A cultural spanking

This weekend Eliza’s camera went missing. I had borrowed it to take pictures during our environmental field trip, and was keeping it very safe in my backpack in my room until I could remember to bring it to her safely. On Saturday night, we all went out to go dancing. I had the camera in my hand, thinking, "oh I will bring Eliza’s camera to record some of the night!" But then, for once in my life, I am incredibly self-admitting and responsible, and think, "no Elizabeth, you will do no such thing because you lose everything but the shirt on your back, and it is not even your camera." So I put the camera back in my bag and leave it safe and sound in my room. WELL much to my dismay, on Monday when I come home from sleeping over at the apartment on Sunday night, I realize the camera is gone. And even though I had been gone for a day and a night, and couldn’t remember exactly what I had done with it, I had a gut feeling it had been stolen. My host brothers had cleaned my room on Sunday morning because they are great and love doing nice things for me, but I was worried that this was when the camera had disappeared. I didn’t want to not believe the honesty of my brothers, but I didn’t want to be naïve either. So I traced my steps like my mother taught me so well to do-and figured out exactly where I was and when. I investigated all the possibilities and finally came to the conclusion that no, I had not been irresponsible with the camera, it had indeed been stolen. I was positive that my two older host brothers had not stolen it, but had a feeling that it had probably been my younger host brother Morris. My family reassured me that they were going to find this camera, and had thought that our other little “brother…not actually a brother” had taken it. The next night, I come home and wait to see how they are going to go about doing this. I was not at all prepared for what was coming. They had the 15 year old “brother” come over, and my host mother started interrogating him. When he didn’t have answers or when his answers did not bring us any closer to getting the camera, she would simply tell him he was lying. She gets herself a little worked up about the whole matter because he is not admitting to anything (I am thinking that I am pretty sure he is not the one to have stolen the camera) and all of a sudden comes over to where he’s sitting and begins to beat him. And this is not just a kind of slap on the face that stings a little, like spanking punishment. This is two fisted as hard as she possibly can pounding on his back, hitting his head with her flat hand, and stomping on his feet with her heels. The sound of her fists upon his fragile back was absolutely terrible. I am 5 inches away from him in the next chair. So is a guest of my mothers, who is eating his chicken like absolutely nothing is happening. Naba, my host brother, tells her to stop and wait for Morris to come home so that they can see what he has to say. She stops for a bit and goes back to sit down. They boy is sitting very still with his hands covering his head and trying not to cry too loudly. After a few minutes, my mom starts talking/interrogating him again, and again, gets herself worked up. She walks across the room and grabs the large wooden broomstick. A sharp intake of breath from me alerts Naba to what is about to happen, and as she strikes the broomstick down full force from all the way behind her head, both Naba and the boy attempt to stop the blow, which in my opinion, could have been potentially life-threatening depending on where on his head it could strike. She manages to hit him, but not on the head, and so goes for a second hit. At this point Naba and Cyril, my other host brother, manage to take away the stick from her, which as least told me that this kind of treatment had crossed the Cameroonian standards of punishment as well. Finally Morris comes home and they start asking him what happened. He admits to taking the camera just to use it, but says that now he does not know where it is. When Autance (his real but secret mother) finds this out, she too takes both fists and pounds Morris on the back to the ground. He is ten. He is so upset and crying and hurt that he starts to dryheave from hyperventilating. Naba takes him by the hand to go and calm him down, and also search his room for the camera. They come out 5 minutes later with the camera. At this point, my heart is in my throat because while I of course wanted the return of the camera and the problem solved, I knew the consequences that were about to come with the appearance of the camera. Morris was guilty and had clearly stolen. He knew this as well, and was hysterically crying. My host mother told him all the things that we would tell our children in America. That stealing is wrong, and you are even only 10, how are you already stealing? If you need something, you ask for it. She calmly told him to eat his chicken, and then she would hit him. I could do nothing but wait. Because of the cultural difference, it is no ones place, especially not mine, to interfere with the punishing of children. My host brothers are also chuckling at how upset Morris is. A new host brother who just returned home from school the other day, takes responsibility and takes Morris by the hand out into the dark courtyard, butcher knife in the other hand. From the dark I hear the horrific screams of Morris as Freddie hits Morris with the flat blade of the knife. He is told to go to bed, and the other “brother” is allowed to leave. Throughout this whole ordeal, I have been sitting stunned and stuck in my chair, afraid to leave in case things get out of control and I do actually need to step in like Naba did, and also because it is because of Eliza’s camera that all this happening. I am well aware of the cultural difference, and even though this was my first real experience with serious child punishment, I tried to keep my complete horror hidden from my face. My brothers however, since they know me, can tell that I am upset and know why. They start joking with me, saying oh how funny it is that I am upset, because they don’t hit kids in the United States so I don’t like that. This reaction almost bothered me as much as the beatings did. It seems very unfair or at least unequal that here I am, trying to not interfere or say anything and being understanding that this is a huge cultural difference between the two countries-understanding that these people aren’t cruel or don’t not love their children, that this is simply their culture….and here they are, making fun of me for being upset when they know that we don’t do that, that people go to jail for doing that in America-definitely not be understanding to the cultural difference. It just felt like, if I am making the effort to understand from my point of view, why can’t or why shouldn’t it go the other direction and they make that effort too? I of course still love my family, but it did of course shake me up a little and was incredibly hard to sit through. But, like we discuss here a lot, it is very easy to make assumptions like our way is better or this is right and this is wrong. And while I will never think that beating a child is the way to punish them, I think it is very important to realize that there is not necessarily a right or wrong way, and because its easy to make fast judgements and assumptions we have to be even more aware and vigilant about not making those decisions quickly. We have to be able to see things through all kinds of different lenses and learn about why differences exist in the first place. It is only natural and good to have your own opinions, but important to realize there is a difference between judging and simply observing the situation.