Mukama Yebazibwe
Hello everyone I love,
It’s me, emily. So now that I’ve been here for 3 weeks, I decided it was high time to write to tell you what I’m doing.
Quick overview for those who didn’t know/forgot and were embarrassed to ask again:
I am working with Uganda Crafts, an organization in Kampala, Uganda (East Africa) for six months (I come home in December). I left the day after adam and bekah’s wedding, and now I am here, in a little town called Kitemu (che-temu) living with a host family. I am here doing an internship with a program through wheaton college called human needs and global resources (HNGR). It’s basically a “third world” studies program. Uganda Crafts works with disadvantaged women, widows, orphans, disabled people, and those living with HIV, training them in handicrafts and providing a venue for them to sell their crafts. Its focus is on income generation as a means of improving the livelihoods of people who would otherwise be unemployable.
So here is a summary of the last 3 weeks. I know it’s really long… this is a semi-journal, semi-update. PLEASE feel free to skim. It won’t hurt my feelings.
I’ll begin with the story of my arrival.
I had an overnight flight from Chicago to Amsterdam, all day in Amsterdam, then another overnight flight from Amst. to Nairobi, Kenya, and a final flight from Nairobi to Entebbe, Uganda. During my travels, I got really sick and vomited. It was very unpleasant and I was really worried that I had already eaten something bad. I knew it was at least partially nerves, since my stomach often ties itself in knots when I am anticipating something. When we arrived in Entebbe and Betty (director of Uganda Crafts and my supervisor for my internship) picked me up, I hadn’t eaten much or slept in two days, and I felt I was going to throw up at almost every moment. I was in a daze; we stopped by Uganda Crafts and I met the staff, drank a cup of tea which I was certain would make me sick because it hadn’t been boiled, and force-fed myself a few bites of some mystery meat, the mere sight of which made me want to vomit. We then drove the 30 minutes to my family’s house, where I was praying I could get alone and sleep. On the way, as I looked around I began to fear I had made a big mistake in coming at all. To my tired eyes, everything looked like the quintessential picture of depravity one sees on a save-the-children commercial. It was all so crowded, so strange—what was I doing here? Everyone was staring at me as we drove past.
Finally we reached home, where I was greeted very warmly and shown to my room. I quickly realized that one member of my family spoke working English—a girl of 22 named Kookie. I also quickly realized I would need to “resocialize” my body; everything seemed filthy. All I wanted to do was sleep—the last thing I wanted was food. But, in classic hearty-African-welcome style, I was seated and served a heaping heaping plate of food. One bite seemed too much, let alone the whole of it. All the stories Wren and others told me about finishing unwanted food flashed through my head. I looked up at Betty with wide eyes and asked did I have to finish it all? She laughed, and said no, but that I should try. I know this sounds like exaggeration, but every bite was painful. Inside I was freaking out, regretting coming, thinking of all the future meals I would have to eat, of the 180 days full of stomachs like this. But then it was over. Betty left and I went to sleep for a while. After a few hours I woke up, walked around, sat and talked with Kookie, and was served another large meal of which I painstakingly consumed half. As I was talking with Kookie, I began to cry. She thought it was because I missed my family and my boyfriend, and I let her think that because it was at least partially true. She comforted me, taking my hand, telling me she loved me, telling me God would care for me. She took me to my room and there we knelt on the floor and prayed. I believe she prayed prophetically, as her prayer expressed the exact concerns of my heart and she said that God had brought me for a purpose. At that moment, the purpose seemed impossibly murky. She prayed long and hard, fervently expressing her love for me which I knew came from God. I went to bed feeling unbearably anxious, as desperate as I have ever been, and I woke with a calm stomach and a peaceful mind. The next morning Cookie told me she had prayed for me through the night, asking God to grant me rest and peace. Mukama yebazibwe—praise God—for He is faithful and he accomplished it. He answered our cries for help.
