Yesterday was one of the hardest days I've had in Madagascar. I got to witness the fascinatingly slow process of the Malagasy justice system at a village level.
On Saturday, after three days of waiting for paperwork to be completed at the Tribual Court in Diego, the Gendarme went to my village and arrested a 17-year old boy named Arnaud who had stolen many things from my house over six months ago. When I initially filed a report against him, I told the Gendarme that while I could not be sure he was the one who broke into my house in the middle of the night three weeks ago and stole my iPod next to my head, I thought the likelihood was high. On my word alone, they put him in handcuffs and hauled him off to a holding center, which is where I went yesterday morning.
After a couple of anxious hours of waiting, typewriters clacking away, I was informed that we would go to my village with Arnaud (in handcuffs) and three Gendarme to search his house and the house of his friend, where is where he says my iPod is.
The return trip to my village after so many weeks away was an emotional one for me. Memories of the last two years flooded my mind. What a bittersweet feeling to return to my village home under such unpleasant circumstances.
We proceeded to Arnaud's friend's house only to discover that his friend is out at sea fishing for the day and may not return to late afternoon or even the next day. After almost an hour of formalities and speeches by the village president and the Gendarme, and Arnaud swearing that his friend Vic is the one who stole the iPod, we were able to search the house.
The searching borders on comic. Digging through musty piles of clothes in cardboard boxes, rummaging through broken backpacks filled with miscellaneous papers and broken bits, opening up cupboards and baskets caked with dust, checking underneath moldy, flea-ridden mattress pads that look like they'd begun to grow into the wooden slats of the floor beneath them. We find nothing. It's hot, not a puff of air from the sea and well past lunchtime; the whole village is sitting in the shade, waiting for something to happen.
More speeches, which is the true Malagasy way. Nothing can be done in this country without this odd formality, in which you never actually look at the speaker. Everyone just sits around passively staring at the floor.
Vic says he never stole my iPod, that he never went into my house that night. No surprise there.
Next we proceed to Arnaud's parent's house; more speeches, more searching, more groups of people standing around. The wailing mother continues to cry, and eventually asks to speak with me privately. She wants to know if she can pay me, if I am angry, if I think that Ambolobozokely is a bad place because of her son. I try in my best Malagasy to explain that she does not need to worry and that I love my village very much. Sometimes, there are no right words.
Astonishingly, we find three small items that had been stolen from my house from the first break-in last September: my alarm clock, a waterproof box and strangely... eye shadow. Why steal that?! And where were they found? Underneath the seat of an old, rusted car that's been left to decay for probably 15 years. Just the frame and a couple musty cushions remain.
We pack up the two handcuffed boys. They will go to the Gendarme holding center and after that, I do not know. They will not return to Ambolobozokely while I am there, which is only two weeks longer. I want to stay but some repairs are needed on my house before it's safe.
This is hard: I want to make everything better, to take away the shame that some might feel because of this event, to have closure and give thanks to those that have helped me over the last two years. I return to my village home today to begin the process of ending the sojourn.
On Saturday, after three days of waiting for paperwork to be completed at the Tribual Court in Diego, the Gendarme went to my village and arrested a 17-year old boy named Arnaud who had stolen many things from my house over six months ago. When I initially filed a report against him, I told the Gendarme that while I could not be sure he was the one who broke into my house in the middle of the night three weeks ago and stole my iPod next to my head, I thought the likelihood was high. On my word alone, they put him in handcuffs and hauled him off to a holding center, which is where I went yesterday morning.
After a couple of anxious hours of waiting, typewriters clacking away, I was informed that we would go to my village with Arnaud (in handcuffs) and three Gendarme to search his house and the house of his friend, where is where he says my iPod is.
The return trip to my village after so many weeks away was an emotional one for me. Memories of the last two years flooded my mind. What a bittersweet feeling to return to my village home under such unpleasant circumstances.
We proceeded to Arnaud's friend's house only to discover that his friend is out at sea fishing for the day and may not return to late afternoon or even the next day. After almost an hour of formalities and speeches by the village president and the Gendarme, and Arnaud swearing that his friend Vic is the one who stole the iPod, we were able to search the house.
The searching borders on comic. Digging through musty piles of clothes in cardboard boxes, rummaging through broken backpacks filled with miscellaneous papers and broken bits, opening up cupboards and baskets caked with dust, checking underneath moldy, flea-ridden mattress pads that look like they'd begun to grow into the wooden slats of the floor beneath them. We find nothing. It's hot, not a puff of air from the sea and well past lunchtime; the whole village is sitting in the shade, waiting for something to happen.
More speeches, which is the true Malagasy way. Nothing can be done in this country without this odd formality, in which you never actually look at the speaker. Everyone just sits around passively staring at the floor.
We eat rice in the late afternoon heat. Arnaud sits on the ground outside the shack, handcuffed, ostracized. Moments later, we hear a high-pitched mournful wailing sound, one that women here use at funerals. The sound is something of a cross between sobbing and warbling, and gives you chills immediately. Arnaud's mother approaches me, and half-prostrating before me, throwing her cotton head cloth repeatedly over her face, cries over and over again, begging my forgiveness. My stomach lurches and my heart breaks. I don't know what to say or do. Finally the Gendarme asks her to please wait outside.
Just then, word gets out that Arnaud's friend Vic has just returned from fishing. The Gendarme casually finish up their bowls of rice, enjoy a cold glass of Coke, and saunter over to Vic's boat. Laughing, they say, "Where's he going to run away to? He can't swim!" They escort him over and handcuff him to Arnaud and soon the next round of speeches and questioning begins.
Vic says he never stole my iPod, that he never went into my house that night. No surprise there.
Next we proceed to Arnaud's parent's house; more speeches, more searching, more groups of people standing around. The wailing mother continues to cry, and eventually asks to speak with me privately. She wants to know if she can pay me, if I am angry, if I think that Ambolobozokely is a bad place because of her son. I try in my best Malagasy to explain that she does not need to worry and that I love my village very much. Sometimes, there are no right words.
The search continues in the tumbledown shacks that people call home. The mattresses are disgusting, and I have to cover my face from the smell of mold and dust. Nothing here, nothing there. The Gendarme grow weary and start to question the two boys more aggressively. Soon, there will be nothing else to do but leave.
Astonishingly, we find three small items that had been stolen from my house from the first break-in last September: my alarm clock, a waterproof box and strangely... eye shadow. Why steal that?! And where were they found? Underneath the seat of an old, rusted car that's been left to decay for probably 15 years. Just the frame and a couple musty cushions remain.
By this point it's almost 5:30 and dusk is starting to settle over the village. I am emotionally exhausted and my brain feels like an empty pot. Too much language translation and cultural overload. I just want to go back to my shack and sleep forever.
We pack up the two handcuffed boys. They will go to the Gendarme holding center and after that, I do not know. They will not return to Ambolobozokely while I am there, which is only two weeks longer. I want to stay but some repairs are needed on my house before it's safe.
This is hard: I want to make everything better, to take away the shame that some might feel because of this event, to have closure and give thanks to those that have helped me over the last two years. I return to my village home today to begin the process of ending the sojourn.
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