Archive for March, 2009

“You give me my shoes.” A small Rwandan boy ran up beside me, hands outstretched toward the hiking boots dangling from my backpack. I apologetically shook my head and he rejoined the sizable group of children accumulating behind us; we had apparently become the pied pipers of Bisoke village. One by one they took their turn:

“What’s your name? You give me pen.”

“Madame, we need a football.”

“Vous me donnez d’argent.”

The three-kilometer trek to our hostel suddenly seemed a formidable distance as a crisis of conscience descended upon us. These children were poor – the boy who asked for shoes had none; all were dressed in tattered clothing and they likely resided in mud huts and lacked the opportunity to go to school. The ever-popular question of “What Would Jesus Do” seemed to have a murky and ill-defined answer.

For some curious reason, no matter how many times I am confronted with poverty it takes me by surprise: I am always at a loss for how to react. Of course we could not give all of the children shoes or pens or money – and it certainly felt unfair to give these items to just one of the children. However, we claim to emulate a man who went out of his way to heal lepers and who said, “Whatever you do unto the least of these brothers you do unto me.” Yet here we were: four young volunteers on a short weekend holiday with a shoestring budget confronted with our very own Good Samaritan scenario, each urgently grappling with how to best love our neighbor as ourselves.

Muddying the waters even further was the notion of sustainability (teach a man to fish…). If we gave these children pens, they would certainly need more pens in a week, or a month, or a year. Though I am sure some other hiker or gorilla-trekker would continue to supply the children with pens, shoes, and footballs, what about the countless villages without tourists? Moreover, the thought of providing handouts made me feel like the rich, white westerner riding in on my white horse to save the day, which is an image I have actively tried to avoid during my stay in Africa.

I do not think Jesus intended himself to be anybody’s ATM, and he certainly did not present himself as an arrogant prince riding in on a white horse to save the day (quite the contrary: he was a homeless carpenter-turned-rabbi on a donkey who would soon be betrayed and crucified by the people he came to save). Every miracle he performed had a lasting and eternal purpose; through storytelling he encouraged people to invest what they had been given wisely so that it would be multiplied.

And this brings us back to the children along the road, when I began to feel like the offspring of Ebeneezer Scrooge and Cruella DeVille. I have no neat and tidy answer for this post; I honestly still feel a bit stingy. However, I am spurred on to advocate for free, quality education in East Africa so that children can grow up to provide for themselves; I will continue to support the work of those organizations involved in micro-finance and income-generating activities; I will develop partnerships with organizations that provide sustainable living solutions for those impoverished widows and orphans within my sphere of influence.

This “macro systems” focus, as we would say in “social workese,” aims to leave a lasting positive impact through improvement of the system. As Martin Luther King, Jr. once said: “One day we must come to see that the whole Jericho road must be transformed so that men and women will not be constantly beaten and robbed as they make their journey on life’s highway.” However, I find the “micro systems” still call to me like a siren song. Lasting change comes slowly for those children in Bisoke, who still walk that three-kilometer journey with no shoes…

-Sara

If you are interested to read more on this topic, Tony Campolo provides an interesting analysis on wise and sustainable giving on the God’s Politics Blog: http://blog.sojo.net/2009/03/13/the-perils-of-well-meaning-but-short-sighted-generosity

Of the stories that are told about Africa, many of them are found to be broken and discouraging. It can appear that the needs are so great that situations are hopeless, that any attempt to help is only a drop in a bottomless bucket. However, I am finding that in the hardship of people’s lives (mine and others), beauty is often seen with greater clarity than when life is easy.

A few weeks ago a colleague from Samaritan’s Purse Uganda invited me to speak at the “Orphan Care Equip Project”, a group of 45 widows who in addition to raising their own children also care and provide for orphans within their own households. After I had shared, a small, frail woman in her 60s stood to share her story. Her words were translated from her language into English and then back into two other tribal languages so the whole group could understand. Years earlier she had been married and lived with her husband on her own property. When her husband died, however, another couple approached her and, using intimidation and fear, forced her and her children to flee from the land that was rightfully theirs. As is often the case in Uganda, these people were most likely family members of her late husband.

Years passed and word came to this woman that the couple who had stolen everything from her had passed away and had left their children orphaned. As this woman sought to provide for her own children she knew that forgiveness must be manifested by action. She willfully took in the youngest child of her enemies and began to raise the child with all the love and care that she gave her own. It is hard to imagine the sacrifice this woman would have to make to bring another child into her care. It is even greater to think that this child was the offspring of the people who had caused her such great pain and heartache.

No church or non-governmental organization had convinced this woman to make this sacrifice. It was simply her own desire to demonstrate to God that she had forgiven her enemies amidst her own trouble and in spite of their lack of remorse. I am thankful for groups like Samaritan’s Purse, which allow people to share stories of hope and beauty, even in the tragedy.

-Jamie

Lately I find myself alternating on my ipod between Toto’s “Africa” and Enya’s “Storms in Africa”. However cliché and western (I do not think Toto had even been to Africa at the time they wrote that song), I enjoy the bit of familiarity as I take in bits and pieces of a fascinating story, both tragic and hopeful.

One of these bits came last Saturday, when I found myself at Owino market with my lawyer counterpart at IJM, Suhanya. This was not just any market – according to travel guides, Owino is the largest, busiest market in Kampala.  Indeed it was. Not a place to bring a camera (or a wallet for that matter), we clutched our purses tightly as we wedged our way through the crowded, narrow walkways that weaved in between stalls in which women cooked matoke (a traditional dish of mashed, unripened banana) and vendors sold everything from clothes to crafts to live pigs and chickens. Cries of “mzungu!” (”white person!”) filled the air – we were indeed the only mzungus there – and mixed with the smell of boiled goat’s meat, smoke, and rotting trash. We browsed among the vendors – fruit, beads, and a second hand blouse comprised our purchases – and shoved our way out an hour and a half after our entry. Neither of us had ever experienced anything quite like it.

As it turns out, there would be no opportunity to return. Three days later nearly the entire market burned to the ground. The vendors have been crying arson, some blaming the government and others blaming the bus company (which has been wanting to build a terminal where the market stood) for setting the market ablaze. Whether it was arson or not is anybody’s guess.  However, it is true that the fire department took over three hours to arrive at the scene, causing vendors to collectively lose millions of Ugandan shillings worth of merchandise – in many cases entire livelihoods.

There is something compelling about the rain here, though admittedly when the storm clouds roll in my initial thought is that I must now walk home in the mud. Driving rains appear in an instant and pass just as quickly; to me they are Uganda. I see children desperate to go to school; a child embraces me, beaming, as her school fees are paid. I see despair as hundreds of people lose their livelihoods in the Owino fires; I sit among widows learning how to raise chickens and pigs to generate income. I see a cynicism and disdain toward mzungus, arising from years of oppression and exploitation; I feel a taste of reconciliation as a Ugandan dance troupe invites us to join them as they perform traditional dances.  I see storms in Africa; I see the sun slowly trying to break through.

- Sara