The H1N1 Virus hit Canada just before I traveled to Uganda last summer and my younger brother pointed out the supposed irony of “going to Africa to escape disease.”

Because of the immense amount of news we hear about “disease-ridden Africa,” one can enter borderline-hypochondriac mode at the onset of a few minor sniffles while visiting an African country, as I recently did in Malawi. But I stubbornly refuse medical assistance, incorrectly fearing the worst.

I spent nearly a week in bed. Throughout my first three pathetic days of in-and-out-sleep before seeing a doctor, I considered all the possible causes of my ailment.

Convinced that I must be ill because I’m in Malawi, naively, my thoughts went wild: “Body aches. Yellow fever? Chills. Malaria?” I panicked. Realizing how illogical my thoughts were, I decided to check in with a doctor before allowing my stress levels to soar.

I called my friend who rushed over to take me to a clinic.

During the drive over, I feared the doctor’s diagnosis and the process for discovering what the results might be.

Ridden with nerves about being around needles and hearing an outcome that might be better left unknown, I cautiously approached the quiet, rundown building and went inside.

I was sent to a separate single-room building marked “laboratory” where I received a malaria test. The doctor asked me to take a seat. He pricked my finger with care, while I shielded my eyes. Smearing my blood on a slide, I nearly passed out thinking of all the blood that had been exposed in that suffocating room.

I asked myself: “Am I being a bit dramatic?” Then I thought, “there is nothing wrong with being melodramatic about having yellow fever or malaria.”

I waited outside, allowing the cool breeze to dry the sweat dripping down my face.

Ten minutes passed.

“Heather,” the nurse called, butchering the pronunciation of my name. “Your test results are in.”

Thoughts raced anxiously through my head again, “yellow fever? Malaria? Tell me!”

“Your results came back negative; I think you just have the flu,” she said kindly.

“But that’s impossible; I never get the flu,” I replied.

She continued smiling as she calmly wrote out a prescription for me.

K1,600 ($11 CAD) and a couple hours later, my mind had settled on the flu and my body had begun adjusting to the medicine.

Fortunately I didn’t get yellow fever or malaria. There was no reason to worry about having the flu or visiting a Malawian doctor.

I hadn’t even considered the flu and sure enough I had as common an ailment as I could get on any continent but because I was in Africa, my mind subconsciously went to the worst of the worst.

It turns out the most painful part about the process was the mental anxiety I had put myself through.

Being a middle-class Canadian typically means associating with other middle-class Canadians. Back home, I rarely intermingle with those who are “above” or “below” me on the socio-economic ladder but in Malawi, daily interaction between different classes is more common. With such a high population density in Malawi—797 people per square kilometer—versus Canada’s population density of three people per square kilometer, a typical day means residing and working in close proximity to people of all classes in Malawi.

Each morning, after thanking my resident cook for making me breakfast and waving goodbye to the tailors who work in my compound, I step out of my safely guarded five-bedroom house onto a dusty, dirt road.

Directly in front of me, down a steep hill, is a village within the township of Manase. Every day, the community gathers together to build bricks for their new clinic. To my right, a group of women and children from the area bathe and wash dishes and clothes using the water supply from our house.

There is an understanding between us. Although most of our neighbours feel we should close over the open water source, our landlord can afford to happily share water with an entire village.

Because of the growth of a middle class in developing countries, I naively assumed that, like in Canada, there would be little interaction between upper and lower classes in Malawi. I was wrong. The high population density means there is a greater chance for mingling among different classes here. I quickly became used to when I moved to Malawi.

The only time I recognized the divide was not while taking the bus to work or eating lunch at a restaurant, but rather while playing in the sand at the lake.

Near Lake Malawi, where people have resided for centuries, the economic divide is more obvious than in cities because of an influx of tourism. Although there is a booming fishing industry at the lake, foreigners have created a larger gap between their deep pockets and the locals’ almost non-existent pockets. Conversely, classes are more mixed in Blantyre because many people move from rural areas into the city, the financial capital of Malawi, to find work.

