Nothing is fair in this world. Nothing happens like it should. Nothing is ever what we wish it to turn out to be.
At least sometimes that is the case. Despite being a scientist at heart, a person who relies on the predictability, repeatability, and order of the universe, I find myself sometimes abruptly reminded of how violently unpredictable and absurd our world can be.
I began reading Candide a few days ago. In the novel, arguably one of the most famous satires in the enlightenment movement, if not all time, Voltaire ridicules Leibnitz's philosophy that everything has an underlying functionality, that is, everything in this world exists for a specific and excellent reason. Voltaire uses Candide's teacher Dr. Pangloss (in Greek - all tongue), who preaches incessantly and obnoxiously of these ideas, as a medium through which he comically articulates the logical absurdity of our world being the "best of all possible worlds." In the world of Voltaire, the "best" world is anything but - it is merely cruel, unmerciful, and chaotic.
Yesterday I had an experience that reminded me of how cruel, unpredictable, and unmerciful the world can be; how sometimes things point to a world that can in no way be the "best."
After getting lunch with the other interns for a friend's birthday (for Dutch, the guy), I left to watch soccer at a local sports club, and then crossed the ferry to meet up with Ndiema and his wife. I took a Matatu south towards Mtongwe, and alighted at Likoni Secondary School. To the left of the school is a long dirt service road which leads out towards the house. While the main road is busy with cars, the dirt road is full with largely foot traffic. Shouldering my backpack, I set off down the dirt drive. Along the drive on the right are buildings and homes, to the left, rows of fruit trees. Some children yelled out to me as I walked, and I returned the gesture. "How are you?" "Poa, poa."
Not long into my walk, a car rumbled in front of me, crunching pebbles. Looking up, I saw Ndiema smiling from the front seat. He was carrying several women in the bed of the truck. They hopped out, I stepped in. He turned the car around, and then loaded the back up with ten other women who were headed the opposite direction.
I joked - "You sure your wife is OK with this?"
We drove back towards his home. On the way I saw my host parents out the window, walking along the shoulder. I had never seen them this far from the island. Surprised, I turned to Ndiema. "Did you know they were coming?"
"Yes, they told me just a few hours ago."
I was still smiling at the sight of our pickup, the bed full of women. We stopped at a house a few before Ndiemas; a crowd was gathered outside. I slid out from the front seat, and watched the women's faces as they climbed down from the truck. Their smiles had turned solemn. Those already at the house bore somber expressions, heavy and grey. I felt the air churn delicately, eerily, and cringed like when a soft curtain brushes unexpectedly against skin. Something was not quite right.
Ndiema pulled me aside. There had been a death in the family.
"Here Mr. Scott, come with me."
We walked back to his house, a few homes down from the one we had stopped at. He opened up his computer and began to show me pictures. "We were very close," he said, "and I wish I had more pictures of her."
There, one with her husband.
And another, with her three children. The eldest no older than fourteen, the youngest no more than seven.
Soon two men walked in, the first more elderly; the second maybe a decade older than I. The younger was the late women's husband. His eyes looked ringed, deep and forlorn. His shoulders slumped under the weight of a day longer than any human should endure. We closed our eyes in prayer, and then sat for a dinner of ugali and greens. I watched as he kneaded ugali in his hand, head hanging over his plate, his appetite clearly lost.
I gave him my blessings, but out of respect for him and his closest friends, I stayed at Ndiema's house to watch a movie. I didn't want to distract the congregation from their mourning.
I began to ask Ndiema what had happened. "She fell," he said. I left it at that.
Once my host parents had tired, Ndiema drove us back to the ferry.
I asked my host parents for the story.
That morning the husband woke, dressed, and left for work. Minutes later the children heard a crash in the bathroom, and ran in to find their mother lying unconscious on the floor. The oldest ran for a cell phone, but the SIM card had expired and the phone was out of minutes. Rather than running for help, they scavenged the house and the streets, looking for a new card to use, as precious minutes ticked away. Eventually they realized their efforts for a phone were futile. Together they ran for the nearest help.