Kookie has proved to be a very good friend to me and is a constant companion while I’m at home. I should describe “home.” There are 25 family members who live in 3 small concrete buildings. For future reference, this is the rundown:
-Jaja (grandma), 70
-sherifa 5 yrs old, female (she’s currently in the hospital, they think she has typhoid)
-udiyah 3, female
-mama udiyah 30 (also mom of sherifa)
-serena almost 3, female (we play together every day. We’re pals)
-adrian 2, male
-mama Adrian, 23
-edson 23 (father of Adrian & serena, husband to mama Adrian… literally the only intact couple with kids I have met)
-uncle late 40s
-rose 13 (shes’s an orphan, or her parents very poor in remote village)
-wasuwa 16 male
-Sekajja, 8, male
-Arlvin/Friday, male 13 (parents both died of AIDS)
-jovia 24 female
-jovia’s 1 month old baby girl. (jovia asked me to name her and take her home with me.)
-peace/sarah 22
-Namutebi, female 20 years
-Rajab, male 6 months, son of namutebi
-Naggita, female 20
-Kookie Vonita 21 female
-auntie 50
-3 kids & their mom (I hardly ever see them. they all look malnourished and sick) aged like 2, 3 & 5
-me 20
I share a room w/ kookie; jaja, rose, sekajja, namutebi & rajab also live in this house. When I first arrived, I was frightened because of how filthy everything seemed to me. I thought I wouldn’t be able to stay here and that all my confidence about being able to live “with the poor” was foolish. Now, though, I feel ashamed about my initial revulsion. This place is not just some haven for bacteria, it is my home. I can’t think about it in the same way I initially did. For those who are fearing for my life, please don’t. no, we don’t have running water, or electricity and no, my family doesn’t understand germ theory or have an adequate comprehension of sanitation, but I always wash my hands, I bathe every day, I clean my things, I wear shoes, and they always boil their water. I am going to be fine.
The family speaks Luganda—one of the many tribal languages spoken in Uganda. I am working on learning it, but it will take quite some time.
Kookie and I talk very easily. This was, to say the least, an unexpected blessing. We have prayed together many nights since I arrived. She and my other sister Esther (who doesn’t live with us) have told me stories of the ways God has provided for their families and I truly marvel. I do not see these things happening in my life; why not? That is a question I have asked for so long and is something I will continue to ardently explore while I am here. People in their family have been healed of diseases, and God has been faithful to carry them through even when family members have died. This is not an abstract thing people say to avert pity or to placate their emotions; it is reality. Somehow, someway, they feel the reality of God’s presence when they pray.
Not surprisingly, I have struggled in significant ways with cynicism regarding spiritual occurrences. When I anticipated encountering charismatic faith expressions in the church here, I assumed cross-cultural benevolence would cover over a multitude of intellectual sins on both sides (my overabundance and their lack of critical thinking). Unfortunately, I have had the same doubts here as I have in the US. This will be an area of tension for me, I think.
As far as Uganda Crafts goes, I feel like I don’t have enough time to finish everything I need to do. At UC, we jumped right in and they have about 5 projects they want me to be working on. On top of that, I am trying to learn Luganda, spend adequate time with my family, do all my HNGR work (reading books, writing papers, etc), and somehow find time to be alone. I need more alone time.
I am often struck with how little money there is to go around. Everyone is always asking each other for money, no one (and I mean no one) has jobs, but somehow people get by. I don’t know the statistics but in my experience, probably a good 70-80% of the people I have met are either unemployed or self-employed (small fruit stand, stand at a taxi “stage” and ask for money from people who get off, etc). Some of these are well educated, intelligent, hard-working people. It’s difficult to see.
Okay, this has become so long that I don’t think I should write any more, though I’m not sure what I said and didn’t say… if you have questions, please email me (emily.a.cool@wheaton.edu). I don’t usually have the internet time to write to people individually, but I will certainly read emails and try to reply.
I am laughing a lot, I play with the kids in my home, and I am doing okay. I have a long way to go and a lot to learn, but surprisingly, I feel at home. Things look different here—obviously—and I am often the only muzungu (white person) I see in a given day, but I don’t feel too much like an outsider. I have friends. Please don’t worry about me, but please do pray for me. From now on I’m going to try to write with a little more regularity so that things don’t have to be as disjointed as this “update.” Sorry.
If you pray for me, please pray that I will learn luganda, that I will be able to—by God’s grace—navigate my way through doubts regarding Pentecostalism, that I will find time to be alone, and that the Lord would draw me into prayer constantly.
I love you all,
emily!
