Marching and the Universal Language

In Malawi, everyone is incredibly friendly. I’m not exaggerating. This country- nick-named by the world as the “warm heart of Africa” must be the friendliest place on earth. I do believe just being in this vibrant place could thaw even the coldest of hearts.

A picture from our vehicle window. Breathtaking beauty.

Chichewa is the local language here. It is a lovely, joyful language, but boy do we make ourselves look silly trying to speak it. Still, we try, and through the enduring patience of our sweet Chichewa-speaking friends, we are getting better. We keep trying, put aside our pride and passionately vowing to build genuine relationships with our friends in Malawi. Many times, these relationships may begin with Chichewa.

And so, we practice. In the streets, we wave and strike up conversations. Confession: I always try to talk to the kids, who I know will tolerate my imperfect Chichewa (and get such a kick out of it! I love their giggles!).

“Muli bwanji?”

“Tidi bwino, kainu?”

“Ah, tidi bwino, zikomo.”

“Zikomo kwambiri.”

“Duandani?”

“Ine dine Bridgette.”

“Hi, Bridgette! Ine dine Ashley.”

In the hospitals, we are lucky that the doctors and nurses all speak English. Still, we offer a simply greeting in Chichewa to try to show that we aren’t arrogant people who only want to do things our way. We want to understand, to work together. We want to speak the same language both metaphorically and literally. It is inadequate to simply and clumsily stumble through a few phrases of the local language. But it is something. Chichewa is something, so we try.

As we walk through the hospital with the brilliant nurses and physicians, it feels strange and impolite not to speak to the patients at the hospital, we I awkwardly mutter “how are you?”

“Muli bwanji?”

“Muli bwanji?”

“Muli bwanji?”

This feels slightly strange, too- to ask only at surface level how a patient is doing. But it does seem better than coldly ignoring everyone. So again and again, Lauren, Dr. Penny, and I enthusiastically offer “muli bwanji?” as we walk through the corridors. A toddler runs through the hallway, burning energy I presume. “Muli bwanji?” I say to him, but he just throws his head back in laughter and runs even faster.

“Muli bwanji?” I start to say as I turn the corridor of the hospital, but immediately I regret my enthusiastic tone. Marching down the corridor towards me is a procession of people, dressed in white, and their faces are hauntingly somber. As they get closer, my brain frantically reels as I realize they are carrying a child on a stretcher, covered by a white sheet. They are slowing marching towards the mortuary.

Our kind host whispers somberly, “let’s step back”. We had been frozen in our tracks in disbelief. He bows his head and we do the same. I closed my eyes, partly to lift up a prayer, and partly, I am ashamed to say, because I couldn’t bear to look into the eyes of this child’s mother. But I didn’t need to have my eyes open to see her pain. I keenly felt the grief, the sorrow as she passed us by, wailing from the depths of her soul. “My baby, my baby”.

There are no words to offer- in English or Chichewa- so we all stay silent. Our leader, Dr. Penny, stops for a moment, tears streaming down her face. And I am angry at myself, because I am too filled with sorrow to even cry. No tears will fall. Instead, we keep marching on to our task in the hospital. And everything in me just wants to stop, to pause, to grieve with this precious momma whose child has just entered heaven’s gates.

There’s an amazing thing about communication between human beings: sometimes words aren’t needed. Sometimes words are even futile, like in this moment. I had focused so much the language of Chichewa- reciting things over and over in my head- in a desperate attempt to communicate. But now, the only part of me that can communicate is my heart. Heart to heart with this momma, with her family. And as the procession moves slowly in front of us, I close my eyes and muster every part of my energy on prayer. Prayer of the heart. I lift her up, this momma, knowing that God knows the cry of my heart without language, without words, and more importantly, He knit together her heart and hears her cry. All of us, I think, cry out to heaven not in Chichewa or English, but in a universal language that surpasses all understanding. I am quieted by this.

The funeral procession continues to march, and so we do the same. We march- toward hope, towards faith, towards a tomorrow that may be better than today.