During my first visit to Lake Malawi, I stayed at one of those beautiful lodges on the beach. The clear blue water extended far beyond what my eyesight could comprehend. As the last half hour of my stay approached, I decided to dip my feet into the water one last time.

A group of children stopped jumping around in the lake and stared at me with their wide eyes. I imagined that their homes were likely nearby, surrounded by lodges occupied by spendthrift foreigners.

With a guilty conscious for partaking in excessive spending that weekend, I tried to break the barrier. I waved and the children shyly returned the gesture.

I splashed them with the cool water and the giggles began. We were instant friends.

After welcoming the children with silly games, we sat on the beach just outside of the relatively expensive lodge. We buried our feet into the wet sand and built sandcastles together. Because I only know a limited amount of the local language, Chichewa, and they only knew a limited amount of English, all we could do was laugh together and draw symbols in the sand to communicate.

Just as we smashed down our sandcastles, a waiter from the lodge’s restaurant approached and chased the children away.

In fear, they took off, crossing back to “their side” of the beach. I waved as the children ran away and before I could question it, the waiter had returned to his work, while the children looked back briefly.

I regret not following the children to continue our fun.

I regret not telling that waiter to choka (go away).

Despite enjoying my time with the children, the waiter must have had reason to shoo them away. Because I rarely stray outside of my social group in Canada, it must be assumed that many foreigners coming into Malawi also enjoy creating such walls.

Although sandcastles of segregation are more obvious on the beach than in the city, after each one is knocked over, all that’s left standing are two people playing in the same water.

29 votes were cast for the first executive elections for jhr's MIJ school chapter

At 11:52 a.m. there was a knock at the office door. It was the students informing me that they were ready to begin. On Wednesday, September 1, 2010 a group of classmates gathered together for the first ever jhr chapter elections at the Malawi Institute of Journalism (MIJ).

Eight minutes early—an unusual feat for Malawian students who often abide by “Africa time.”

I hopped out of my chair, encouraged by their excitement and walked across the hall with voter ballots in my hand.

Of course, we didn’t end up starting until a few minutes after noon. We waited for the stragglers to trickle in. Some had still been in class while others were practicing their speeches on the steps outside.
As approximately 30 students took their seats, a quiet buzz in the room turned into a boisterous chatter—making it sound more like there were 60 students present—and soon enough it was difficult to speak two words without being interrupted.

Shouting over the students’ voices, I described the process for the election: first speeches, then voting and the results would be posted the following day.

During our jhr information session the previous week, everyone wrote their names on a sign-up sheet and stated their position of interest, of which each person indicated they would run for a spot. But only half decided to follow through.

A student votes as executive candidates take a break

Nineteen people ran for nine positions. Secretary went to Iness Chilangwe; the lovely Olivia Mlelemba took Treasurer; VP Events went to the outspoken Triza Chikwawa; VP Promotions was appointed to Chance Mwai Mfune; Nandie Mambucha beat two others for VP Outreach; VP Communications was taken by the inspirational Stephina Gwetsa; Maggie Wingolo took VP Finance in a landslide; and Vice President was appointed to Geoff Justice Kawanga—the only candidate for the position.

Shockingly enough, in a male-dominated school, of the 19 people that ran for executive positions, 11 of them are female. And seven of the nine elected positions are female. Gender deliverable for CIDA—check!

The speeches began with the secretary position and dramatically worked their way up the presidential race. Some of the speakers gave short, timid speeches while others rambled along until they were clapped off the podium.

One student named Allan Nyasulu, who ran for VP Outreach, started his speech by saying, “I am not a politician, but allow me to speak as a politician for a moment.” He continued on for a couple of minutes and finished by explaining that although “Malawians don’t know their rights,” he has the ability to reach out.

Maggie Wingolo, approached the stage with confidence and addressed the audience with one line: “I am a business lady so I know how to keep money safe.” It took 13 words to secure her votes for VP Finance.

The noon-hour was coming to a close, and after the only candidate secured his position as Vice President we moved on to the four presidential speeches.

