Mennonite Central Committee

Lessons Learned in Jamaica

Press Release, January 2001
Kingston, Jamaica
by Kimberly Wiens

I try to walk up the hill every morning to Committee For the Upliftment of the Mentally Ill (CUMI), the agency in Kingston where I work as a program aide. It's good exercise, and besides, most of the clients have to walk about three times that far to get to CUMI. I regularly see the same people on my route. Though our interactions rarely exceed a smile and a wave, the familiar faces have provided me with an increased sense of belonging.

One of the women I pass has the job of street beautification. Every day she walks up and down Union Street collecting garbage in heavy, awkward bags as the cars fly by, inches from her feet. Circumstances, I would assume, that wouldn't breed an abundance of joy. But this woman can't seem to stop smiling. She often drops her bag to give me a hearty "hello," crossing the street to hold my hand for a moment before we go our separate ways. She is so proud to be doing good, honest work. So I've learned something about gratitude from my friend. But a few weeks ago she taught me something else.

I recently misplaced my driver's license along with the little notebook in which I record how I spend my precious MCC money. I went out to search for it the next morning with Paul, one of our clients. Amazingly, he managed to spot my driver's license in the bushes, but the notebook was nowhere to be found. On our third sweep of the area, he suggested that maybe the woman who collects garbage might have seen it. I was about to approach her when I noticed that something was strange about the situation. She was being surrounded by a group of about 10 somber-looking individuals. I stopped and listened as they informed her that her son had just been shot.

She cried out.
He was dead.

She lifted her face to the sky and wailed. I stood stunned as I watched a mother's worst nightmare become a reality before me. As the sickening truth set in, so did some new perspectives. The notebook was no longer important. I suddenly felt like an intruder — viewing such intense, heartfelt pain from the sidelines. Paul and I walked back to CUMI in silence, deep in our own thoughts.

Two days later I saw her again. She was collecting garbage as usual. I felt immediately uncomfortable as I approached. What would I say? Somehow "good morning" didn't seem particularly appropriate anymore. She rescued me from my dilemma by looking up with a big grin. "Mornin' mornin' mornin'!" she called out, giving me an enthusiastic wave. I was shocked. Wasn't this woman supposed to be in mourning?

What is this Jamaica that I am living in? Where death can hardly be acknowledged. Where a mother can't even stop working for a few days as she begins to cope with the loss of her child. Where poverty is so rampant that missing even a day's pay could make the difference between eating and not. I remain astounded by the resiliency of Jamaicans in the midst of frustrating social systems and bleak futures.