Mosquitoes, Malaise and Mercy

mourning dance

2005-12-02T09:28:00.000+03:00

Last night Alvin said he would run away if he didn’t get to come to the US. He said, “Emily, bring money for the passport.” Without thinking of the emotional implications, I responded, “But Friday you don’t just need a passport; you need a visa and a plane ticket and you need what to do when you arrive.” He walked away to hide his sadness and said in English, “Emily, go and sleep. Kuki, go and sleep.” He just wanted to hurt us in some small way because of the pain my response had caused him. The boy really believes he will be coming with me. Kuki laughs as she tells me what he has said—that if he doesn’t come he will go to the streets and eat ants and become mad. Kuki is laughing both because it is absurd and because it is true. Friday does what he threatens to do. It is all too painful for us and each of us struggles to grasp my leaving in different ways.

I cried with him the other day. Kuki told me he had been crying, and wouldn’t eat. I tried to talk to him, and I was crying too. So I went to my room to hide, and after some time Friday came in and sat on my floor. I gave him the note from my dad, and after glancing at it he set it aside and buried his face in his arms. We sat in silence for a long time, both contemplating our sadness. I watched my young brother as he tried to process what was happening, his own weakness, his care for me, his need for a father. Then after some time I noticed he was crying. His face was still in his arms, but now there were quiet sobs. And I also cried, and I held his hand and he cried harder and squeezed my hand. I rubbed his head and he hid his face. It was excruciating—this boy’s pain and my pain compounded. We just sat, and cried, and held hands for a long time. After a while he picked up the letter and tried to read it. He read a sentence or two and put it down. He did this several times. I am not sure if he didn’t understand the words, or if he didn’t want to read it, but in some ways I know it didn’t really matter what the note said. Later in the day he gave me the note and told me to keep it. I am going to return it to him.

After a long time of silence, he said, “Emily bring the pictures.” So I got out my pictures and removed all the ones of my parents and family and laid them out for him to see. He gently picked up each one, gazing at it for several minutes. It was excruciating for me, who takes those people for granted, to see Friday, a boy who had met my parents for only 2 days, long for those unknown people on those pieces of paper. The only thing that brought him out of his silence was to ask me to differentiate between Alex and Adam. In every picture he pointed to one brother and guessed which one it was. He was usually wrong, but after a while he figured it out.

There must have been something satiating in touching those pictures, because after that he started eating and talking again. What he found there I will probably never know.

What is going to happen to this child? His flighty eyes and playful smile, his precarious balance between contentment and rebellion—I’m afraid my departure will tip the scales and he will fall off. I am afraid for him. I love him. Last night I sat him down and said, look Alvin, things are not easy. Life is not easy. But you have to know that I love you and Jjaaja loves you and everyone here loves you and my parents love you and God loves you. You have to trust God and trust the people that love you, and be patient. I told him that life takes patience and that sometimes we have to work hard to get what we want. I had told him earlier that I didn’t come to Africa when I was 13; I came when I was 20. But deep down, I knew (or feared) I was just buying time. Buying time until I walk out of his life and don’t have to feel obligated to give an answer or care for his pain. It was a cowardly thing to do, but I don’t know any other way. I am just planting seeds of hope in him that in the bottom of my soul I fear will never grow. I don’t believe he will come to the U.S. I told him he needs to work on his English, and study. But God, I don’t think he will ever come. And what does he believe he will find in the US that he can’t find here?

It is too painful for me. It is a real, sharp pain in my chest and the pit of my stomach. I ache and I haven’t even left. All that matters is being with them, and I only have one week left. What can I do? What can I do Lord? What will become of us? What will become of us Father? Now I have 2 more sisters and 2 more brothers, and a grandmother, and so many children. And I love them infinitely, and it tortures me to be away from them. I really have lived with them in a way I have probably never lived with anyone. I am just with them, and that never happens in the U.S. That is a big thing I noticed when my parents were here—that the notion of visiting (“being with”) is incredibly different. To a Ugandan, a crucial part of any visit is just sitting and resting in the house of the host, even if the host is off doing something else. My parents sat in Jjaaja’s sitting room and felt confused because they were sitting alone—no one was there talking with them or accompanying them. But it is like that time and space is placing their presence in the house in a way no activity could do. In the quiet waiting, they observe and take the place in, and the place also takes them in. Sometimes “being with” here simply means waiting for the host to prepare tea for you, and resting in their chair. I think that means a lot to people here—for someone to accept their service and just be in their home.

It is good to be in a home. It is something one will never find in a dorm. To me, dorm living lacks fundamental components of life. How can one be healthy in a place where everyone is—all the time—focused on studies and never interacts with anyone more than 3 years older or younger?

But this home—I just treasure these people, so much more than words can describe. I am afraid of those things fading, am afraid of never seeing them again. I am afraid of disappointing them, of them being squeezed out of the large place in my heart they hold. I want to hold on to them. How does one say goodbye? It is an exquisite, precious, private tragedy. It is a million delicate feelings dancing a mourning dance.

We buried a baby at home yesterday. She died on her 6-month birthday, and had my name—Nalubwama. The mother was mourning and wailing, saying “Munange! Omwana wange!” I was already sad, but I couldn’t help crying at the sight of 40 people singing songs and praying as they lowered a tiny casket into the ground. Some people threw handfuls of dirt on the casket, and then the men started mixing cement. The loud scraping noise behind me was harsh, and with the first shovel poured onto the casket, my tears began flowing freely. They were really trapping that child in the earth; this was irreversible. I felt for the mother and the young brother of the baby. It was only the 3 of us crying out of all the people there.

To recover, I played with my children. They are just so precious to me. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I don’t have time right now to write about my parents visit but I will write this weekend and post it on Monday. Right now my mind is just consumed with thinking about how sad I am to leave. I didn’t know I would REALLY become part of my family in the way I have. There is so much to say I don’t know where to begin so I think I just wrote stream-of-consciousness things. Hope that’s okay, at least for now.

Much love,
emily

sometimes it pays to have a large backside

2005-11-21T13:20:00.000+03:00

my parents are coming the day after tomorrow... i am really excited. i have been drumming on the drums in the shop all morning. yesterday was full of dancing. i danced a lot at church. i like dancing in church. then it was nigina for my auntie--a celebration of a rotating credit group where one woman gets gifts and money from all the other women in the group. it was a great celebration and we went and danced. we danced the traditional kiganda dance (which is pretty straightforward: hold your hands out at your sides and shake your butt really fast.) the people laughed really hard and gave me money for dancing well. it was a good time. then i caught a grasshopper to give to jjaja. then when i got home my uncle and i found a mystery animal tied in a large plastic bag by the side of the road. someone had thrown it from a car. we didnt know what was inside, but it was moving and we were afraid it was like a rabid puppy or something scary, so we carefully opened it, and it was just a tiny dog. the dog ran away. i dont know why someone threw it from the car. these are the small adventures of my life.

i just wanted to say that. my brother adam and his wife bekah are in colombia right now deciding whether or not they are going to move there next year. its also adam's birthday tomorrow (nov 22), so you can pray for them--for discernment and peace and joy!

i am coming home on december 10th. that's too soon. i am going to miss this place more than i realized.

i love you all,
emily!