One candidate didn’t receive a single vote. It was down to Elizabeth Muapasa, Sahiba R. Kour and Archibald Kasakura.

Muapasa spoke first. She also shouted over her peers’ voices. Although she seemed to have the most captivated audience (which is tough to say with such an animated crowd), Muapasa’s speech about being open-minded only locked her into second place in the presidential race.

Students pose for the camera as they submit their votes

Next up was Sahiba R. Kour, who had approached me a couple of times before the election to get more information about jhr and the chapter. I sent her off with my best wishes and a USB key full of information. She was prepared. Speech scribbled on a piece of paper, Kour mentioned numerous qualities of a good leader.

“Active, enthusiastic and passionate…available for anyone at any time…[and a] respectable public persona,” were a few traits Kour self-identified with. Further, she has also worked with Amnesty International.

“Ooooh, really?” some of the students asked. “Yep,” she replied assuredly.

Last but not least, with his vest flung over his right shoulder, Archibald Kasakura walked slowly to the front of the room. He asked the rowdy students for permission to speak. The room hushed for a moment.

“I am not here to tell you what leaders do but I do have a couple other things to say,” Kasakura mentioned coolly as the noise started to pick up again.

He described himself as “established, organized…[and] a natural-born leader.” Kasakura closed by telling the newest group of jhr-lovers, “in my heart, there is human rights.” His regular human rights freelance pieces to The Daily Times puts truth to his words.

Luckily, as mediator, I couldn’t vote. It would have been a tough call.

As voted by the first jhr student chapter at MIJ, Sahiba R. Kour has acquired the position of President. With her knowledge and respect from her peers, Kour is well-equipped for the job.

Kasakura’s response to the outcome is one of honour: “I will do whatever I can to help out in any way that I can.”

Discussion about introducing a two-child policy has lit up the Malawian media in recent weeks

Chinese influence in Malawi is no longer restricted to restaurants and family businesses, as it was only a couple of years ago.

In 1979, Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping introduced the one-child policy for select urban areas in China. The policy, which was intended to be a temporary solution to limiting population growth, continues today and has reached populations beyond China’s borders.

Recently, the Human Rights Consultative Commission (HRCC) proposed a two-child policy in Malawi to “check population growth and mitigate land problems,” as stated in the People’s Parliament section of The Nation.

This section of the paper provides an outlet for the general public to give their view on contentious issues and with numerous articles surfacing last week surrounding the two-child policy, there was no shortage of opinion in this week’s People’s Parliament section.

Some feel that the proposal will ensure proper care of all children, as parents will be able to afford school fees, food, clothing and adequate shelter. The main argument is that by reducing population growth, there will be less pressure for the limited amount of land that is available to Malawians.

Population of Malawi: 15 million

“We are experiencing land problems, poverty and increased unemployment rate because we are many,” Yohane Sitirenja told The Nation. Likewise, Chifundo Jambo said, “The idea is good because couples will be able to feed their children and pay tuition fees for them.”

Others believe that the proposal should be directed toward providing education to Malawian couples on family planning. “We are living in a changing world where people should learn to have few[er] children. Government and civil society organizations should spearhead massive campaigns on the advantages of having small families,” suggested Chimwemwe Nyoni.

Others feel that it is wrong to discourage people from having children. One man said that it is against God’s plan: “To [the] government it will be fine but it will be against the will of God. We should do things according to His will.” Certainly within the self-proclaimed “God-fearing nation”, many others will agree to this accusation against the two-child policy.

Another suggestion was made—buried among all the others—that the government should provide incentives for those who abide by such a law. This could be a solution to enforcing the law in a positive light, rather than instilling fines for those who go against the policy, a tactic that the Chinese government has issued in certain urban areas. But the danger lies in implementing this proposal as law.

Solidifying this proposal as a regulation could lead to the horror stories we have all heard before – abortion, infanticide and abandonment. In China, communities that have been subjected to this law have been known to give up female infants for adoption or merely abort altogether.