It’s me, emily. So now that I’ve been here for 3 weeks, I decided it was high time to write to tell you what I’m doing.
Quick overview for those who didn’t know/forgot and were embarrassed to ask again:
I am working with Uganda Crafts, an organization in Kampala, Uganda (East Africa) for six months (I come home in December). I left the day after adam and bekah’s wedding, and now I am here, in a little town called Kitemu (che-temu) living with a host family. I am here doing an internship with a program through wheaton college called human needs and global resources (HNGR). It’s basically a “third world” studies program. Uganda Crafts works with disadvantaged women, widows, orphans, disabled people, and those living with HIV, training them in handicrafts and providing a venue for them to sell their crafts. Its focus is on income generation as a means of improving the livelihoods of people who would otherwise be unemployable.
So here is a summary of the last 3 weeks. I know it’s really long… this is a semi-journal, semi-update. PLEASE feel free to skim. It won’t hurt my feelings.
I’ll begin with the story of my arrival.
I had an overnight flight from Chicago to Amsterdam, all day in Amsterdam, then another overnight flight from Amst. to Nairobi, Kenya, and a final flight from Nairobi to Entebbe, Uganda. During my travels, I got really sick and vomited. It was very unpleasant and I was really worried that I had already eaten something bad. I knew it was at least partially nerves, since my stomach often ties itself in knots when I am anticipating something. When we arrived in Entebbe and Betty (director of Uganda Crafts and my supervisor for my internship) picked me up, I hadn’t eaten much or slept in two days, and I felt I was going to throw up at almost every moment. I was in a daze; we stopped by Uganda Crafts and I met the staff, drank a cup of tea which I was certain would make me sick because it hadn’t been boiled, and force-fed myself a few bites of some mystery meat, the mere sight of which made me want to vomit. We then drove the 30 minutes to my family’s house, where I was praying I could get alone and sleep. On the way, as I looked around I began to fear I had made a big mistake in coming at all. To my tired eyes, everything looked like the quintessential picture of depravity one sees on a save-the-children commercial. It was all so crowded, so strange—what was I doing here? Everyone was staring at me as we drove past.
Finally we reached home, where I was greeted very warmly and shown to my room. I quickly realized that one member of my family spoke working English—a girl of 22 named Kookie. I also quickly realized I would need to “resocialize” my body; everything seemed filthy. All I wanted to do was sleep—the last thing I wanted was food. But, in classic hearty-African-welcome style, I was seated and served a heaping heaping plate of food. One bite seemed too much, let alone the whole of it. All the stories Wren and others told me about finishing unwanted food flashed through my head. I looked up at Betty with wide eyes and asked did I have to finish it all? She laughed, and said no, but that I should try. I know this sounds like exaggeration, but every bite was painful. Inside I was freaking out, regretting coming, thinking of all the future meals I would have to eat, of the 180 days full of stomachs like this. But then it was over. Betty left and I went to sleep for a while. After a few hours I woke up, walked around, sat and talked with Kookie, and was served another large meal of which I painstakingly consumed half. As I was talking with Kookie, I began to cry. She thought it was because I missed my family and my boyfriend, and I let her think that because it was at least partially true. She comforted me, taking my hand, telling me she loved me, telling me God would care for me. She took me to my room and there we knelt on the floor and prayed. I believe she prayed prophetically, as her prayer expressed the exact concerns of my heart and she said that God had brought me for a purpose. At that moment, the purpose seemed impossibly murky. She prayed long and hard, fervently expressing her love for me which I knew came from God. I went to bed feeling unbearably anxious, as desperate as I have ever been, and I woke with a calm stomach and a peaceful mind. The next morning Cookie told me she had prayed for me through the night, asking God to grant me rest and peace. Mukama yebazibwe—praise God—for He is faithful and he accomplished it. He answered our cries for help.
