations. Which leads me to wonder, what is actually being done there? Good news is that they will be starting a research division. So far they have been measuring the viral loads of patients on anti-retroviral treatment and also doing early infant detection of HIV via PCR sequencing of any viral genome on a dried, brown, blood spots – the way of collecting the sample for the infant. Apparently, medical scientist – who do this work – are scare in Namibia and they are usually left to do these diagnoses while the Senior Medical Scientist, with whom I spoke, does the work for the HIV sentinel survey (seroprevalence) and drug resistance studies. I told him that I want to be involved in the aforementioned interesting projects rather than just doing routing lab work, but he did not reassure me that it would be possible. To work there, I need to be trained, because there is a big difference between working with tissues cultured in a research lab and human blood in a medical diagnostic lab. This, unbelievably, requires a two year internship with NIP, which I could start right away. Trouble is that I want to study soon, formally next year, and I don’t see myself in that lab, underground (literally) for two years. So I told him this in email and all my other expectations, but I found out he does not have time to reply. So I will go meet him on Monday to discuss again..
I need to find out how much I really want this.
On the other hand, I can keep on the writing track and go to UNAM and see if there is any medical anthropologist there (Dr Debbie LeBeau or Dr Tom Fox) or this man from University of Toronto that has been an HIV and social practices annual study since 2006, I believe, who could use my help.
Then there is this thing of me applying for the board of directors of the biggest and oldest AIDS support organization in Namibia. It seems rather ambitious (damm it is), but there is noting in the application posted in the paper that says I am ineligible. The announcement specified that clients with similar “professional backgrounds” were encouraged to apply. I have molbio background (one root of medicine) and I also worked for the health facility census. So hell ya , let me apply! Indeed, I went to Princeton and it may work out, that they accept me as someone who can type up more than just minutes of their meetings, but meaningful, retrospective, inspective, reflective, pieces on what is going on there.
I think I will apply. It will be a great experience doing so.
Hell, I was rejected by the University of Namibia, and that was really funny, I get rejected again I’ll fall to ground, as I used to, which always brought others to laughter too.
Yesterday I tried to cook Oshifima, our traditional cake like porridge. To me this porridge is part of my culture, yet is foreign, because I never grew up eating it, till I took an active liking to it when I visited my grandmother two years ago (I have visited her since then). I found out something I was expecting , following a recipe to the T just does not work with “ethnic” food. The recipe posted on the side of the packet was just wrong and I was pathetic in my attempts to use American style measuring cups to keep the proportions exact in my quest to cook this food made of a pearl maize flour and water. The pearl or mahungu, as it is called, is just unpredictable, really mercurial, when it comes to how much water it needs to make a nice porridge. Luckily, my dog snowy is here and she ate my failed porridge. Then the lady who works for us, Meme Ndeapo (Mrs “I have arrived” this is a really English translation) assisted me in cooking this and it worked. I think I will write an article on this, it was real funny.
Anyway, that’s all for now, all I can bear, I need to go do some math.
First I am gonna do some exercise and then some math. I need both of those things (exercise I get about twice daily, but math, I need more of)
Oh my dad filed for divorce, but that is just a sidenote. In any case, yesterday, his car came and pulled just a few meters away from the gate of our house, at angle to where my mothers car was after work. And my mother and brother were there. Doors opened with that distinct car sound and they closed. My dad spoke with them, gave them notes from his wallet, came up to the gate of the house, whose white bars I was clutching, grabbed onto my hand smiled and gave me pocket money to (just under U$14 dollars). That was pocket money. I pray for peace in my family.
Please pray for grandaunt who probably has a brain tumor. My mom said that if she undergoes the operation to remove it, she could die. But not removing is also certain death. There, she is caught in between a rock and a hard place, which are menacingly moving to mash her. Mash? Is that all that happens to us, we turn into mash potatoes in the ground?
I somehow received an appointment today. I have no job now, but still I am appointed, as the editor of the “Beacon”. It sounds more prestigious that it really is – the newsletter of our St Boniface Parish.