How long? Not long. Cause what you reap is what you sow.

2005-11-15T13:16:00.000+03:00

(10 points for anyone who can tell me where the title is from)

So yesterday I walked into a riot. It wasn’t on purpose, mind you. I was just taking my normal route to the taxi park where I catch my matatu home every day. As I began my walk, I noticed that there were far more people than usual going the opposite direction from me. As I continued walking, I quickly caught on that something was very out of the ordinary. People were leaving in droves from the direction of the taxi park and I was the only person walking toward it. I watched, bewildered. One man leaned down in my face and screamed, “He’s a dictator! He’s a thief!” I knew he was referring to Museveni (Uganda’s current president), and I quickly realized that Besigye (the opposition leader) had been arrested (and get this: on attempted rape charges from 1997). Then came lines and lines of honking cars and lorries and boda-bodas, with people shouting from the windows. I encountered some students I had met during the course of my research so we stopped by the side of the road to observe and figure out what was happening. All around us gates were slamming shut and doors were being locked. Then all the people were running, screaming. Then there was tear gas everywhere, and our eyes were burning, and we couldn’t breathe. At that point, I quickly made my way back to Uganda Crafts and watched as thousands of people fled the city center where Besigye’s supporters had begun burning cars and looting. It was mass confusion—civil unrest.

I can’t quite explain the tension in the air (or was it the tear gas?). Police were driving through the streets shooting into the air. Women were screaming and running for cover. Everyone was alarmed and anger was mounting against Museveni. People said things like, “This is proof that he’s a dictator!” and “What support he had left is demolished by this!” and “This is only the beginning.” In some ways, I was simply fascinated to observe how the situation and unrest grew—how one person’s fear incited another person’s terror or anger, how one person’s decision to run turned into hordes of fleeing people. Given, there is good reason to run from tear gas. The stuff is brutal. To me, it seemed the police were only making things worse by flying through the streets on trucks, wearing riot gear, shooting guns and throwing tear gas. They were trying to quell the violence of Besigye’s followers, but in their attempts to do so they poured fear into the city and created an environment ideal for looting, violence, and mass chaos.

Additionally, they shut off the telephone networks, and the electricity had been off for most of the day. I really began to wonder what it would be like to live in a dictatorship. I waited the chaos out at Uganda Crafts, where the entire city passed by since it was the only safe direction out. So from here, I got all the information about what was happening in the city center. As it turned out, the taxis were all striking (or too fearful to attempt their routes) so there was no chance of me making it out to Kitemu. The only logical option? Go to Sam’s, which happened to be in the safe direction of Wandegeya. I told him what had happened, and spent the night there, discussing the political situation in Uganda and watching (ironically) Fahrenheit 9/11.

This morning things seem to more calm, but there is no telling what is to come. About every hour many honking vehicles exit the city toward Wandegeya, probably avoiding blockades or tear gas. I am not afraid, but I will certainly be cautious. Don’t worry about me, but you could pray for me, and the situation in Kampala. Who knows, maybe they’ll release Besigye, maybe he’ll get a fair trial… or maybe Museveni will keep him in jail on trumped up charges and rig the upcoming election. My faith in M7 (Museveni) is quickly fading.

In other news, I have been visiting students in secondary schools for the past 2 weeks, a task which is very time-consuming and tiring—not to mention expensive! At the same time I have enjoyed being with the students and experiencing the dynamism that is present among them. My basic program is: show up at a school, introduce myself to the headmaster or director of studies, get introduced to the students, ask the teacher/headmaster to leave, talk to the students, hand out a questionnaire, hand out copies of StraightTalk newspapers. In my preparation of the students, I explain to them that I am a university student from the US carrying out research in Uganda in the area of sexuality and marriage. I tell them that the survey will cover some sensitive and/or embarrassing issues, but that the most important thing is to be honest. Their teachers will not read these surveys, I explain, it is only I who will read them. I tend to think I’m somewhat engaging in the way I speak to them, and it doesn’t hurt that I’m a young white girl. During the course of the survey when I stand in the front and wait to field students’ questions, I find them staring at me.

Overall, I have been pleased with their response to me and their willingness to ask questions. The most difficult times are when young girls approach me with questions about avoiding pregnancy or ask questions to which there is no answer. One girl came up to me after everyone else had left and quietly asked about how to count her “safe days”—i.e. those days during which it is least likely she will become pregnant. I told her that in reality, there is no such thing as a safe day, because every woman’s cycle is different and the safest thing to do is use a condom. This answer did not satisfy her, so I explained as much as I knew about ovulation, menstruation and the typical ranges of fertility during a woman’s cycle. The fact is that I didn’t know the real answer, so I told her I wasn’t sure and she should talk to a counselor or health worker. As expected, she told me that she couldn’t talk to anyone else because she wouldn’t feel comfortable and they could get her in trouble.

I left feeling guilty for not being able to answer her question more satisfactorily and for leaving so little time to actually answer students’ questions. My survey ends by asking what questions the student has about sexuality, their body, relationships, or anything. While some ask questions like, “Can I marry you?” most have legitimate, pressing questions that remain unanswered. While the purpose of my survey is to probe for gaps in the sexual education in Uganda so that others in the future can address the problem, I feel it is somewhat unethical to (can I say) exploit these young people for my own ends while leaving them with misconceptions (about how HIV is spread, about how one “loses his/her virginity,” etc) that could alter the course of their lives. Essentially, though I am not a sex educator, I feel responsible to do something for the young people I am encountering.

So I do what I can, answering the questions students ask me orally, and distributing copies of a newspaper called StraightTalk which educates adolescents about their bodies, relationships, health, spirituality, and—most prominently—HIV and AIDS. Since being in Uganda, I have been very impressed with the Straight Talk Foundation, the organization that produces these newspapers monthly as well as running a radio show, hosting clubs, etc. that aim to educate young people to view themselves and others in a healthy way. In every arena, I feel they do an excellent job of addressing relevant problems in a relevant way, taking a holistic approach, acknowledging the importance of faith, and urging students to make wise decisions. Their newspapers are free, and the latest issue—the one I have been handing out—addresses poverty and sexuality, explaining that poverty is no excuse to have sex.

