So after a healthy round of Mosquito Zapping, I settled into an uncharacteristically quiet night with my book, Pillars of the Earth. (Anyone wanting to know how to build a cathedral, this tome is the ticket…).  I think Sunday nights might actually be quieter, because the entire day has been spent with church music and the singing and dancing that accompany that. It sounds exhausting.  Also, there was no electricity and this acts as a dampener some of the time.  (Sorry Holly and Bill. I know your 30 hour Country Western Marathon in the field behind your house was done with the aid of a generator…) – Therefore, there was no white noise of the fan or thudding bass, to mask the blood curdling, soul wrenching guttural screams that pierced the night silence around 10 PM.  It went on – and on – and it was the kind of scream that – in the States – would result in an immediate call to 911.  However, here there is no such thing, although there is a 999 which sometimes, randomly results in action, if anyone is answering the phone, if you can provide an address or if it is taken seriously.  After all, it could just be “wife beating,”  an offense that while formally discouraged by the powers that be, is still largely a culturally accepted event.

What to do?  We have had discussions about this during Peace Corps training. Does one intervene and if so – how, when and to what degree?  My memory of EMS and Victim Services training was triggered along with  the admonition to “first considered your own safety.”  With domestic violence here, there is usually liquor, sometimes a knife or weapon and chances are – bloodletting, which also means a high probability of the presence of exposing self to HIV/AIDS.  According to Jaron, whose room backs to the tenant’s quarters, their conversation simply continued with no apparent concern. They are apparently not concerned, or a least not moved to action.

The screaming went on and there were no other voices, no talking, yelling, running feet, furniture crashing etc.    It trailed off into the town and was replaced by some male voices in the distance, then came back to the neighborhood in slightly less violent tones and settled into sobs and retching. My stomach was tightening, heart racing – feeling threat, though it was not rational personal threat.

The next day, I ran into the middle-aged Ugandan nurse who lives in the compound-quarters behind my house and asked her about it.  She gave me a slightly deprecating smile  that implied it was nothing….  then said, “it is nothing to disturb you!”   Hmmm – that’s not doing it for me, because one thing  is certain, I was certainly disturbed.  So I prevailed, and was told “she was probably being beaten by her husband.  But it is not for you – it is for them.”  Well that’s certainly reassuring.

So then, I asked my visiting house guest, who lives on the compound grounds of a residential secondary-school for girls and she informed me that such screaming is not un-common and is not always proportionate to the event.  Well now I feel better….  (this is certainly not helping).  She explained that they often get that level of  drama from self-imposed exorcisms and teacher inflicted caning – as in corporal punishment.   Still not helping.

So, I am left looking at everyone I pass on that street now to see if there is any evidence of what went on in the middle of an otherwise quiet night in this small town in the middle of Africa, knowing that this and similar scenes are probably played out time and time again in other little villages where no one really intervenes or talks about it later.

This is Africa.

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