“The pudding (suliach) in Bulgarian was nice, why did you eat so little” asks my mom, asking about the rice pudding I made.
“ I did not want so much and anyway, I want to leave for you and Pikki [brother]”
Alright, back to the Beacon. It is a not even a newsletter that is sent to peoples mailboxes, but is instead a black and white printed leaflet that is distributed on special masses (that is services for you non Catholic folks). I got myself appointed by opening my big mouth and saying that it would be great if one of us started a newsletter for our youth group, which presents a critical reflection of any of the debates and discussion we will have in our incipient youth group. The parish council member, a plump lady called Auntie Jennie, then said “yes, indeed, we need our Beacon to come out in a new format, we want it to be like a booklet” said explained holding up the booklet for a mass to come in February. “Now you are the editor of the Beacon” she just declared and that was it.
Now I will meet her at Church every Saturday at 11. “Eleven when you are sleeping, we meet on Saturdays to do the Beacon” she told all of us sitting in front of her. “Eleven at night or in the morning?” I asked, stupidly, and got the answer expected “Eleven in the morning!” they all exclaimed. “I am awake then, 11 at night I am sleeping, but in the morning it is fine”.
I am glad about this. Really I am, it is hardly a burden. As we held hands and began singing afterwards, in a circle, I thought about the software I would need to learn to produce those leaflets – the formatting – but then I realized that it would probably be real easy – or a cakewalk (as Matt, the manager at Princeton University Dinning Service, Whitman used to say) – compared to LaTeX, the typesetting software I am using to type math notes for the Fulbright candidates who must take the GRE on February 6th. Phew, that was a lot to write about. Then again, I am entering this field of writing and it is really stimulating.
I sent my poster article , the one on “Bread and Health”, to the major press houses in Namibia. As for The Namibian, my number one bet, I am still waiting to hear back from them. They at least replied, through the editor,Gwen Lister, who said had to meet with the NewsDesk to decide what columns they would have for the year. I am still waiting to hear back from others, which include the HIV clinicians society – for their newsletter (if it exists) - , the New Era and Insight. M’kariko told me that Insight pays N$ 1 per word for the articles. She knows because she wrote for them and now she wants to do Journalism in the Stats, which is why she applied for the Fulbright and is studying Math with me. I taught what I learnt, that 1/7 is 0.142875 and that’s for all of you too. Memorize this decimal so that way you may know that N$ 1 is just under 14c in US$.
So how much more of this writing must I do now?
Well to tell you more, because there is indeed more, I am also looking for work. I stopped by the Namibian Institute of Pathology and I found out everything I could want to know about what research they are doing – next to nothing. The research that is, they are doing next to nothing research. Let me rewrite that sentence: I found out that they are doing next to nothing in the way of research. They do initially process the blood samples for HIV drug resistance studies, but then they send the sample to South Africa, where the RNA is extracted and sequenced for mutations. Which leads me to wonder, what is actually being done there? Good news is that they will be starting a research division. So far they have been measuring the viral loads of patients on anti-retroviral treatment and also doing early infant detection of HIV via PCR sequencing of any viral genome on a dried, brown, blood spots – the way of collecting the sample for the infant. Apparently, medical scientist – who do this work – are scare in Namibia and they are usually left to do these diagnoses while the Senior Medical Scientist, with whom I spoke, does the work for the HIV sentinel survey (seroprevalence) and drug resistance studies. I told him that I want to be involved in the aforementioned interesting projects rather than just doing routing lab work, but he did not reassure me that it would be possible. To work there, I need to be trained, because there is a big difference between working with tissues cultured in a research lab and human blood in a medical diagnostic lab. This, unbelievably, requires a two year internship with NIP, which I could start right away. Trouble is that I want to study soon, formally next year, and I don’t see myself in that lab, underground (literally) for two years. So I told him this in email and all my other expectations, but I found out he does not have time to reply. So I will go meet him on Monday to discuss again..