One of the biggest problems regarding young people’s sexuality is just that: poverty and basic needs drive young women (and young men) into sexual relationships with older business-people who then pay their school fees, clothe them, and buy them the things they need to live. Everywhere there is talk of “sugar daddies and mummies,” with many young people admitting to being willing to engage in such a relationship to continue their schooling. As if the frequency of this practice wasn’t enough of a problem, its danger is heightened by the fact that old men desire young women/virgins who they believe to be uninfected with HIV. In reality, this exposes both young and old to the disease.

Things at home have been great. I have been enjoying Kuki a lot, and playing and dancing with the kids more than ever. Jjaaja has said many times that she feels I am her real granddaughter and that she is going to cry and cry when I leave. I have really come to love these people and I am not looking forward to leaving them, though there is a definite pull to reengage in my relationships at home. There are so many people I love in this world.

My parents are coming next week, and before then I have a lot to get done. Essentially, my internship is finished since Betty has released me to work full time on my research. As it turns out, I have needed all the time I can get for this project. I still go to the office almost every day, but the only day I really do work at Uganda Crafts is Fridays when the artisans come.

So, that’s my life in a nutshell.
I pray all is quiet on the western front.
Peace,
Emily

this is the world turning

2005-11-08T13:27:00.000+03:00

the now but not yet

2005-11-04T15:13:00.000+03:00

What should I say? I haven’t written on this thing in a long time, for reasons that will be explained at a later date. A lot has happen in the weeks since I have written, and I’m not even going to try to explain it.

That being said, I’m not sure what to write. I’m not sure who is reading this thing anyway. Probably some people. Thanks for reading it, whoever you are.

I have been thinking about home a lot lately, and missing my family and friends. Being here has made me realize some good things about America, which was not something I expected to learn. I think I needed a good dose of that, as my family would probably tell you. I have also been praying a lot, and reading Compassion by Henri Nouwen. I don’t care who you are, you should read that book.

The thing that has kept me busiest lately is my research. I am carrying out an independent study research project in the area of marriage, fidelity and sexuality among young people in Uganda. It’s complicated, and sometimes discouraging, but very interesting. I have talked with many women and young people about their experiences with relationships. People are broken, and it is hard to see sometimes. Especially in the context of poverty, things like infidelity take an enormous toll on the well-being of individuals and communities. This study has also given me some perspective on how far we’ve come in the US in terms of women’s equality.

Since you are probably wondering, no my health is not great most of the time. I have been sick a lot with various strange illnesses. I guess my house here is not an ideal place to remain healthy. It has been interesting to experience this aspect of poverty. It would just be nearly impossible and conspicuously extravagant (financially) to follow all the health guidelines I have been taught from my youth. So I just get sick. And I guess it’s okay.

About being sick, though it has been unpleasant, I think I have learned a lot about what it means to be poor and have to live where health as a precarious resource. Health is variable and fleeting in my family, and productivity is wholly dependent on one’s ability to labor. Additionally, when one is sick, it is a struggle to get money to go to a doctor. One can count on missing, on average, a day of work every week either due to one’s own illness or the severe illness of another member of the family. And this is without an HIV+ family member. I can only imagine the amount of energy and money consumed caring for a family member with AIDS. The children have accustomed themselves to playing, carrying water and digging while coughing and wheezing, while feverish, while in pain.

The only thing that seems worthy to be written about is the kids in my family. They are the thing that makes my life beautiful. They are the reason I am in Uganda. I’m not sure what that means yet, but I think in time I will learn. I want you to see how they run to hold my hand and yell “Emily wange!” (my Emily), and how we dance, and sing, and wash clothes and carry water. I want them to be part of my life always, and it will be painful to leave them. I don’t want to stop hearing Adriene’s coarse voice, or Chandiru’s laugh, or Nabasirye’s singing. I want them to climb all over me and laugh forever. I want to protect them from the fearful things the future will bring to them: illness, abuse, disappointment, abandonment. I can’t do that. I can’t do anything to “help” them but sit in the dirt with them and show them I love them. They might forget in a few years who that white girl was who lived with them. I might seem like a dream to them. This makes me think about child development, and I have to have faith that my prayers for them and the love I have poured out will somehow carry into the future. Certainly I can trust that God is protecting them, and loves them more than I ever could… but unfortunately, it seems like “God’s love” as manifested through blessings like education, intact families, adequate clothing and nutrition, is just harder to come by here.

In reality, God’s love is manifested always and forever by WHO HE IS—by the fact that He became incarnate, and lives forever as One who is unequivocally on the side of the downtrodden. But how can the incarnation reach meaningfully into the lives of these tiny people? How can that unequivocal support transform the lives of these particular children?

I don’t know. I feel like I’m back at square one in terms of my thinking on poverty—I am overwhelmed sometimes with a base desire to carry them away to my life, as if my life was somehow less impoverished than theirs. The fact is that my life is as ridden with treacherous pitfalls as theirs. Those pitfalls simply have a different shape, cast a different shadow. And I must remember: theirs is the Kingdom. It is precisely these tiny, powerless creatures to whom the Kingdom of God belongs. It is a great mystery.

I simply feel grateful to be among them, to play with them and rest with them. I feel honored that they are my teachers, with their smelly clothes, dripping noses and dirty hands.

(Mis)Adventures in Nairobi

2005-09-13T10:31:00.000+03:00

August 27 – September 3

Nairobi.
After several days of mass confusion and the mysterious disappearance of our Ugandan travel-partner, Zalika, Stina and I boarded a Nairobi-bound Akamba bus at 4 pm on Monday. The seats were comfortable, we had about 20 books between us, and I had brought a chocolate bar. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing much did go wrong, until we reached the Kenyan border at sunset and almost got lost trying to find our bus after it crossed the border as we waited in the immigration line. Also, we had to pee and walked far away through a dark alley to a dark courtyard with a strange man who told us the bathroom was “there” but all we could find was what seemed to be a latrine with no hole in the floor. So we peed behind a structure, only after which we realized there was a man sitting on a porch next to us as we laughingly searched for the missing bathroom. As we boarded the bus, I bantered with some young boys hassling us for money. We split some biscuits with them, and I gave one of them a hug, pretending he was asking not for money, but for physical affirmation. Maybe he needed a hug more than money, I don’t know, but I laughed and he laughed and we made a good time of it. Unfortunately, neither of us slept one minute on the 12-hour ride, and I got quite sick toward the end, when the going became unbearably bumpy. When we arrived to Nairobi at 4:30 am, we were both utterly exhausted and relieved to be in a still vehicle. A taxi-driver friend of Stina’s named Peter was coming to pick us up at 5:00, so we decided to rest on the bus until he arrived. Well, it seems we fell asleep right away, since when we woke up the entire bus was vacated and the driver was saying, “Muzungus, get off the bus or I’ll take you back to Kampala!” Peter had arrived and had come looking for us, so the driver came to evict us. We rubbed our eyes, laughed at what had just happened, and hurriedly grabbed our things. As they say, haste makes waste; I accidentally left behind my toiletrees bag, replete with malaria medicine, toothbrush, soap, and a tiny icon of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus.

