‘She is having a cold.’ Over and over I repeat this sentence in my mind. The truth is: I am disappointed and slightly hurt. For the first time, I shared my plan with the person whose opinion I value most in the world: oma, my grandmother, mother of my mother. She reacted with suspicion: whether I realised that the world is full of cheats; that Foster Parents Plan used to have a bad name in the 1990s; that she heard this story about a 92-year-old man being robbed of his money on the internet; that she had been called by someone pretending to be her bank manager, offering to ‘help’ her sort out her taxes; that too many managers had too large swimming pools; that most aid work was inspired by missionary thoughts, trading Jesus for food and American brands for riches.
Evidently, she is right. There are robbers out there, exchanging the white man’s burden for diamonds and uranium, corrupting Africa to its core. And still, I was disappointed. Because she should have figured out that I know all of this; that I would have researched the project; that I asked these questions; that I wondered about the sense and the sensibilities; that I wouldn’t lightly back a cause, and certainly not if I couldn’t stand for it. I have to sell it. She should have known that I weighted and judged; and that I ruled the benefits over the risks.
My grandmother is now 93. She has seen it all. In World War II, she took part in the Resistance: she smuggled people in and out, falsified food stamps, did what was needed – and what was right, at that time and in her eyes. She still won’t go to the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam; here, she nearly got caught by the German Gestapo while carrying out illegal acts. She barely ever talks about the war, and only to emphasise that it were dire times allowing dire yet necessary acts. From time to time I wonder whether she did things in those days she now feels ashamed or guilty of – probably she did. Don’t we all cross the line in trying times to protect ourselves, our family, the ideals we hold on to?
After the war, she worked at the Zaandam City Council; ‘a man’s job’, she often says proudly. Oma loved her job. She even tried to convince my grandfather to live with her in concubinage – just to keep her job. Opa refused; they married and oma lost her beloved job – marriage automatically disqualified a woman for working for the government in the 1950s. And with a husband providing for her, oma became a house wife that raised their three children mostly by herself, as opa worked internationally. In the 1960s, oma radicalised. With three children enjoying the highs of flower power, oma followed in their footsteps: listening to the Beatles, Rolling Stones and Dylan; becoming active in the Peace Movement; covering for my mother with white lies with opa, enabling in this way my mother’s sexual liberation; and even breaking with the church, the religion of her father, once a force to be reckoned with.
Oma has always been a serious woman; a house wife with no university degree – denied to her by her mother, who once declared that ‘she should take her younger brother into account’. It was Jaap’s birth right as a son to enjoy all opportunities; when money was tight, it was Jaap who benefitted. She was just a girl and should know her place. In the end, Jaap never went to university. But she always craved for this lost opportunity. She never was just a girl, just a wife or just a mother: her heart sung of philosophy and literature, her mind was starved for travel and the road ahead. She read, she listened, she explored within her limits. Oma was always curious. What happened? Where was this brave, adventurous and curious woman? Now she only radiated fear.
It is all about trust. She should trust me blindly. She knows me and should trust me to do what is right. I was disappointed, as I wanted her to ask those other questions: ‘Why? Why you? Why now? Why this?’ I realise, it was love talking – simple plain love. She loves me, tries to warn and protect me. Her daughter is gone; she takes on a double duty as scaremonger and lioness. She wants what is best for me. ‘Whether I’d call again’, she asked rather timidly after some time.
Of course, oma. I’ll call you as often as I can – tomorrow, to start with. You helped me immensely. I just decided to go; and I also decided to start publishing my thoughts about the journey towards the trip in Zambia: as it is insightful to see what happens on the way – in the mind, in reality. I want to document all hurdles. Our little misunderstanding, my first hurdle, also taught me an important lesson: this isn’t going to be easy, it was never intended to be easy, and it can only be done successfully with trust and love. Trust and love are the pillars on which this journey should rest. I need to generate trust, trust my own judgement and place my trust in others. I have to appeal to, work with and share out love. Only when I can convince others to place their trust and love in me, I can radiate trust and love to others. Only then will this journey become a success.