February 7, 2021
“Beloved Community in Jayankufa”
By Jesse Greist

I spent the summer of 1998 in a small town in the West African nation of Ghana called Jayankufa. I was working with a mixed group of Ghanaian, European and North American volunteers to re-plant a section of rainforest that had been clear-cut by a Dutch lumber company. We were planting Teak trees, which grow quickly, can be sustainably farmed for wood, and grow back from the same set of roots when cut. Also, they can be cut even as the natural forest grows back around them. While my mission was tree planting and environmental justice, I had no idea when I arrived that I was also going to learn a life lesson about beloved community from the people of Jayankufa, which still strongly resonates in my heart and mind today.

All of my memories from that time overflow with kind interactions, curiosity, laughter, bumbling through learning some basic Twi language, and deep unequivocal welcome, but one day in particular will never be forgotten. It was a sad day, the day after a young man with two children passed away unexpectedly. Everyone in Jayankufa was shocked and heartbroken, but their collective path forward was clear, understood and embraced by all. The morning of that day began with all families arriving at the home of this man’s family with gifts of food, clothing and other necessities. I recognized this from my own culture in which lovingly wrapped gifts of food arrive so that those mourning the death of a loved one don’t have to worry about cooking, and know they are supported. But what happened next kept me in quiet awe for some time, long after I’d returned to the United States. That morning, the ENTIRE population of Jayankufa, some 600 plus people gathered around the home of the chief, just as they did whenever change came. They shared silence for some time, and then began to talk. My friend Joseph who often helped translate for my group of volunteers explained that everyone was there to collectively work out how to fill the spaces that this young man had left behind in the community. Who was going to do his share of the farm work? Who was going to ensure his children and sister received clean water from the well on the West side of town each morning for drinking, dishes, bathing and laundry? Who was going to maintain the house? Who was going to walk the children to school? Who would bring cassava roots and mash them into paste to make fufu. The questions came quickly and as each question arose, different people around the huge gathering jumped to volunteer. Between finding people to do the work that he had done and finding others to care for those he had helped care for, a clear picture of beloved community steeped in collective thinking came into focus.

I have often asked “What does a beloved community, where non-violence is the norm, where kindness and caring are woven into the fabric of daily existence look like in reality?” I am very familiar with what it does NOT look like: In my culture, I have received a clear message that I am responsible for myself first, my family second, and my community third. Within this way of thinking, when life changes such as an illness, a death, the loss of a job or some other similar change happens, it can leave individuals or whole families cold and alone. The fear of what happens to us when we lose our self-reliance is very real and it can push us to do some hurtful things to others in the name of keeping ourselves safe. Some of us try to answer the fear with insurance policies, or hired helpers, but I believe that while self-reliance is terrific at making us individually strong and independent, on the level of community, it leaves a massive hole in the shape of our responsibility to one another. This is where the memory of that one day in Jayankufa inspires me to think just a little bit differently. What can I do to fill in the empty spaces in families, in communities? What can we do? If we think and act in a way more focused on healing wounds in the community, rather than asking first what it can do for me, will it make the community more beloved? I don’t know, but I owe it to Joseph, to the memory of that loving father, and to this beloved community to find out.