Peter drove us to the mansion of Dave Johnson and his Kenyan girlfriend Leah, where I vomited before we climbed into bed under three wool blankets. Nairobi is COLD, especially compared to Kampala.

We slept for a few hours, then went to the Maasai Market to buy some goodies. This was a whirlwind; from the time we stepped into the market until the time Peter picked us up, we experienced extreme sensory overload. Everything was so complicated and confusing that I can’t even think of a good way to describe it. There were two men, Isaac and his sidekick, who trailed/led us through the market, attempting to force us to buy things we didn’t want and shoving things into our bags, saying we could pay for them later. When we expressed interest in something, they would put it in our bags and when we resisted, asking the price they simply said, “We’ll talk about price later.” Thankfully I have picked up a skillful assertiveness here in Uganda, which came in handy both in bartering (though we still got bad prices) and in refusing items when we simply didn’t want them (though I still ended up purchasing items I didn’t want). People have a serious way of pressuring you into buying things. It’s unpleasant to feel like you’re being taken advantage of. I was buying not for myself but for Uganda Crafts, so I was worrying the entire time about whether or not Betty would reimburse me for any of the things I was purchasing. My mind was swirling with constant conversions from Kenyan shillings to Ugandan shillings to US dollars. Prices became a jumble of numbers and my math skills disintegrated along with my peace of mind. By the time I left the market, I was almost out of money, though this was our first day in Kenya. As soon as we were finished, it began to rain torrentially. Isaac offered to buy us tea, so we ran through the rain to a café some ways away where he treated us to warm, milky and sugary tea. We left remarking how horrible it felt to be tourists.

Naivasha.
The following morning, we rose very early and boarded a matatu bound for Lake Naivasha, about an hour and a half from Nairobi. We had a sense of adventure and were glad to get out of the city that had bombarded us so violently the afternoon before. This day turned out to be one of my best days in East Africa so far. After averting several scams and some confusion, we arrived at a quaint campsite called Fisherman’s Point. The campsite is right on Lake Naivasha, surrounded by towering hills. Since our destination—Hell’s Gate National Park—was only a few miles away, we rented mountain bikes and took off to the park. Hell’s Gate is one of only two Kenyan game reserves where one can explore without a guide, and is, to my knowledge the only one that allows hiking and biking. The landscape in and around the park is stunning; with the characteristic subtle beauty of a semi-arid desert, and incredible geological formations, the terrain alone is enough to merit a trip to Hell’s Gate. To our great surprise and delight, we saw about 20 different varieties of animals, including giraffes, many kinds of antelope and gazelle, African buffalo (by far the most dangerous animals in the park), baboons, warthog, and hundreds and hundreds of zebras.

We biked through the homes of these wild animals, between steep cliffs, among thorny shrubs and over sharp rocks to a deep gorge about 9 kilometers from the main gate. When we arrived, we found you could not enter the gorge without a guide, so we paid a young Maasai man to take us down and through the gorge. We hid our bikes at the top, and began the steep descent. The gorge was beautiful and full of hot springs—did I mention that Hell’s Gate is an active volcanic area? Our guide was very interesting to talk to, not least because he was among the last group of Maasai warriors who went into the bush for a type of coming-of–age ritual, the culmination of which was fighting and killing a lion. They went into the bush with 20 young men, of whom only 17 returned. The following year, the Kenyan government announced that this rite of passage would no longer be allowed.

Jack, the English name of our guide, showed us things inside the gorge we never could have noticed on our own. We traced cheetah and panther tracks, as well as the trail of an enormous python.

We met several other young Maasai men in Hell’s Gate, since their village is directly on the border of the park. We talked with one of them for at least an hour, getting an interesting perspective on life. This particular boy was employed by the park to track the migration patterns of the animals, including insects and birds. He was very in tune with the rhythms of nature. He told us a story of how he saved a man who had been attacked by a buffalo, caring for him in his home before transporting him to the hospital. It smacked of the parable the Good Samaritan, except for the fact that the man this boy rescued had paid for him to travel to the US the previous year. The boy was a lay philosopher of sorts, and a poet, as well as a teacher of traditional Maasai songs and dances. He sang a song for us; all Stina and I could do was grin. It was beautiful.

That night, back at our campsite, we observed 5 large Columbus monkeys feeding on raw potatoes; I was close enough to touch them. We also saw many goofy Vervet monkeys running and climbing all over. Late in the evening, a few hours after dark, we saw what we had come to this campsite to see: hippos. About 300 hippos live in Lake Naivasha, and each evening they come to the shores to feed on grass. As you probably know, hippos are not gentle giants. In fact, they kill more people every year than any other animal. A woman had been killed by a hippo at our very campsite the previous year. Thankfully, there was a low electric fence they switched on every evening to keep the hippos away. This fence looked like it could be cut by a pair of nail clippers, so I wasn’t totally convinced of what it could do to a 4000 pound hippopotamus, but I think the idea was deterrence. In any case, we got to see the fattest animals I have ever seen lazily munching on grass for about an hour. I was satisfied.

The next day we returned to Nairobi, I was again quite sick all day in the Johnson’s house. After hours of vomiting and sleeping, I said goodbye to Stina who was leaving for the US. Thankfully, I was feeling better at that point. The next day I purchased a bus ticket to head back to Kampala that night, saw downtown Nairobi, and found my missing coworker Zalika at a failing crafts exhibition.

Punjabis and Fences.
After an adventurous day of moving around Nairobi—including the very places the tell tourists never to go—by myself, and taking the matatus—which they tell tourists never to take—I walked the several miles back to the Johnson’s house. By the time I reached the gate, it was becoming dark and I was tired and very thirsty. After knocking very loudly several times, attempting to ring the broken bell, trying to open the lock from the outside, and waiting a few minutes, I realized the guard wasn’t coming. “I’m resourceful,” I thought, “I’ll just climb the fence.” So I threw my bag over and climbed the tall, white metal fence with little difficulty. At the top, I decided I would just jump down since it wasn’t too high. That particular day, I was wearing a beautiful orange Punjabi that I had purchased in Owino market for 3000 Ugandan shillings. It had quickly become my favorite outfit and was my prized symbol of the humor of globalization. Anyway, I jumped off the fence. On my way down I heard a terrible ripping sound and instantly chided myself for being hasty and forgetting what I was wearing: I had ripped the entire back of my dress apart. As I turned my neck to assess the damage, the Johnsons’ 3 enormous dogs came and started barking loudly and jumping on me. Along with them came the guard who simply said, “Welcome, Madame,” as if nothing bizarre or humorous had just happened. I said hello to him, picked up my bag, and walked inside, orange tail trailing behind me. If he hadn’t already realized what had happened, I’m sure that was a dead giveaway. I laughed about this the rest of the evening.