Yet, despite the downsides to a restricted number of children per family, the policy has reduced population growth in China by nearly 300 million people over its first two decades. The question remains, do we fight for the numbers and improved quality of living or, do we fight for the right to life and protection of the family? Perhaps the two arguments remain hand-in-hand.

Imagine you live in a country the size of New Brunswick, but inhabited by half the population of Canada. The people are generally very friendly, but you are constantly bombarded, shoulder-to-shoulder, by people every day. Everyone knows where you live before you tell them – taxi drivers, colleagues and new friends.

When you leave your house each morning, people shout “How are you?” from across the road as you approach your bus stop. You are in a good mood that morning so you wave, smile and return the question. One member of a group of girls walking slowly in front of you sees that you are behind her. She taps her friends on the arm and they both look at you and giggle. Soon they are all quietly laughing but you aren’t sure why. You laugh to yourself.

When you reach the bus, you climb on, catching the sleeve of your shirt on a bar that is sticking out of one of the benches. Luckily, you are able to maneuver it without tearing the material.

You crawl over a woman and her four-year-old child, who is perched on her lap, and settle yourself on the bench with two men on your other side. You have to duck your head down and pull your knees up toward your chest, as you are slightly too big for the space that you have squeezed yourself into.

As the bus pulls over to your stop, you tell the woman that you must crawl over her once again. You stumble out of the bus – all eyes on you – bumping your head on the ceiling. The man you were sitting beside is following behind you and as you rub your head, he says “oh, sorry white person.” You smile politely and hurry off to work.

As you rush past everyone around you, you wonder why everyone is taking their time getting to work. Won’t their superiors be upset if they are late? People come in and out of your office all morning, either to ask questions or just to say hello and stare at you. Finally, it is lunch time.

As you enjoy your meal, a group of children sit outside the window. They are waiting for your leftover food. You have mistakenly built an expectation in their head since the first week you were living in the densely populated town. You selfishly wish that you hadn’t given them your leftovers that first week because now you feel guilty finishing any of your meals.

As you leave the restaurant, you pass off the remainder of your lunch to the children and head back to work. After working the entire afternoon, it is time to go home. A colleague stops you on your way out. “Where have you been hiding?” he asks cheekily.

You reply, “Didn’t we see each other a few hours ago?” “Oh yes, that’s right. Let’s have lunch tomorrow,” he says as his eyes trace the length of your body. You scurry off again.

As you walk home, your phone rings. It’s an obnoxious ring tone but you have never been able to figure out how to change it. You answer. It is a new friend of yours, “Hey, I saw you walking down the road at 11:55 today.” You wonder why they didn’t say hello but you receive so many calls and texts like this each week that you have given up asking such a question.

You arrive home at 4:15 p.m. and your neighbours notice that you are home 15 minutes earlier than normal. They make a point to verbally recognize this. At this stage of the day, you want to say, “So what?! I am tired today!” But again, you politely smile, shrug your shoulders and walk up the driveway.

After supper, you crawl into bed, only to wake up into your nearly-celebrity-status life all over again.

Since arriving in Malawi, I have flashed—and been flashed by—many people. Oddly enough, flashing one another is a crucial aspect to forming friendships within this country.

Each time I meet someone new that I want to continue a friendship with, we flash each other. It’s quick and easy and it automatically guarantees a response—typically a smile of approval.

Over the past month I have flashed and been flashed by about 30 people—Malawians and expatriates, taxi-drivers and co-workers, women and men. But I have yet to be flashed by any children.

Aside from the initial meet-and-greet if you flash your new friend it is sometimes considered rude. It’s a teaser. It means, “I want your attention but I’m not willing to go all the way.”

For some reason though, it is acceptable for some Malawians to flash their ex-patriot friends but if a Canadian flashes another Canadian, it’s scandalous and you can be sure that everyone will be talking about it. A typical response to flashing within the ex-patriot community is dismissal with a hint of resentment.

Living in a large house with four other Canadian girls ensures some minor flashing, if only to get each other’s attention.