I need to find out how much I really want this.
On the other hand, I can keep on the writing track and go to UNAM and see if there is any medical anthropologist there (Dr Debbie LeBeau or Dr Tom Fox) or this man from University of Toronto that has been an HIV and social practices annual study since 2006, I believe, who could use my help.
Then there is this thing of me applying for the board of directors of the biggest and oldest AIDS support organization in Namibia. It seems rather ambitious (damm it is), but there is noting in the application posted in the paper that says I am ineligible. The announcement specified that clients with similar “professional backgrounds” were encouraged to apply. I have molbio background (one root of medicine) and I also worked for the health facility census. So hell ya , let me apply! Indeed, I went to Princeton and it may work out, that they accept me as someone who can type up more than just minutes of their meetings, but meaningful, retrospective, inspective, reflective, pieces on what is going on there.
I think I will apply. It will be a great experience doing so.
Hell, I was rejected by the University of Namibia, and that was really funny, I get rejected again I’ll fall to ground, as I used to, which always brought others to laughter too.
Yesterday I tried to cook Oshifima, our traditional cake like porridge. To me this porridge is part of my culture, yet is foreign, because I never grew up eating it, till I took an active liking to it when I visited my grandmother two years ago (I have visited her since then). I found out something I was expecting , following a recipe to the T just does not work with “ethnic” food. The recipe posted on the side of the packet was just wrong and I was pathetic in my attempts to use American style measuring cups to keep the proportions exact in my quest to cook this food made of a pearl maize flour and water. The pearl or mahungu, as it is called, is just unpredictable, really mercurial, when it comes to how much water it needs to make a nice porridge. Luckily, my dog snowy is here and she ate my failed porridge. Then the lady who works for us, Meme Ndeapo (Mrs “I have arrived” this is a really English translation) assisted me in cooking this and it worked. I think I will write an article on this, it was real funny.
Anyway, that’s all for now, all I can bear, I need to go do some math.
First I am gonna do some exercise and then some math. I need both of those things (exercise I get about twice daily, but math, I need more of)
Oh my dad filed for divorce, but that is just a sidenote. In any case, yesterday, his car came and pulled just a few meters away from the gate of our house, at angle to where my mothers car was after work. And my mother and brother were there. Doors opened with that distinct car sound and they closed. My dad spoke with them, gave them notes from his wallet, came up to the gate of the house, whose white bars I was clutching, grabbed onto my hand smiled and gave me pocket money to (just under U$14 dollars). That was pocket money. I pray for peace in my family.
Please pray for grandaunt who probably has a brain tumor. My mom said that if she undergoes the operation to remove it, she could die. But not removing is also certain death. There, she is caught in between a rock and a hard place, which are menacingly moving to mash her. Mash? Is that all that happens to us, we turn into mash potatoes in the ground?
Peering at shelves at end of 2009
Pancho peered at the single shelf of the wall cabinet and read the word “Will to Die” along the rib of a book. He took out the think brown book and on the cover was a portrait of a man in a white suit and cap with a ghostlike expression on his face. It was an oil painting with blurry colors like the one of the vampire by Munsch. He read the back and found out it was a collection of writings – fiction and non – on Johannesburg townships of the 1950s and how they were places of splendor for the writer. He was about to start reading when a hot regret caught him. Yes he peered along the shelves and saw how the books were slanted, not tightly packed as that of shelf filled to capacity. Why oh why did he not bring back those booklets on the United Nations and Namibia and even a book by Andrei Urnov “South Africa against Africa” , these cold war publications that allowed him to write his history internal assessment on the contact group. Did anyone collect them after my leave of Italy? And in the US, why did he not bring back that ethnography of Mama Lola A Vodoo Priestess in Brooklyn? He paced up and down, with the heat on his chest regret closing in on his heart. Then he stopped. He thought a bit and went to his room where he took the Ethnography “Will to Live” and “The Origin of the Species”. The former he read entirely and reread parts of it – captivates him still. The latter he read snipits, but he wanted it when he was 16 since he knew how much controversy it caused in cold Europe of 1859.