Ndiema and Mary answered the door and sprinted over to their friend's house. Together they lifted her into the back of their car. He whipped the car around and throttled the engine, racing out to the hospital.
When they arrived the doctors quickly pronounced her dead.
As I listened, I stood in shock, staring out across the calm waters of the Indian Ocean. The ferry's engines hummed, the prop churning under the weight of its cargo, motoring us back towards the island. Thoughts began to fill my head.
"Had they known they could still use an expired phone to call an emergency number?"
"Why hadn't they gone straight to Ndiema?"
"How did she fall?"
"How much time was wasted?"
I thought of home. So many of my friends have lost parents, have lost friends and relatives and loved ones. For those that were closest, the questions must race in, tenfold. The "I wish's" and the "What if's" overtake all other reasoning. Soon every thought is caught in that endless logic loop, the questions multiplying, the doubt, remorse, and regret reaching every cavity, every region, every vessel; every neuron.
For those children, for that husband, this world certainly cannot be the best world. If it was, something would have conspired to save her life. The phone would have had minutes available, the husband would have been home, the kids would have went to Ndiema's first, or maybe the ground may not have been slick in the first place. I can only imagine the pain that that uncertainty brings to that family.
For those children, and for that husband, even for all of us, the world is not always the best. Things cannot always be what we want them to be. In this world we live in, sometimes we are given the short end of the stick, or the absolute worst chain of events. Not everything can exist for a specific and excellent reason.
However, we must weather the challenges, and persevere. In a way, Voltaire's work is a celebration of that, of the beauty and capacity of human perseverance in the face of extreme hardship. Sometimes we must accept our fate, accept the cards we are dealt, or the land and soil that we must plant upon, no matter how infertile. Not merely accept, but also act. We must deal with the challenges we are dealt. Only then can we move forward.
In the mind of Voltaire, our world is far from the best of all worlds. We must contend with what challenges life may hold. In the words of Candide, "we must cultivate our garden."
Keep their family in your thoughts and prayers,
Scotty
At least sometimes that is the case. Despite being a scientist at heart, a person who relies on the predictability, repeatability, and order of the universe, I find myself sometimes abruptly reminded of how violently unpredictable and absurd our world can be.
I began reading Candide a few days ago. In the novel, arguably one of the most famous satires in the enlightenment movement, if not all time, Voltaire ridicules Leibnitz's philosophy that everything has an underlying functionality, that is, everything in this world exists for a specific and excellent reason. Voltaire uses Candide's teacher Dr. Pangloss (in Greek - all tongue), who preaches incessantly and obnoxiously of these ideas, as a medium through which he comically articulates the logical absurdity of our world being the "best of all possible worlds." In the world of Voltaire, the "best" world is anything but - it is merely cruel, unmerciful, and chaotic.
Yesterday I had an experience that reminded me of how cruel, unpredictable, and unmerciful the world can be; how sometimes things point to a world that can in no way be the "best."
After getting lunch with the other interns for a friend's birthday (for Dutch, the guy), I left to watch soccer at a local sports club, and then crossed the ferry to meet up with Ndiema and his wife. I took a Matatu south towards Mtongwe, and alighted at Likoni Secondary School. To the left of the school is a long dirt service road which leads out towards the house. While the main road is busy with cars, the dirt road is full with largely foot traffic. Shouldering my backpack, I set off down the dirt drive. Along the drive on the right are buildings and homes, to the left, rows of fruit trees. Some children yelled out to me as I walked, and I returned the gesture. "How are you?" "Poa, poa."
Not long into my walk, a car rumbled in front of me, crunching pebbles. Looking up, I saw Ndiema smiling from the front seat. He was carrying several women in the bed of the truck. They hopped out, I stepped in. He turned the car around, and then loaded the back up with ten other women who were headed the opposite direction.
I joked - "You sure your wife is OK with this?"
We drove back towards his home. On the way I saw my host parents out the window, walking along the shoulder. I had never seen them this far from the island. Surprised, I turned to Ndiema. "Did you know they were coming?"