On one occasion, I was flashed by mistake and although it was embarrassing for the other person to admit to it, the act itself became amusing. In jest, I flashed back—only furthering the humiliation of my friend.

Flashing v. (flăsh’ĭng): A request to be called back by dialing and immediately hanging up. Typically used to save money on cell phone airtime. Commonly misinterpreted as the act of indecent exposure.

A few days ago, fellow jhr intern Amy and I were sitting comfortably in our office at the Malawi Institute of Journalism (MIJ) when a student named Charles Chaswa knocked politely on the door before letting himself in.

He passed us a piece of paper and spoke softly to us, saying that he had to leave MIJ because his sponsor had died and he could no longer afford the school fees.

Chaswa, a student at MIJ in the yearlong Certificate program, is required to pay K 210,000 ($1,500 CAD) per semester before exam time. And fees rise for senior-level Diploma students, as they pay K 315,000 ($2,250 CAD) per semester in the program that lasts one and a half years.

In addition to these prices, the students are asked (but often not expected) to supply their own cameras and recorders but many cannot afford to purchase such equipment either.

Chaswa’s letter explains that his mother passed away while he was in primary school and soon after, his father passed away while he was in secondary school. He writes with hope, “I try to pray that God turns my darkness into light.”

Because the government only pays for public primary school, Chaswa could only pray for his secondary school fees. He and two other children received a plot of land as an inheritance from his father, they split the money and with his share, Chaswa was able to complete secondary school. To his dismay, Chaswa only had K 60,000 ($428 CAD) remaining as he entered the journalism course at MIJ.

But Chaswa’s passion made him fight harder for his education. He explains in his letter that he requested sponsorship from his church, banks, radio stations and the Bingu Silva Foundation. But his requests went unanswered.

Among the 150 certificate students and 100 diploma students at MIJ, Chaswa is not alone in his plight.

Dalitson Nkunda, Course Manager at MIJ, explained that 10 to 15 percent of students drop out due to lack of funds to support their education. “Many students attend all of their classes and are not able to write the exams at the end of the semester,” she says, clarifying that the students often search in vein for sponsors throughout the school year.  

As a Rights Media Educational Officer, I have little power to assist the students in this way. My role with Journalists for Human Rights (jhr) requires me to adhere to their core principles. The final clause states, “jhr is an organization that does not provide monetary support to media houses.” And I certainly don’t have the personal funds to support even one student.

I think back to my time at university and although the debt from student loans is looming over my bank account, I am grateful that I had the relatively easy opportunity to acquire funds for my tuition.

Chaswa’s story is both compelling and heartbreaking. And I feel nearly helpless. The only way I know how to assist students in this situation is to bring awareness to the issues that many Malawians face. Frankly, Chaswa exceeded beyond many others, in that he found a way to complete his secondary school despite the death of both of his parents.

The eager student closes his letter by wondering, “Who will fight better for me? I struggle to find peace, freedom and love in order to have strength of mind.” Realizing that his dreams of journalism have been dashed, he asks, “Where can I go to find help?”

Blantyre is a photographer’s dream. The rolling hills, multi-coloured birds and salamanders, Lion King-style trees and bustling markets provide great scenery for a 4×6. Adorable children that dance around and play with homemade toy cars on dusty roads complement the ambiance of Malawian life. But on occasion, stipulations do arise for photographers in this blissful paradise.

During a recent trip to the picturesque Mount Mulanje, my colleagues and I bypassed the lengthy trek up the mountain and stopped in a small town for a late lunch instead. As we approached Pizza Basilica, we met a group of young children.

We all had our expensive digital cameras out, snapping shots of the gorgeous mountain behind the pizza parlour, when the curious children approached us. We automatically started capturing them on our cameras and in return, showed them the photos and videos we were taking.

I went through a nearly identical occurrence in Uganda last year and I have always felt uncomfortable with it. Perhaps I become irked by the idea of photographing children because of how it is treated in Canada–in that, we are expected to obtain permission from the guardians. Or maybe I let it get to me when the phrase “poverty tourism” rings through my head after I capture an everyday moment that I believe is quaint.

