The Least of These

Even in the poorest country on the planet, there are relative levels of privilege. The poorest of the poor in Burundi are the small tribe known as the Batwa. The indigenous inhabitants of the Great Lakes region, they thrived for centuries in the forest as nomadic hunter-gatherers. Due to the influx of pastoralist and agricultural communities, the Batwa were soon exiled from what little forest remained. Deprived of their natural source of sustenance, they were also summarily dispossessed of their lands with no legal recourse. Instead, they turned to economic activities with quick returns: pottery, day laborers, and domestic workers. Discrimination often prevents them from gaining employment in the latter two, and as industrialized products become more widely available, even their pottery has become economically insufficient. They live in abject poverty. Even other Burundians, who are no strangers to poverty, are shocked and devastated when exposed to the conditions of the Batwa.

Today, the Batwa are the victims of total unofficial segregation. They are excluded from eating or drinking with those of other tribal backgrounds, visiting their homes, and intermarrying with others. They are not allowed to touch eating and cooking implements, approach too close, or sit on the same benches at schools and medical clinics. They must collect water downstream from others, remain on the margins of public space and, when selling goods in markets, can only sit on the outskirts, away from other sellers.

Last Sunday, Ron and I went with Claude and Kelley and other friends to visit the nearby Batwa village. As you can imagine, no matter what you have read or heard about a situation, nothing can prepares you for the experience of it.

Their village is about 40 minutes outside the city. We drove there on a hot, still day, when the mid-afternoon hush had settled over the land. We turned off the main road and onto a dirt road of sorts - mostly just a trail where the occasional passing car had already flattened the dry reed grasses. We drove on this road for several miles before our van bottomed out too many times on the rough terrain, forcing us to walk the last 200 yards or so. As we came closer, however, the children saw us and excitedly called for their friends and family, and before we knew it we were surrounded by smiling and politely curious Batwa.

Officially, they have inhabited this plot of land for only three days. They began the tedious task of clearing the hillside of trees and undergrowth a month ago when the government informed them they would be moving from their previous location, which is about nine miles away. While we are there, we get the news that the government has already told them to move again, to the other side of the hill. The government “doesn’t want to have to see them” from their side of the valley”. The other side of the hill will require even more work to clear than the side they are on now.

When we first arrived, everyone wanted to shake our hand, as if simply wanting to touch us. They were wide-eyed and unbelieving that we had come to visit them. The children gathered around curiously, with the brave ones sometimes daring to run up and say hello, or to touch our clothes or skin, to the nervous giggles of their friends. They are, without exception, very skinny.

As more and more onlookers flocked around, an impromptu song and dance session broke out, borne out of the joy of having visitors. Their smiles were wide and their dances athletic and rhythmic. Their voices are strong, and all, even the smallest, know to clap along.

I closed my eyes and took in the sounds; the rustlind grasses, the clapping, the singing. Not too far away, a baby wailed, a desperate cry that bore little resemblance to the whimpering, cooing cries of well-fed babies. These are wails of hunger. The Batwa people in this particular village eat only two or three times per week. Not per day. Per week. Similarly, because the nearest water source is miles and miles away, one liter (about two regular water bottles) must last an entire family or two days or more. The people are constantly thirsty, and their skin is dusty and cracked from chronic dehydration. The tall reed grasses blow desolately in the hot, dry wind, kicking up dust on the parched rows of wilted crops. There is no shade and no respite from the burning African sun.

People were dressed in rags; filthy, ripped rags. They have probably worn the same clothes for most of their lives, and they are their only possessions.

As we were ready to leave, I felt a light touch on my arm. I turned and saw the desperate, pleading eyes of a young mother. She plucked at her baby's filthy and tattered clothes, as if to say, "I am hungry and my baby is in rags. Please help." I was unable to turn away, and as a tear welled up in my chest and threatened to burst forth, a tear welled up in her eye too.

The Batwa are a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent, resilient people. They are more than their circumstances.

As with all the assaults on human dignity that occur daily in this part of the world, the eternal question is, what is my responsibility? Now that I have seen this, I cannot walk away untouched. Their humanity stands mutely as a rebuke against the demons of greed, consumerism, apathy, and gluttony.



The slideshow, of course, could never have been crafted and loaded from here. Many, many thanks to my wonderful friend Christie who is not only beautiful and talented but who also has the sense of humor to sort through a motley batch of photos from a friend in Africa and make a piece of art out of it.

To find out more about the Batwa and how it relates to our time here, check out Claude and Kelley's blog and Brian McLaren's reflection on his time here with the Batwa earlier this summer, or get involved in the Batwa fast.