On Children and Joy
I live in a village called “Murder,” the English meaning of Kitemu. It seems an inappropriate name for the sleepy and lush cluster of farms and general stores that make up my surroundings. No one seems to know the source of the name, but it is intriguing to reflect on what may have taken place here many years ago. The land on which our home sits has belonged to Jjajja’s family for maybe a hundred and fifty years; there is a graveyard holding the remains of Jjajja’s ancestors, wrapped in bark cloth deep beneath the fertile earth. Everything here is fertile—all plants are green and flowering and grow at an astounding rate; many women give birth to upwards of five children. Uganda, after all, is the fastest growing country in the world, with a total fertility rate of seven. (This, for the non-social-scientists, means Ugandan women on average give birth to seven children!)
The house in which Jjajja was born, though crumbling, was host to yet another new birth last week. The baby is not a member of the family per-se, though it seems not to matter in this home. She belongs to Mama Frank—the mother of two young and unhealthy children named Chrissy and Frank. Jjajja allows this young, single mother to stay here for free, though she borrows money without paying it back, and though she came to Kitemu after being chased away from a different village where they scarred her cheeks with burning embers. There are several incredible things about this tiny baby’s birth; for the first 7 months of her pregnancy, no one knew the mother was pregnant (her stomach was very small). Additionally, no one knew Mama Frank was even in labor until a few hours after she delivered. I could praise this woman’s strength or repudiate her foolishness, but she gave birth alone in a dark room inside the oldest house and told no one of her contractions. Later that day, when she went to the well to carry water (which, let me tell you, is not easy work), she mentioned in passing that she had given birth. We were all incredulous, and rushed into the house to see the miracle baby who, though only a few hours old, had been left all alone wrapped (face and all) inside about 6 blankets. I unwrapped the baby, both to confirm the story and to make sure the child was breathing and was amazed to find a tiny but healthy-looking infant girl. In the days since the birth, I have observed that this child looks half white, but that seems impossible since I am the only white person in the surrounding area. Mama Frank often goes out very late at night, leaving her two young children to fend for themselves. Though I doubt she has the money for transport to the city, perhaps that is her late-night destination and the site of her income-generating ventures. If you can’t read between the lines, I am speculating that perhaps she engages herself in prostitution from time to time. How else would a poor, rural woman with no work and no husband feed her family and become pregnant with a half-white baby? I have no way of knowing and no one who could tell me.
Last week, my friend Stina from Wheaton, who had spent all summer in a refugee camp in Kenya, came to visit my home. It was wonderful to have her here, and we had a lot of fun playing with my family. There is so much singing and playing among the children in my home; it is full of growing bodies and growing vocabularies and, I know, growing fears. I wish so often I could communicate better with my curious little friends, but largely we depend on laughter and gestures and dance, supplemented by my superficial Luganda skills and some of the older kids’ intermittent (though irrelevant) English phrases. As Udyiah, 5, and I were sitting on a bench yesterday, she said all of a sudden, “This is my bed,” in English. Her bed was nowhere around, and I’m not sure she even knew the meaning of the phrase, but I was surprised and excited, so I encouraged her by heartily laughing and exclaiming, “Jebale ko!” (well done). Things like this are very small, but are infinitely important in the life of a child, not to mention in my life.
Not all is easy here, though kids are creative and strong and cope amazingly well in spite of difficulties. There are some kids in my home who are sullen and shy, particularly Bita—a new addition to the household. Her mother, one of Jjajja’s many grandchildren, is well and lives in a village close to Kitemu, but because she couldn’t care for Bita adequately, left her to stay with her cousins. I have often wondered since Bita’s arrival whether she misses her mother. Even if this is true, each day she becomes more talkative and willing to play with the other kids. She used to cry all the time and run away from everyone (even while she lived with her mom). The most significant adversity faced by most of the children is illness. For several of them, severe asthma is a daily struggle; their chests heave on normal days, and when attacks come, they lay, alone and wheezing, until they recover or someone finally obtains money to take them to a clinic. Four of my family members were sick last week with malaria or other serious illnesses. Almost all the kids have deep chest-coughs year round. Only two of the kids have known both of their parents. There are no positive adult male role models. Women hold up the sky in this village—and, it seems, all over the world.