Roller Coaster from Hell.
Later that night, I boarded my Scandanavian Express bus to Kampala. On my bus ride back from Nairobi, I prayed I would be spared the sickness of the previous days. Unfortunately, about two hours into the 14 hour trip, my stomach got the best of me. Long story short, I ended up in the bus bathroom (thank God it had a bathroom!) vomiting and wondering what I was doing on the floor of yet another disgusting public toilet. I feel I have had more than my fair share of bad digestive experiences in unpleasant places. Let’s just say I can’t count the number of public restrooms in which I have vomited on two hands. Or three. In any case, this one might top them all. I kept looking at the words scrawled on the rattling mirror: “Short call only plese.” Apologies to those who used the bathroom after me, and to those who had to clean it, but the alternative seemed even less desirable (plastic bag). After about an hour in the bathroom, I crawled out and onto the floor in front of the bathroom door where I laid in the aisle and fell asleep. That was the only sleep I received during my 28 hours on the roller-coaster roads between Kampala and Nairobi. I swear the entire thing is potholes the size of small cars and large watermelons. I repeatedly thought about the juices and what-not in my stomach, imagining them to be explosive like a pop can shaken harshly for many hours.

When I woke up about a half-hour later, we were about to stop at the Kenya-Uganda border, where we all exited the bus and waited in the freezing (yes, freezing—there was frost on the window of a parked car I saw) air to pass through immigration. At the window, I handed the Immigration Official my passport, still reeling from my vomiting episode on the bus. He looked at it for far too long, and asked me to produce my visa. I showed him my Ugandan visa, and he said, “No, your Kenyan visa.” I replied, “I was under the impression I didn’t need a Kenyan visa since I have a Ugandan visa and the East African community has some sort of deal.” He told me that I was wrong and had to pay $50 for my Kenyan visa. To me, this seemed illogical since I was leaving the country. The people behind me were becoming impatient so he called me back into the office, where I was directed to a cramped, dark room in the back. An extremely large, bad-toothed man sat down and began to discuss the situation with me.

“Where did you enter Kenya,” he asked. I didn’t know. “Did you go through the immigration process to enter Kenya?” I thought I had, but doubts were entering my mind. After several minutes of confusion, I realized Stina and I had only passed through one of two necessary steps to enter Kenya. We had received exit stamps from Uganda, but never entry stamps into Kenya. As this dawned on me, I felt stupid for not asking anyone at the border where to go and what to do. We had just exited the bus, waited in the line with everyone else, and then walked—illegally—across the border to find a bathroom and our bus. As soon as I realized our mistake, I became extremely apologetic and the man began demanding $50 for the visa I had never purchased. It was at this point that I realized several alarming facts: 1. That I had zero dollars with me; 2. That what money I had was on the bus and, at most, it amounted to $12; 3. That I had been in that office far too long, that I had no friend on the bus to look out for me, and that any chance I had of making it back to Kampala would drive away if that bus left without me. When I asked if the bus could leave me, he responded, “Of course it can!” as if to say, “You, girl, are in a tight spot.” I’m sure a look of panic came over me as I explained my predicament to the man. Thank God he was kind-hearted. Eventually, he just told the man with the stamp that I was very confused and had made a mistake, so they gave me an exit stamp and let me go. I subsequently went outside, where the sun had risen during my time in that closet of an office, and ran the half-mile or so to Uganda, got an entry stamp this time, and collapsed into my seat on the bus. How’s that for a morning adventure?

God’s Grace.
Now that you have heard my tales of adventure, I should note that the most significant part of my time in Nairobi was not the animals, or the sickness, or any funny events, but an overriding sense of the Spirit’s presence with me. Stina needed a lot of encouragement because her summer had been so difficult, and spiritually, she had become very confused. We had many talks about her questions, during which time I received a deep burden to pray for her. We prayed together many times, and each time I felt the Spirit urging me to speak grace into her life. We were both very encouraged—the Lord was faithful to minister to us through each other. I received a wake up call of sorts in that I had been coasting through life to a certain extent. Talks with her reminded me of the importance of evangelism (something Bishop Ruchyahana spoke into my life before I came here), and instilled in me a strong desire to read the Bible. I felt the Spirit’s presence strongly during my time in Nairobi, perhaps partially because I was constantly putting myself in situations of ambiguity and potential danger—places where I was always asking for, and receiving, God’s protection. Traveling does that to people, and I am thankful for it. perhaps that’s why people are drawn back to traveling time after time. It is not for seeing famous sights that I travel; I would just as soon travel in an unknown or unloved part of the world. It is for adventure and newness, risk and grace that I travel. I sense it is so with many vagrants, though others, I know, are running like Jonah or like David.

People I Love

2005-09-07T10:12:00.000+03:00

This is, in order, Ssekajja, Friday (aka Alvin, holding my puppy Kirabo), Sherifa, Adriene, Udyiah and Serena. There are about 15 more kids "in" my home, and they are the source of incalculable joy.

i want to share with you a poem

2005-09-07T09:01:00.000+03:00

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
--i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are the prayers of the earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
--i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

-e.e. cummings

On Children and Joy

2005-09-05T10:23:00.000+03:00

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

Rainy Season

2005-08-25T07:53:00.000+03:00

Today is rainy, like all the days this month. This morning I saw a dead man. He was lying by the side of the road in a pool of blood. I was in a taxi (matatu) on my way to work and I saw a crowd of people where there’s not usually a crowd so I looked, and I saw him. I gasped loudly, and felt like vomiting. I covered my face and breathed slowly the rest of the ride. I felt solemn and confused, like I should mourn this stranger.

Betty and Kuki told me it’s a normal part of life here—seeing dead people by the roadside. Its not something I could handle day after day, without developing some sort of coping mechanism. One such mechanism I have observed here is laughing at things absurd and tragic. Kuki makes jokes about things that make me cry, Mama Adriene laughs to soften the pain of being driven out of our home by Edson’s other wife. It is the only way to acknowledge and somehow absorb the pain of this life without despairing.

