The Fund-Raiser - Part 1: The Rent Party

Two weeks ago, Karri and I drove out with our friend, Jean Baptiste, to the neighborhood in Bujumbura where he was born, called Cibitoke (pronounced CheebeeTOHkay). We were on our way to a gathering/fund raiser for his small community. You may remember this community from an earlier post, one that talked about Sandrene, the widow and mother of five who is HIV positive. This community of less than twenty people met in living rooms for many months. A few months ago, they found a school willing to rent them a classroom for their gatherings. This was an answer to their prayers. But recently, a community ordinance has been passed where churches can no longer meet in schools. No one has been able to explain to us the reason for this ordinance, but this puts many, many churches out of their worship space. There are three other churches who meet in that school alone. Yet, this kind of hardship is simply a fact of life in neighborhoods like Cibitoke. And there are traditions in place to deal with these kinds of problems. And Karri and I were on our way to this classroom, to witness and participate in one of those traditions, the African fund-raiser.

Now, to understand this gathering, a little cultural exposition has to take place. In the US, we have expressions like, “He’s a self-made man,” and “She pulled herself up by her bootstraps,” and “I never asked nothing from no one.” This demonstrates a cultural value we Americans hold, that asking for help means admitting weakness. The main reason this value evolved in the West is the ample opportunity for self-improvement without much fear of discouragement. An immigrant off the boat could be a tycoon in five years if she simply had the gumption to see it through. In the same vein, asking for help from a friend made you not just weak, but a needy friend. We have ideas like “Never lend money to friends and family,” because, at the root, we don’t like the feeling of being asked for money. And we are extremely cautious and systematic when we do give money, because we expect debts to be reimbursed. If they are not, the result is a broken relationship.

In much of Africa, the idea of a “self-made” person is totally foreign. Individualism is viewed as the plague of the West. There’s a high dependency on one’s community, friends and family. This evolved from a history where poverty, hunger, and destitution were always just around the corner. You may have enough for today, but tomorrow might be a completely different story. I could spend pages detailing the ways this perspective fleshes out in everyday life, but one main outcome is the pervasive norm of asking for money. As an African, you expect to be asked for money, and if you have it, you are socially required to give it. This expectation exists because you expect to be the one in need tomorrow, and the community must support you in your need in the same way you supported someone else in theirs. Refusal to participate in this give and take results in expulsion from the community, and expulsion from the community could mean starvation. Another facet of this idea is the nature of friendship. You are not a friend with someone if you are not financially indebted to them, and vice versa. Indebtedness shows solidarity, and to a certain degree, paying off all of your debts to someone is a way of communicating the end of your relationship. So family members and friends are the first people you would ask for money, and you would never be expected to repay that debt, except in the form of supporting that lender when they were, in turn, in need. And aggressive extension of your network of friends isn’t just due to amiability; it’s creating lifelines for survival.

Now, we in the West might look at this and say, “But it’s so exploitative. That’s not a real friendship if there’s an expectation of money.” But Africans see their communities as beautiful webs of support, and see Western friendships as purely self-serving and isolated. This is also why it’s incredibly difficult for Westerners and Africans to have meaningful relationships. Most Westerners become quickly aggravated by constant requests for money by their African friends. And even if they weren’t and were happy to give to anyone who asked, the African would know there will be no circumstance where the Westerner will need to ask them for money, so there’s no reciprocation, no solidarity. It’s a deep cultural rift and my expat friends and I frequently discuss if there is a way to bridge it.

So the gathering Karri and I were about to attend is something done by many churches. As Jean Baptiste put it, “We invite all of our friends to come and pray for us.” What this means is, an invitation is extended to all of the contacts Jean Baptiste has made over the years. These pastors and leaders then bring their church communities with them to a huge blowout, an African rent party. And, as I’ve learned, in the Burundian church, “prayer” is often code for “donation,” as in “Please pray that we might find be able to buy a sound system,” which I heard even this week. So this church is in need, in this case, of a building to meet in. (The actual reality of that need is something I struggle with, but more on that later.) So these “friends” (who westerners might simply call acquaintances) gather to “pray” (what westerners might call donate) for the needs of Jean Baptiste’s church.

Again, a westerner might say, “Ugh! How deceptive and exploitative!” But the churches understood this for exactly what it was, and they came anyway. They came in the tens and twenties. So when Karri and I arrived for what I thought was another quiet afternoon with Jean Baptiste’s church, with Sandrene and the other seven or eight people gathered in that living room, what we found instead was a buzzing schoolroom, packed to overflowing with nearly a hundred Burundians and even a church from neighboring Congo. They squeezed into school benches, stood in corners, peered through windows. They talked, laughed, sang, and clapped, and they all came prepared, hands clutching their wadded bills, ready to drop them in the basket when the time came. I suppose they knew that next week, when it came time for their rent party, Jean Baptiste, Sandrene, and friends would all be there for them as well.

Next: Part 2: The Show Choirs