If you are male and reading this, I’m sorry. I have just become increasingly disturbed by the extent to which men are absent as responsible husbands or fathers in families all over the world. Everywhere I have ever heard about, absent fathers cause pain to their families, most especially among the poorest classes. This leaves women to work twice as hard, straining to provide for the emotional and physical needs of their children, often without thought for their own well-being. Perhaps it is simply that broken marriages are more easily disguised among the wealthy, perhaps women there seem less noble because the burden they bear seems somehow less significant. No doubt my perspective is short-sighted, biased, and incomplete. I am trying not to romanticize the plight of the young single mother, for it is certainly as strenuous a role as I can imagine. That being said, I cannot help but admire the courage and fortitude that exude from the women around me. They have had to learn to love their children in different ways than my mother loved me; they cannot provide school fees, or toys, or sweets. They do not have time or energy to sing to their children, or play with them, or teach them to count and share and forgive. The children teach each other and largely fend for themselves. Nor can they provide a father; life is hard and men cannot be trusted. There is not room in many of their lives for much gentleness. But where gentleness is found, it is an absolute treasure.
One such mother is Mama Sherifa, whose jubilant daughters, Sherifa and Udyiah, exhibit the benefits of having such a resilient and incredible mother. Sherifa is seven years old; she is bright, and hardworking, and sings constantly, and carries babies around on her back all day while their mothers work. If you catch her singing, she grins and, eyes shining, hides her mouth with both hands in graceful shyness. Udyiah is five years old; she is creative and very clever, courageous, intelligent and slightly mischevious, and always leads the other children in amusing and educational games (like counting bottle caps in English and Luganda). Both girls are obedient and polite and full of bursting laughter. Their mother is dear to me, always laughing when I do silly things and calling me over to her small room and wanting to share her life with me. It is unusual that a person of my age (and color) would play with all the children in such vulnerable and time-consuming (though insignificant) ways. I love them, though, and I want to drag them around in a halved jerry can, and swing them like monkeys, and walk through the garden with them, and dance foolishly while they laugh and clap. I think they love me too, and I am always greeted home from work by about 10 kids yelling my name: “Emili, Emili! Kulikayo!” (you’re back!). They disturb me every time I’m alone trying to read or pray or sleep, but they give me immense joy, and I think it’s a fair trade.
Thus ends this update, without any mention of my trip to Nairobi last week, or my sickness (I think I have a parasite—but don’t worry!), or my current work at Uganda Crafts, or my upcoming research project, or my academic pursuits, or Kuki, for that matter. I have so much more to write, so I will write it soon and post it soon. I just don’t want you to be too overwhelmed at once, because I know I could easily write 3 more pages.
I love you all.
Please pray for my health, and thank God for the wonderful encouragement I have been receiving. Pray that I would miraculously learn Luganda cause I’m almost halfway through and I feel sad about my lack of ability to communicate on any deep level in Luganda. And thank God for my Jjajja, who is the wisest and bravest woman on earth.
The peace of Christ,
Emily
The house in which Jjajja was born, though crumbling, was host to yet another new birth last week. The baby is not a member of the family per-se, though it seems not to matter in this home. She belongs to Mama Frank—the mother of two young and unhealthy children named Chrissy and Frank. Jjajja allows this young, single mother to stay here for free, though she borrows money without paying it back, and though she came to Kitemu after being chased away from a different village where they scarred her cheeks with burning embers. There are several incredible things about this tiny baby’s birth; for the first 7 months of her pregnancy, no one knew the mother was pregnant (her stomach was very small). Additionally, no one knew Mama Frank was even in labor until a few hours after she delivered. I could praise this woman’s strength or repudiate her foolishness, but she gave birth alone in a dark room inside the oldest house and told no one of her contractions. Later that day, when she went to the well to carry water (which, let me tell you, is not easy work), she mentioned in passing that she had given birth. We were all incredulous, and rushed into the house to see the miracle baby who, though only a few hours old, had been left all alone wrapped (face and all) inside about 6 blankets. I unwrapped the baby, both to confirm the story and to make sure the child was breathing and was amazed to find a tiny but healthy-looking infant girl. In the days since the birth, I have observed that this child looks half white, but that seems impossible since I am the only white person in the surrounding area. Mama Frank often goes out very late at night, leaving her two young children to fend for themselves. Though I doubt she has the money for transport to the city, perhaps that is her late-night destination and the site of her income-generating ventures. If you can’t read between the lines, I am speculating that perhaps she engages herself in prostitution from time to time. How else would a poor, rural woman with no work and no husband feed her family and become pregnant with a half-white baby? I have no way of knowing and no one who could tell me.