Yet, I pushed past my discomfort and continued on–with surprising delight–as I captured many endearing photos. The shrieking laughter of the kids, as they hopped around excitedly, told us that they were enjoying the experience just as much as we were. Mission complete: no strenuous mountain climbing, great photos and we made a group of kids smile.

Sounds perfect right? But it’s not always that easy. Although it is not unlawful to photograph children in Malawi, expectations often arrive in various forms.

The Malawi Code of Ethics merely states that “children under the age of 13 who are involved in cases concerning sexual offences, whether as victims, witnesses or defendants” shall not be identified through any published material. Yet, this clause is only considered a moral guideline and is the only section that refers to children’s rights within the document.

Similarly, in the Human Rights chapter of Malawi’s Constitution, article 35 and 36 encourage freedom of expression and freedom of the press. Despite these documents, there are still conditions that lie within the photography realm of Malawi.

After our mini photo shoot, a group of men approached us saying that we needed to give the children money in return. I wondered if that would be a beneficial decision or not. Aside from not knowing where the money would end up, a few coins could cause a one-time influx in their daily income and how would that stand as a sustainable practice? Furthermore, I considered the unethical nature of paying a subject for a photo or in this case, a blog topic.

When thinking about front-page newspapers after a natural disaster, it is commonplace to feature a photo of someone who has been affected by the incident. Regardless of higher newspaper sales because of the victim’s compelling photo, they often won’t receive a percentage of the profit.

Photographing the vulnerable people of our world is a frequent occurrence but why does it feel so wrong to give them a little extra cash when the photographer/media outlet will often benefit from it anyways—through praise, monetary compensation, website hits, or otherwise?

We waved to the children as we hurried off to catch the next minibus. As we left the quaint moment behind, the children went back to their everyday lives—playing, singing and dancing—as we flipped through our photos, basing our memory of that encounter on still images.

With a little help from jhr, Archibald Kasakura has excelled in human rights reporting

Two years ago, Simona Siad began her jhr internship at The Daily Times in Blantyre, Malawi. After a few months, her efforts extended beyond the newsroom to a classroom down the road at the Malawi Institute of Journalism (MIJ).

“The classroom was a really unique place to work with young journalists on human rights issues,” proclaims Siad. To this day, her impact resonates among MIJ students.

Archibald Kasakura, a 30-year-old diploma student at MIJ, shares the impact Siad had on his journalism skills. “Before she came onto the scene, I didn’t know how to write features,”Kasakura recalls, “Simona made me what I am today.”

When Kasakura first started writing, he relied on Siad for about 70 percent of his work. “Initially, I thought she was being so hard on me, but now I know it was part of the growing process,” he says. But these days, Kasakura works independently at producing high-quality stories on a regular basis.

Over the past couple of years, Kasakura has written nearly 40 articles. After his first article was published, the ambitious student said that he “gathered the courage to keep writing.” Focusing on human rights features, Kasakura has published stories on children’s rights (issues of forced labour and sexual abuse), the rights of prisoners living with HIV, the right to religion and free primary education, and most recently, Malawi’s development since independence in 1964.

Keen to expose human right issues, Kasakura uses his downtime between classes to freelance his articles. Writing on a nearly broken-down laptop that he borrows from his uncle, Kasakura recognizes the value of his work.

“I used to see human rights as something that doesn’t apply to Malawians, but now I see the importance of them,” he states. “[Simona] has opened my eyes.”

Siad and Kasakura worked toward making everyone on the world fully aware of their rights–at the core of jhr’s mandate. She remembers him fondly, “Archibald is a really special student…I could tell right away that he had an incredible enthusiasm for human rights reporting.”

Kasakura says, “As a reporter, I have a duty to see that human rights of Malawians are respected.” He firmly believes that writing such stories will create change.

Initially, Kasakura wanted to become a lawyer but he was always interested in writing. Upon being rejected from law school and receiving alternate suggestions that he study journalism, he decided to enroll at MIJ. Looking around the office, Kasakura declares with poised confidence, “This is where I belong.”