"Yes, they told me just a few hours ago."
I was still smiling at the sight of our pickup, the bed full of women. We stopped at a house a few before Ndiemas; a crowd was gathered outside. I slid out from the front seat, and watched the women's faces as they climbed down from the truck. Their smiles had turned solemn. Those already at the house bore somber expressions, heavy and grey. I felt the air churn delicately, eerily, and cringed like when a soft curtain brushes unexpectedly against skin. Something was not quite right.
Ndiema pulled me aside. There had been a death in the family.
"Here Mr. Scott, come with me."
We walked back to his house, a few homes down from the one we had stopped at. He opened up his computer and began to show me pictures. "We were very close," he said, "and I wish I had more pictures of her."
There, one with her husband.
And another, with her three children. The eldest no older than fourteen, the youngest no more than seven.
Soon two men walked in, the first more elderly; the second maybe a decade older than I. The younger was the late women's husband. His eyes looked ringed, deep and forlorn. His shoulders slumped under the weight of a day longer than any human should endure. We closed our eyes in prayer, and then sat for a dinner of ugali and greens. I watched as he kneaded ugali in his hand, head hanging over his plate, his appetite clearly lost.
I gave him my blessings, but out of respect for him and his closest friends, I stayed at Ndiema's house to watch a movie. I didn't want to distract the congregation from their mourning.
I began to ask Ndiema what had happened. "She fell," he said. I left it at that.
Once my host parents had tired, Ndiema drove us back to the ferry.
I asked my host parents for the story.
That morning the husband woke, dressed, and left for work. Minutes later the children heard a crash in the bathroom, and ran in to find their mother lying unconscious on the floor. The oldest ran for a cell phone, but the SIM card had expired and the phone was out of minutes. Rather than running for help, they scavenged the house and the streets, looking for a new card to use, as precious minutes ticked away. Eventually they realized their efforts for a phone were futile. Together they ran for the nearest help.
Ndiema and Mary answered the door and sprinted over to their friend's house. Together they lifted her into the back of their car. He whipped the car around and throttled the engine, racing out to the hospital.
When they arrived the doctors quickly pronounced her dead.
As I listened, I stood in shock, staring out across the calm waters of the Indian Ocean. The ferry's engines hummed, the prop churning under the weight of its cargo, motoring us back towards the island. Thoughts began to fill my head.
"Had they known they could still use an expired phone to call an emergency number?"
"Why hadn't they gone straight to Ndiema?"
"How did she fall?"
"How much time was wasted?"
I thought of home. So many of my friends have lost parents, have lost friends and relatives and loved ones. For those that were closest, the questions must race in, tenfold. The "I wish's" and the "What if's" overtake all other reasoning. Soon every thought is caught in that endless logic loop, the questions multiplying, the doubt, remorse, and regret reaching every cavity, every region, every vessel; every neuron.
For those children, for that husband, this world certainly cannot be the best world. If it was, something would have conspired to save her life. The phone would have had minutes available, the husband would have been home, the kids would have went to Ndiema's first, or maybe the ground may not have been slick in the first place. I can only imagine the pain that that uncertainty brings to that family.
For those children, and for that husband, even for all of us, the world is not always the best. Things cannot always be what we want them to be. In this world we live in, sometimes we are given the short end of the stick, or the absolute worst chain of events. Not everything can exist for a specific and excellent reason.
However, we must weather the challenges, and persevere. In a way, Voltaire's work is a celebration of that, of the beauty and capacity of human perseverance in the face of extreme hardship. Sometimes we must accept our fate, accept the cards we are dealt, or the land and soil that we must plant upon, no matter how infertile. Not merely accept, but also act. We must deal with the challenges we are dealt. Only then can we move forward.
In the mind of Voltaire, our world is far from the best of all worlds. We must contend with what challenges life may hold. In the words of Candide, "we must cultivate our garden."
Keep their family in your thoughts and prayers,
Scotty
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