Last week, my friend Stina from Wheaton, who had spent all summer in a refugee camp in Kenya, came to visit my home. It was wonderful to have her here, and we had a lot of fun playing with my family. There is so much singing and playing among the children in my home; it is full of growing bodies and growing vocabularies and, I know, growing fears. I wish so often I could communicate better with my curious little friends, but largely we depend on laughter and gestures and dance, supplemented by my superficial Luganda skills and some of the older kids’ intermittent (though irrelevant) English phrases. As Udyiah, 5, and I were sitting on a bench yesterday, she said all of a sudden, “This is my bed,” in English. Her bed was nowhere around, and I’m not sure she even knew the meaning of the phrase, but I was surprised and excited, so I encouraged her by heartily laughing and exclaiming, “Jebale ko!” (well done). Things like this are very small, but are infinitely important in the life of a child, not to mention in my life.
Not all is easy here, though kids are creative and strong and cope amazingly well in spite of difficulties. There are some kids in my home who are sullen and shy, particularly Bita—a new addition to the household. Her mother, one of Jjajja’s many grandchildren, is well and lives in a village close to Kitemu, but because she couldn’t care for Bita adequately, left her to stay with her cousins. I have often wondered since Bita’s arrival whether she misses her mother. Even if this is true, each day she becomes more talkative and willing to play with the other kids. She used to cry all the time and run away from everyone (even while she lived with her mom). The most significant adversity faced by most of the children is illness. For several of them, severe asthma is a daily struggle; their chests heave on normal days, and when attacks come, they lay, alone and wheezing, until they recover or someone finally obtains money to take them to a clinic. Four of my family members were sick last week with malaria or other serious illnesses. Almost all the kids have deep chest-coughs year round. Only two of the kids have known both of their parents. There are no positive adult male role models. Women hold up the sky in this village—and, it seems, all over the world.
If you are male and reading this, I’m sorry. I have just become increasingly disturbed by the extent to which men are absent as responsible husbands or fathers in families all over the world. Everywhere I have ever heard about, absent fathers cause pain to their families, most especially among the poorest classes. This leaves women to work twice as hard, straining to provide for the emotional and physical needs of their children, often without thought for their own well-being. Perhaps it is simply that broken marriages are more easily disguised among the wealthy, perhaps women there seem less noble because the burden they bear seems somehow less significant. No doubt my perspective is short-sighted, biased, and incomplete. I am trying not to romanticize the plight of the young single mother, for it is certainly as strenuous a role as I can imagine. That being said, I cannot help but admire the courage and fortitude that exude from the women around me. They have had to learn to love their children in different ways than my mother loved me; they cannot provide school fees, or toys, or sweets. They do not have time or energy to sing to their children, or play with them, or teach them to count and share and forgive. The children teach each other and largely fend for themselves. Nor can they provide a father; life is hard and men cannot be trusted. There is not room in many of their lives for much gentleness. But where gentleness is found, it is an absolute treasure.
One such mother is Mama Sherifa, whose jubilant daughters, Sherifa and Udyiah, exhibit the benefits of having such a resilient and incredible mother. Sherifa is seven years old; she is bright, and hardworking, and sings constantly, and carries babies around on her back all day while their mothers work. If you catch her singing, she grins and, eyes shining, hides her mouth with both hands in graceful shyness. Udyiah is five years old; she is creative and very clever, courageous, intelligent and slightly mischevious, and always leads the other children in amusing and educational games (like counting bottle caps in English and Luganda). Both girls are obedient and polite and full of bursting laughter. Their mother is dear to me, always laughing when I do silly things and calling me over to her small room and wanting to share her life with me. It is unusual that a person of my age (and color) would play with all the children in such vulnerable and time-consuming (though insignificant) ways. I love them, though, and I want to drag them around in a halved jerry can, and swing them like monkeys, and walk through the garden with them, and dance foolishly while they laugh and clap. I think they love me too, and I am always greeted home from work by about 10 kids yelling my name: “Emili, Emili! Kulikayo!” (you’re back!). They disturb me every time I’m alone trying to read or pray or sleep, but they give me immense joy, and I think it’s a fair trade.
Thus ends this update, without any mention of my trip to Nairobi last week, or my sickness (I think I have a parasite—but don’t worry!), or my current work at Uganda Crafts, or my upcoming research project, or my academic pursuits, or Kuki, for that matter. I have so much more to write, so I will write it soon and post it soon. I just don’t want you to be too overwhelmed at once, because I know I could easily write 3 more pages.
I love you all.
Please pray for my health, and thank God for the wonderful encouragement I have been receiving. Pray that I would miraculously learn Luganda cause I’m almost halfway through and I feel sad about my lack of ability to communicate on any deep level in Luganda. And thank God for my Jjajja, who is the wisest and bravest woman on earth.
The peace of Christ,
Emily
posted by emily "nalubwama" cool at 10:23 AM
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