Ponds and Forests; Knowledge and Power

About a year ago our friends Peter and Melissa lent us a collection of Wendell Berry's essays and since we have yet to return said book, and since aforementioned friends are continually traipsing around East Africa it seemed unlikely the book will be back in their possession anytime soon, and thus I figured the time had come for me to actually read this book (hey Morrisons if you're reading this, you may as well know that you probably need to come back to Rumbek to retrieve it).

The opening essay is entitled "Damage". Berry talks about creating a pond on his farm. He gets an expert, they plot out the pond, they dig the pond, and then a few months later part of the surrounding bush, heavy from rain, slips into the pond scarring the landscape and irreparably damaging the woods. And then he says this: "The trouble was the familiar one: too much power, too little knowledge. The fault was mine."

I was reading this while on a parish visit, after a day of talking about trauma, of teaching some simple healing actions. We talked about breathing, about moving, about mourning. Lying on the bed, my flashlight resting precariously on my head I re-read that line "too much power, too little knowledge", and I felt a sick sensation. This is exactly how I feel. Often. Having white skin, a university education, and coming from 'outside' gives me incredible power here. I am shuffled to the front of meetings, I am asked for my opinion (even when I don't want to give it); my power is so disproportionate to my knowledge it is embarrassing. Yes I have knowledge, I know some things, but most of the things I know are deeply tied up in my own biases and cultural understanding. My knowledge of Dinka culture, language, traditions, and values is only two years old.

I have moments where I expect someone to call me on this knowledge/power imbalance. When I'm talking about trauma, to have someone say me, "what do you know about our trauma?” When I'm talking about human rights, and they say "yes, but how?" (as they do) and I say "It is not for me to change your place, it's for you to realize your value and to live into that value" (as I do), and for them to look me in the eye and say "well that's crap" (which they haven't yet).

This feeling, this experience, while heightened for me in Sudan, is not unique. Only a few years ago it was my first day of teaching, and I remember all those little eyes looking at me and believing I was a teacher. I kept waiting for one of them to notice that I didn't really know what I was doing. To point their fingers at me and say "heyyy, wait a minute - you're not a real teacher", and all chaos to break loose. But somewhere along the way, their believing in me turned me into a "real teacher".  I suppose adult life is a lot more 'fake it 'til you make it' than I anticipated. I suppose that this is a journey we attempt to navigate semi-successfully holding our knowledge and power lightly, praying that not too many forests slump into the ponds of our making.