But how can one—in good faith—laugh at another’s misfortune or take joy in someone’s suffering? How can Kuki so flippantly wish pain on others when they do something foolish? Is it a result of the harshness of life? There seems to be a strong drive for simple retribution here; if you make a mistake, you deserve to suffer. My privilege gives me a fat cushion on which to sit and wish others well. If I felt I was competing for a very limited number of good things in life (jobs, husbands, luck), my benevolence might give way to self-interest. And with good reason, I might add, for here there is no guarantee of basic rights; one has to fight for everything gained.

So, it seems, there is not much room for humility of the American Evangelical variety; boasting about one’s gifts and laughing at another’s weakness is both acceptable and routine. Could humility mean something else here? It’s difficult to think of the fruits of the Spirit as culturally defined.

In my last assessment letter, I wrote about being okay with poverty; for weeks I had been disillusioned, forgetting what exactly it was I had been theorizing about and protesting against for the last five years. I couldn’t see any direct injustice and anyway, my family is happy. The problems my family has didn’t seem any worse or more dire than problems families have in the US. Those reflections weren’t the naïve “Wow-they-have-nothing-and-they’re-so-joyful, first-short-term-mission-trip” reflections; I was genuinely realizing something about my assumptions regarding what third-world poverty means and doesn’t mean. I think I was wading through the runoff from years of detached analysis that I thought was grounded in sufficient experience.

I received a wake-up-call of sorts in reading Nicholas Wolterstorff’s Until Justice and Peace Embrace, reminding me what’s wrong with poverty. I’ll write more on that soon, but suffice it to say that I wrote in my journal, “There it is—can you believe I had forgotten? God is against poverty. It is contrary to the Kingdom.” It’s an embarrassingly fundamental thing to forget.

Now let me tell you about a little visit I had by our very own Dr. McMinn (my favorite professor at wheaton—she teaches sociology and is advising me for my internship and independent study research project). It seems like she came a long time ago, not least because I got quite sick at the end of the visit and my high fever didn’t help me retain clear memories. Anyway, she arrived safely and we had a sleep-over at Betty’s farm in Entebbe the first night she was in Uganda. The next morning I sent her off to Kumi (about 5 hrs. north of here). When she returned, we talked about everything in the world, and I was very encouraged. It was good to have someone who knows me and believes in me telling me that I was doing a good job in my internship, that my Luganda is good, and that I have a graceful way of being bold. She is such a kind and gentle and honest person. When she came to my home on Monday (Aug 8), I gathered all the kids together so she could give them cookies. Altogether there are probably 15 kids, maybe more. Spontaneously, they decided to sing for her and it quickly turned into us singing and dancing as she laughed on the couch. It made my heart happy. I felt like she really got a glimpse of what my home is like. We also took her through the garden and to the well, where we had an interesting encounter with a Muslim boy who I believe might have a demon, or else a severe hatred for me.

The next day we went to Bombo, a nearby village, to dye materials for weaving. The Nubian women taught us how to weave, and gave us heaps of food. That day was really gratifying for everyone involved, as DM got to know some of my coworkers more closely and see some of what “field work” looks like for me; I felt my relationships with that group of women strengthen a lot; and the women got to laugh at me all day and received a generous gift from DM.

Moving on, we picked my friend and fellow student, Megan up on Wednesday night and drove to Jinja, the source of the Nile, where we spent the next several days with another wheaton student, Rebecca. The place we stayed was beautiful and private, and we had many uplifting and challenging conversations. I finally drank some good Ugandan coffee (for some reason, though coffee is their biggest export, everyone drinks instant NesCafe which tastes like dirty water). Megan tried to convince me to apply to Princeton Div School, and she was persuasive. Then I got sick, thought I had malaria, got tested (for 1000 shillings—about 60 cents!), found out it was just the flu, spent the next few days in a daze, sometime during which I sent Megan and DM away to Malawi and crashed at Sam’s house. It was really wonderful to get to spend time with Rebecca, Megan and Dr. McMinn. It was a refreshing and renewing time.

Dr. McMinn and I got a lot of time to talk about my independent study research project that I will begin soon. I have decided to research the effects of unfaithfulness (in marriage or committed relationships) on poverty levels of single mothers and their children. I will write a full explanation soon and post it. I am now in the process of trying to find relevant resources, which is very difficult. I am going to try to visit Makerere University this week to see their Social Work department and library. Books are really scarce around here.

In other news, last weekend I went to the farm of one of Jaja’s relatives, deeper in the village. It was beautiful, situated on the top of a high hill with many cows and flowers. I milked my first cow, and also met a rabid cow that they killed a few hours later. As it turns out, the couple who owns the farm are wonderful and Anglican. I hope to develop my relationship with them and attend church with them sometime soon.

At Uganda Crafts, I have been engaging myself in some exciting new projects. After realizing that which work we do depends largely my initiative, I have begun a massive reorganization of the shop display. This is a much-needed improvement, from the perspective of a tourist, since no one wants to buy things that look old and disorganized. I have suggested holding a sale to get rid of old/damaged stock and make room for new stock. Additionally, we are constructing shelves and other things to organize the shop more neatly and display items more effectively. I think you have seen the promotional materials I made for Uganda Crafts, and we are currently working on displaying them throughout the city. I am also working on other local marketing strategies, like advertising in tourist magazines and travel guides. It has been quite a task to convince Betty that advertising is worthwhile. She complains that no customers come to the shop, without realizing that we must advertise for them to hear about us. This is the kind of lack of critical thinking skills that has disturbed me since arriving. Additionally, I have been doing some designing of new products, which is exciting for me and is a little more artistic/hands-on than working on promotional materials.

In a staff meeting we had yesterday, I discussed the issue of fair trade principles with Betty and the others. I may have been a little overzealous and preachy, since rather than asking what they thought, I asked rhetorical questions and assumed they wanted to continue caring for the artisans by paying high prices for their products. The subject came up because one of the staff recently went to an exhibition in Denmark where all the importers complained that the quality of our items was low and the prices were too high. I think our conversation allowed Betty to see how unique Ten Thousand Villages is, in that they are willing to pay a higher price and be lenient since they know they are supporting fair trade. During the conversation, Betty happened to mention that last year she applied for a fair trade certificate and was denied. Though I had raised the idea of applying to the Fair Trade Federation with Betty, she had failed to mention her past attempt. I am not completely surprised that she was denied, and I hope to explore this more completely with her.

I have been subtly encouraging her to think of the ways in which Uganda Crafts is helping people, and suggesting ways in which it could help more. Sometimes this makes me feel like I am being paternalistic, and imposing my desires and values on Betty and Uganda Crafts. Truth be told, I do feel this business is like a child that needs direction. Though I know I am not the person to do it, I feel like I am the only one interested in doing it. If someone else came in who didn’t care about helping people but only about making a profit, Uganda Crafts would probably lose any semblance of the non-profit organization it used to be. Betty simply does not have the skills to run this place. I am embarrassed to write these things, but I am thinking them all the time, so it is good to name them.