So that is that.
That is that indeed.
So that is that.
That is that indeed.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Snowy
Five days earlier
Its official. I don’t have enough money to pursue the Masters of Public Health as an independent student. Unfortunate it seems, that I spent the money I was supposed to save, the money that was supposed to finance my entry into public health. But I did it to save a life. A life of human who needs immediate surgery – that’s probably what you are thinking – and you would be wrong. I am saving my pet snowy, our dog, which no-one else in my family is willing to take responsibility for. My brother does not want to have to decide whether to operate on her or put her down, while my mother definitely advocates for being put down and us getting another dog, as if dogs were replaceable (dispensable) commodities. I feel I am doing something that goes against the norms of my family and I feel that my education in Princeton is the cause of my moral corruption, which feels terrific.
“Snowy has a pyometrium” said the voice on the other side of the phone “We need to put her on antibiotics to stabilize her and then we will operate”. I sensed that he called for affirmation of whether he could proceed and I immediately said “please go ahead”. There was no hesitation. But this brought on an outpouring of rage from my mother : “Tell them to put her down, you can get another dog,set up your priorities straight, who will pay for your education?” For her, this dog was not worth saving, but for me it was. The disjunction in our points of view must have appeared when I took moral philosophy at Princeton and learned of utilitarianism. If I can do something in my power to prevent evil from happening, then I should do it. And I believe that’s what I am doing saving my dog. Especially since the pyometrium is the likely consequence of us trying to sterilize her with birth control injections for humans – the so called “Depo Provera”, that also gives cancer of the breast – what the vet told me when he picked her up.
Then my mother’s friend who is physician challenged me tonight and said “I want you to think about the consequences of this operation, not only that of your study, but that of the dog, you may just be prolonging her suffering, especially if she has cancer that has already spread.”
So what do I then, should I just tell them to put her down?
Yes. Lord help me please, help me!
Five days later - today
I am sitting in front of a computer screen above which I have pinned to white plastic medicine bag, with Ziploc like seals, to the wall. They contain Snowy’s antibiotics, the vet, Dr Shepherd, gave them to me when we picked snowy up on Tuesday, the day after the operation. Wagging her tail every time she sees me, she still does her wine and grumble, her distinctive way of saying hello. Her hindquarters are a bright white, which merges into the creamy peach color of the rest of her body. My little sheep dog, (small with a sheep’s tail), my snowy, you are nearly fully recovered.
I was ready to put her down. I made peace with it. When I called the Veterninary Clinic, I spoke to a German speaking Vet, I could tell from his accent and he convinced me not to do it. The chances of cancer, apparently, are minimal since she has no tumors in the breast right now. He also reassured me that if he did have cancer of the uterus, they would not proceed with the operation. Luckily, she did not.
The Lord gave me a gift. A gift of life, albeit not a human one.
Lets look on the bright side, at least I have some money left.
Its official. I don’t have enough money to pursue the Masters of Public Health as an independent student. Unfortunate it seems, that I spent the money I was supposed to save, the money that was supposed to finance my entry into public health. But I did it to save a life. A life of human who needs immediate surgery – that’s probably what you are thinking – and you would be wrong. I am saving my pet snowy, our dog, which no-one else in my family is willing to take responsibility for. My brother does not want to have to decide whether to operate on her or put her down, while my mother definitely advocates for being put down and us getting another dog, as if dogs were replaceable (dispensable) commodities. I feel I am doing something that goes against the norms of my family and I feel that my education in Princeton is the cause of my moral corruption, which feels terrific.