Kookie has proved to be a very good friend to me and is a constant companion while I’m at home. I should describe “home.” There are 25 family members who live in 3 small concrete buildings. For future reference, this is the rundown:
-Jaja (grandma), 70
-sherifa 5 yrs old, female (she’s currently in the hospital, they think she has typhoid)
-udiyah 3, female
-mama udiyah 30 (also mom of sherifa)
-serena almost 3, female (we play together every day. We’re pals)
-adrian 2, male
-mama Adrian, 23
-edson 23 (father of Adrian & serena, husband to mama Adrian… literally the only intact couple with kids I have met)
-uncle late 40s
-rose 13 (shes’s an orphan, or her parents very poor in remote village)
-wasuwa 16 male
-Sekajja, 8, male
-Arlvin/Friday, male 13 (parents both died of AIDS)
-jovia 24 female
-jovia’s 1 month old baby girl. (jovia asked me to name her and take her home with me.)
-peace/sarah 22
-Namutebi, female 20 years
-Rajab, male 6 months, son of namutebi
-Naggita, female 20
-Kookie Vonita 21 female
-auntie 50
-3 kids & their mom (I hardly ever see them. they all look malnourished and sick) aged like 2, 3 & 5
-me 20
I share a room w/ kookie; jaja, rose, sekajja, namutebi & rajab also live in this house. When I first arrived, I was frightened because of how filthy everything seemed to me. I thought I wouldn’t be able to stay here and that all my confidence about being able to live “with the poor” was foolish. Now, though, I feel ashamed about my initial revulsion. This place is not just some haven for bacteria, it is my home. I can’t think about it in the same way I initially did. For those who are fearing for my life, please don’t. no, we don’t have running water, or electricity and no, my family doesn’t understand germ theory or have an adequate comprehension of sanitation, but I always wash my hands, I bathe every day, I clean my things, I wear shoes, and they always boil their water. I am going to be fine.
The family speaks Luganda—one of the many tribal languages spoken in Uganda. I am working on learning it, but it will take quite some time.
Kookie and I talk very easily. This was, to say the least, an unexpected blessing. We have prayed together many nights since I arrived. She and my other sister Esther (who doesn’t live with us) have told me stories of the ways God has provided for their families and I truly marvel. I do not see these things happening in my life; why not? That is a question I have asked for so long and is something I will continue to ardently explore while I am here. People in their family have been healed of diseases, and God has been faithful to carry them through even when family members have died. This is not an abstract thing people say to avert pity or to placate their emotions; it is reality. Somehow, someway, they feel the reality of God’s presence when they pray.
Not surprisingly, I have struggled in significant ways with cynicism regarding spiritual occurrences. When I anticipated encountering charismatic faith expressions in the church here, I assumed cross-cultural benevolence would cover over a multitude of intellectual sins on both sides (my overabundance and their lack of critical thinking). Unfortunately, I have had the same doubts here as I have in the US. This will be an area of tension for me, I think.
As far as Uganda Crafts goes, I feel like I don’t have enough time to finish everything I need to do. At UC, we jumped right in and they have about 5 projects they want me to be working on. On top of that, I am trying to learn Luganda, spend adequate time with my family, do all my HNGR work (reading books, writing papers, etc), and somehow find time to be alone. I need more alone time.
I am often struck with how little money there is to go around. Everyone is always asking each other for money, no one (and I mean no one) has jobs, but somehow people get by. I don’t know the statistics but in my experience, probably a good 70-80% of the people I have met are either unemployed or self-employed (small fruit stand, stand at a taxi “stage” and ask for money from people who get off, etc). Some of these are well educated, intelligent, hard-working people. It’s difficult to see.
Okay, this has become so long that I don’t think I should write any more, though I’m not sure what I said and didn’t say… if you have questions, please email me (emily.a.cool@wheaton.edu). I don’t usually have the internet time to write to people individually, but I will certainly read emails and try to reply.
I am laughing a lot, I play with the kids in my home, and I am doing okay. I have a long way to go and a lot to learn, but surprisingly, I feel at home. Things look different here—obviously—and I am often the only muzungu (white person) I see in a given day, but I don’t feel too much like an outsider. I have friends. Please don’t worry about me, but please do pray for me. From now on I’m going to try to write with a little more regularity so that things don’t have to be as disjointed as this “update.” Sorry.
If you pray for me, please pray that I will learn luganda, that I will be able to—by God’s grace—navigate my way through doubts regarding Pentecostalism, that I will find time to be alone, and that the Lord would draw me into prayer constantly.
I love you all,
emily!
posted by emily "nalubwama" cool at 8:22 AM
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