I’m back to work now.
Thanks for reading.
Please pray that God would give me a strong desire to pray and read scripture. It’s easy to just be happy and live life without being consciously thankful. Please pray for my Luganda skills, and for direction in my research.

Additionally, I am going to Nairobi, Kenya this weekend, for a crafts exhibition. I’m not sure how long I’ll be there, but please pray for my safety as I’ve heard Nairobi is much more dangerous than Kampala.

May joy abound among you,
emily!

WRITE ME SOON EVERYONE :)

Oh Blessed Irrelevance

2005-08-06T13:24:00.000+03:00

I have sat down to write this update about 4 times, and each time I feel like I don’t have much to say. Perhaps that’s because I’m not very aware of my thoughts, or I’m not reflecting… or perhaps it’s because life here—like life anywhere—has down time. I think I am coming to realize that not every moment of life needs to be filled with profound realizations or deep insights. Life can just be normal, and that is okay. I am enjoying the everyday realities of singing and laughing with my host brothers and sisters, and am learning to let myself be okay with everything being okay. There is no major crisis that I must deal with, no enormous trials to endure, just the common, everyday joys of eating jack fruit, playing Ugandan games at sunset, eating another plate of matooke and gnuts, riding one more time through the papryrus swamps on my way to work.

I am not feeling the depth of the suffering that comes with poverty, I am not mourning with anyone. I am rejoicing—laughing as I carry the heavy jerry can of water, singing as I wash the clothes, dancing as I sweep the floor. I am grateful that I have people to laugh with, and am coming to be grateful that I am being released from the nagging desire to be or think something profound. I resigned myself a long time ago to the fact that I would never do anything profound, and even came to realize that God didn’t intend that. This step is far more significant for me, though. I am learning to allow myself to enjoy life and not worry too much about anything. I don’t want to become carefree and lazy… but I feel the strong sense this is a long-needed break for my consciousness. Rather than being a time of heightened awareness and analysis, it seems right now is a time of being at peace with myself and my world.

As I write that I wonder if I am justifying a meaningless existence. I decided at a very young age that the unreflective life is a life half-lived. Today, I feel a certain amount of respect for people who can feel peace and joy without thinking they must accomplish anything internally or externally. I see nothing wrong with Alvin staying in the village and digging forever, never learning English, never getting a job but living as a subsistence farmer his whole life. If he doesn’t want to go to school, why should he? If his lifestyle is sustainable, what’s the point of education for him? I am brainstorming, wondering if people will take advantage of him, if his life would be more full were he literate, but I think neither of these are concerns. In an oral culture, and in a village where books are as scarce as matooke is plentiful, what need has my brother Alvin for more education? Why should Kookie go to university if chances are she will never get a job and will end up back in the village anyway?

She desires to go, which is a big difference between her and Alvin, but I wonder why she wants to go. I think it is because she wants money. Possessions and image seem to be her biggest concern. On another note, last week Kookie stopped eating. After a conversation we had about a long period last year where she couldn’t eat anything but bread and water, though she wasn’t sick, this mysterious condition suddenly reappeared. I know she is concerned with staying thin because “all the girls in music are thin.” I know she thinks being fat is ugly, but I can’t imagine there would be such a thing as anorexia in Uganda, where I was under the impression that fat was a complement.

This morning, I asked Betty if she had ever heard of eating disorders—anorexia or bulimia. She hadn’t, but she knew there were girls in secondary school who skip meals in order to “keep their figure.” I have been confused and concerned about this recent development with Kookie, and plan on keeping an eye on her, just as I would on friends at school who I know have problems with food. It’s just strange to find this in Africa.

I should write about my birthday party. Last Sunday (July 31) was my 21st birthday, and Betty decided we should have a really big party. She arranged some things, and all in all we thought there would be around 40 people—the 30ish from my house, and about 10 from work or church. There ended up being more like 45 I think. Anyway, without going into too much detail, we bought tons of food and cooked it all, danced and sang and played hilarious games, drank soda (a real treat for the family), cut a cake, ate cookies I baked in a firewood “oven,” and had a really good time. I received quite a few presents which humbled me a lot, but that day was a really fun and uplifting day. I felt very honored and had a really good time. Everyone had a lot of fun and I was really glad to be there and be a part of their lives. I put on a Gomez/gomas (the traditional outfit for Baganda women) and everyone loved it. I’ll try to put on a picture somehow. Enough about that I think.

On the Uganda Crafts side, some days I get frustrated thinking about how much of a business Uganda Crafts is. I don’t know how they could avoid the business aspects of any income generating venture, it’s just that I don’t like feeling like a business person—no matter what country I’m in. I am functioning as a marketing advisor of sorts, though all I am using is my common sense and aesthetic sensibility.

Of more fundamental concern to me is the focus of the business. I am not sure it’s my place to sit the people down and say, “Look, I thought you cared about people. I thought that’s what we were all about at Uganda Crafts.” After all, I have been here less than two months. I can’t assume anything about their individual concerns for the women who work with us. I feel strange about asking them directly, “Do you even care about these women?” Regardless of their motivation for working, they work and get things done. What difference does it make? To me, it makes a big difference. It’s the thing that makes me not despise the work I’m doing in accounting, inventory, etc. I wish I had people I could talk with about poverty, about the conditions of the women producers, about how we could better serve them. Is it okay for Uganda Crafts to continue with a self-serving structure because it still succeeds in supporting many people? That’s not a rhetorical question.

Spiritually, not a lot is happening, but I feel fine. I am praying, I am still having a hard time with church, I have the same issues with discipline as I have in the States, and overall I am happy. I would appreciate prayers for faithfulness in prayer.

Luganda is coming, but slowly. I learn new words probably every day. I can communicate well enough to make people think I know more than I do.

Kirabo

2005-07-27T07:58:00.000+03:00

i just wrote yesterday, but something very exciting happened after i wrote. i currently have a tiny black puppy sleeping at my feet, which a coworker gave to me yesterday at work. it's like a week old and very fun... especially if you like bugs eating flesh and lots of worms in the poo. it went poop on the floor and there were more worms crawling on the floor than there was feces. ick. but i got some deworming tablets for it and some kind of powder pesticide that i put all over its fur, so i think it's doing better. i have named it kirabo (said chi-rabo, luganda for "gift"). maybe i will bring it back with me as a souvenier... ha. its very sweet, but it cried all night last night. if any of you know anything about caring for infant puppies, i need some help because it isn't taking the milk i give it and it won't really eat anything. i love it though. it's cute. that's all. :)

Settling Dust: Coming to Terms

2005-07-26T08:08:00.000+03:00

Dearest family and friends,
I’m back for round two. Sorry I’m delinquent. No surprise there, though, I guess.