“Snowy has a pyometrium” said the voice on the other side of the phone “We need to put her on antibiotics to stabilize her and then we will operate”. I sensed that he called for affirmation of whether he could proceed and I immediately said “please go ahead”. There was no hesitation. But this brought on an outpouring of rage from my mother : “Tell them to put her down, you can get another dog,set up your priorities straight, who will pay for your education?” For her, this dog was not worth saving, but for me it was. The disjunction in our points of view must have appeared when I took moral philosophy at Princeton and learned of utilitarianism. If I can do something in my power to prevent evil from happening, then I should do it. And I believe that’s what I am doing saving my dog. Especially since the pyometrium is the likely consequence of us trying to sterilize her with birth control injections for humans – the so called “Depo Provera”, that also gives cancer of the breast – what the vet told me when he picked her up.
Then my mother’s friend who is physician challenged me tonight and said “I want you to think about the consequences of this operation, not only that of your study, but that of the dog, you may just be prolonging her suffering, especially if she has cancer that has already spread.”
So what do I then, should I just tell them to put her down?
Yes. Lord help me please, help me!
Five days later - today
I am sitting in front of a computer screen above which I have pinned to white plastic medicine bag, with Ziploc like seals, to the wall. They contain Snowy’s antibiotics, the vet, Dr Shepherd, gave them to me when we picked snowy up on Tuesday, the day after the operation. Wagging her tail every time she sees me, she still does her wine and grumble, her distinctive way of saying hello. Her hindquarters are a bright white, which merges into the creamy peach color of the rest of her body. My little sheep dog, (small with a sheep’s tail), my snowy, you are nearly fully recovered.
I was ready to put her down. I made peace with it. When I called the Veterninary Clinic, I spoke to a German speaking Vet, I could tell from his accent and he convinced me not to do it. The chances of cancer, apparently, are minimal since she has no tumors in the breast right now. He also reassured me that if he did have cancer of the uterus, they would not proceed with the operation. Luckily, she did not.
The Lord gave me a gift. A gift of life, albeit not a human one.
Lets look on the bright side, at least I have some money left.
brief
Hello Everyone! Blessed Sunday. I wish I could write more. Here is what is happening now in one sentence:
Looking for a job tomorrow, going to different organisations in public health, but I am also tutoring a few fulbright candidates on the GRE, to be understand the test, so I can improve and they too, just added henna to my moms hair (died it).
Looking for a job tomorrow, going to different organisations in public health, but I am also tutoring a few fulbright candidates on the GRE, to be understand the test, so I can improve and they too, just added henna to my moms hair (died it).
Friday, January 1, 2010
Spilt Milk!
I spilt some milk just now. I was making yoghurt. So this is me. Yes me infront of the stove and why am I smiling? I wonder.
Il n’y a rien dont je suis fière là, par contre pourquoi n’ai pas je honte? C’est pitoyable !
No don’t cry over spilt milk they told me. No need for shame
In any case, this is me, Pancho some sort of African with European roots educated in the US, who now wants to study further and really wants to be all intellectual and that, with too many things. I spilt some milk and I am cleaning it up. The irony was I boiled it for yoghurt making and now I find out that my stock of yoghurt went bad, so I have not zakvasva, or start up yoghurt to make it! Ahh, what else can I make with two litres of milk? Custard?
You will see in this photo that I have turned the situation on its head. What was once a tragedy has been transformed into bearing of fruit. In this case, the fruit of my work is the soft Indian cheese paneer. Yes, I turned that two litres of milk into paneer. I am proud of this skill – to be able to turn around a bad incident into something wonderful.
Il n’y a rien dont je suis fière là, par contre pourquoi n’ai pas je honte? C’est pitoyable !
No don’t cry over spilt milk they told me. No need for shame
In any case, this is me, Pancho some sort of African with European roots educated in the US, who now wants to study further and really wants to be all intellectual and that, with too many things. I spilt some milk and I am cleaning it up. The irony was I boiled it for yoghurt making and now I find out that my stock of yoghurt went bad, so I have not zakvasva, or start up yoghurt to make it! Ahh, what else can I make with two litres of milk? Custard?
You will see in this photo that I have turned the situation on its head. What was once a tragedy has been transformed into bearing of fruit. In this case, the fruit of my work is the soft Indian cheese paneer. Yes, I turned that two litres of milk into paneer. I am proud of this skill – to be able to turn around a bad incident into something wonderful.
This morning, new years eve, I too woke up and planned I would go to Church. After some wonderful intimacy with the Lord (where I sublimated my truly lustful thoughts into thoughts and praise of Jesus), I felt the Lord called me. Somehow, I know it sounds crazy, but indeed He called me. I was not afraid of this, because I did not take this as something supernatural – not at all – in fact knew it was just my inner voice, which is nothing supernatural. Isaiah 55 he told me to open and I read it. If I recall, it spoke about seeking the Lord, and buying food and drink for free, which too me is a paradox. Here is the verse:
“Come, all you who are thirsty,
Come to the waters; and you who have no money
Come buy wine and milk without money and without cost
Why spend money on what is not bread and your labour on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good and your will delight in the richest of fare
Give ear and come to me to; hear me that your soul may live
I will make an everlasting covenant with you.
My faithful love promised to David.”
Though the passage refers to “wine and milk”, the food consumed for free is implied. Spending ones money on the what is not bread and what does not satisfy is likely to refer to the food we eat that only satiates us temporarily. I think this passage refers to spending ones money healthy, overall wholesome food, such as bread. However, bread itself only satisfies one temporarily.
So here I will begin to interpret this piece of scripture in light of the new testament. The buying of wine and milk at no cost, how does one do that? Does the Lord give us Milk and Wine once we accept him in our lives – become part of his elect? Milk seems to refer to the land of Milk and Honey, Israel, while the wine refers to the vine – Christ – who called him self “the vine”. Thirst is also there in the gospel, where Christ offers the Samaritan woman living water and says that it quenches thirst forever. Moreover, the everlasting covenant Christ made at the last supper was against the background of eating – eating his body and drinking his blood, his blood that was shed for a new and everlasting covenant. The new covenant, between the Lord and all peoples.
I am a human with a proclivity to finding patterns and signs, so there I found a link between Old and New Testament. Also, it was fitting that I read this passage this morning, since last night I had a very scrumptious dinner, of pork and cabbage, banitsa (a type of feta chesse pie ) and baklava. This morning, I did not have a proper breakfast, I took an apple and left for the church on foot. I felt the Lord really was calling me saying “Give ear and come to me; hear that your soul may live”.
I took several pieces of Baklava, three to be exact with me for the Priest and some of the candidates of the priesthood who were still there. When I arrived at the Church, walking into the grounds, the soil very moist with only one car parked, I pondered whether there was a mass. A man in the car said “Hello do you live here?” I shook my head and walked to the entrance of our Church to find it locked. There was no mass after all.
Nonetheless, I went to the living quarters of the priest and the candidates, and called from the outside of the courtyard. A young man my age let me in and I assume he was a “pre-Novitiate” as they call them, a future priest. He was not, apparently, he was there to just clean the Church and his sister Mary was with him. “Father is in Angola” I was told. Father Joseph was visiting his family in Angola. It is very possible he has family on both sides of the border, because this border was just designed as a colonial boundary. In reality, the linguistic groups, communities and families are on either side of the border. It’s basically arbitrary for anyone who lives there. I gave this young man the baklava. We ate some of it together.
How do explain what baklava is to someone who has never hear of it? As he dug into it with his fork and tasted some he remarked “It is very sweet , but I don’t know if there is any fish or meat or anything?” His sister that was with him asked me whether it was pizza! “No very far away from pizza” I said and I offered her to try some. She refused citing that she “did not like the way it looked”. It does look wet, we crusty layers. It is drenched in syrup – the baklava, which gives it this appearance. I told them that it had no meat only nuts, which I likened to the ongudu nuts one finds in Owamboland.
Jakes was his name and her name was Mary. Very friendly young people. There were on their way out to take the food from last nights party hosted by a candidate name Clemens to Greenwell Matango – just before where one of the Windhoek slums – Havana – begins.
I was then taken by them home, cause it was on the way. And that was that.
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