On the internship side, here's a little of what I've been doing. I have been able to brainstorm with the staff at Uganda Crafts about some marketing ideas and have begun to work on them. Additionally, I have been working closely with Kenneth, one of the staff, on formulating a proposal for a weaving-training program. It is a very solid idea and I think the proposal seems professional. (But then I guess I wouldn’t know…) We have sent it to Ten Thousand Villages (if you don’t know what this is, you should check it out at tenthousandvillages.com) and are sending it soon to a Danish organization. If that project takes off, it could be much of my future work at Uganda Crafts. Also, I have been trying to network with other organizations in Kampala as well as abroad to increase and diversify our export markets. On Wednesday I attended a large meeting with Betty about the government’s desire to assist in developing exports within the handicrafts industry. They recognize that handicrafts provides income for women, disabled people, and many other at-risk groups, as well as very low income people, so as part of their Poverty Eradication Program they have decided to invest in this sector. On top of all these things, I have been able to go to villages multiple times to dye materials (raffia and banana fibers) with women who work with U.C. This has been fun, encouraging and rewarding.

A couple weeks ago, I was really struggling with my relationship with Kookie. I was no longer feeling supported by her, but I felt plenty of pressure to act, dress, give and talk in certain ways. She was very controlling of me and my things, and I found that perhaps my initial enthusiasm about sharing was misguided, because she takes all my things (including my only bra and my only pen) and doesn’t give anything back. I find some of my clothes missing periodically and when I ask, she goes to retrieve them from her box of clothes. I’m not sure what to make of this culturally, since when I talked with Kookie and Esther (another sister), they said that sharing is not really a cultural value here and that they personally get annoyed when people use their things. Additionally, she wants to control my time as well—especially in wanting to bring me to church every night, and every Sunday for like 9 hours. I was basically feeling like an image-enhancer for her. I was her muzungu pet. Additionally, she wasn’t telling me the truth about a lot of things and I didn’t know what to do with that.

But things with Kookie have balanced out such that my feelings about her and our relationship are a healthy mixture of what I wrote the first time and what I was feeling a few weeks ago. I have returned to the hopefulness of my first letter, realizing that the Lord truly did place me in this home and with this girl for a reason. I am continuing to learn much from and with Kookie, and have been convicted about my desperate need for humility in my thoughts towards her and her spirituality. At the same time, I have gained what I believe to be a reasonable understanding of her attitude regarding truth-telling. She tells lies to people for what seem to me to be no reason, but I am certain that within her cultural and personal narrative, they make perfect sense. I am beginning to figure that out. She is very concerned about her image and the way people in Kitemu think about her, and she does use me to a certain extent to enhance her image… but I have come to be okay with that because I do not feel that it would be appropriate yet for me to challenge her about it.

We have many fruitful conversations about spirituality, and I have been insistent on being honest with her about my doubts and concerns and I think my honesty is beginning to pay off. She is beginning to understand the source of my fears, cynicism and hope regarding Pentecostalism. She also has seen the depth of my desire to learn in this area and could not be more supportive—both in prayer, conversation and by bringing me before those who can teach.

This leads me to the next (and perhaps biggest) element of my life right now. I had been struggling very much with desiring discernment from God but not liking the vehicle in which it comes to people in the church here (i.e. very Pentecostal expression). It’s quite uncomfortable to me, but I have known for quite some time that I need to come to terms with this phenomenon, not least because Pentecostals are the fastest growing religious group in the world. Anyway, I have been praying a lot about that for a long time… much of my thought and prayer life centers around this. God has already been very faithful and has begun to grant discernment to me through scripture, other people, etc… I’m not inclined to be too specific here, but if you want to know more about this, I’d be happy to tell you. Just email me. But please pray that God would grow the gifts of the Spirit in me.

Another thing that has been going on in my thought life: Since I have been here, I have been surrounded by what in the US I would define as destitute conditions. No one has money, no one has opportunity, no one has economic hope for the future, though their material desires are great. Many people around me—in my house—are sick all the time and can’t pay for doctor’s fees. The children don’t have money for their school uniforms, and wear the same clothes day after day after day. Most of the mothers I have met have been abandoned by their husbands who left them for another woman. Three people in my close vicinity died this week because of various poverty-related illnesses.

Yet I do not feel it is strange, it just seems like life. I don’t feel the strong sense of injustice I usually have when encountering people living in poverty. It’s like, I’m one of them, and I don’t mind, and things are okay, and we laugh and dance and sing and eat and so life is good. Maybe it’s because I have an escape route planned that my heart is not heavy. I don’t have to stay here, and maybe I would feel trapped if I did. I know many of the people around me feel trapped—and they are. But it is not so bad, or at least it doesn’t seem so bad.
What is wrong with my perspective? Or what is right about it? I am still aware of the strong Biblical injunctions to care for the poor, but my idea of what defines material poverty is changing. My family doesn’t seem poor to me now. Street kids seem poor, some single mothers seem poor, but not my family. I’m not sure anything in my family’s life would be improved by plumbing or electricity. I’m not sure it would make a difference if the kids had their school uniforms or not. Maybe I have yet to see into a deeper realm of poverty, or I have yet to attain the relational intimacy necessary to understand the emotional poverty of the orphans around me (after all, Kookie is essentially an orphan and so are many of the kids in my house). I don’t know.

My biggest concern is—am I failing to enter into my circumstances in some way? I don’t feel capable of answering this question because I don’t know quite where to begin. I feel like I am, but maybe I should be asking more probing questions, being more intentional about discovering the reality of the poverty around me. It’s just that spiritual poverty seems much more pressing to me right now than emotional poverty. No conclusions here, just some thoughts.

A few small things you might be interested in:

1. I just finished plaiting my hair. Now I am a real African woman. It hurts a lot and takes a really long time…. I think it was at least partially because the texture of my hair is so different and soft. I had to sit for more than 3 full days…. And I look like raggedy ann (the doll, if you know who that is). It’s fun.

2. I went white water rafting on the Nile with Dan zeccola and Sam olson (other hngr interns in Uganda). I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t. It was one of the more frightening experiences of my life but it was fun. I wish I could have gotten a picture of the rapids to show you… It was so scary. It was a class 5 river and most of the rapids were rated 5... way bigger than anything my family saw last summer in the Grand Canyon. Yikes. We flipped twice and the first time we flipped I was underwater for really long and thought I was going to drown. But I didn’t, so it's cool. Haha. I thought of Alex a lot cause I thought he would have been in heaven. But me, I was glad when the day was over, I have to say.

I’m going to go now, but thank you for reading this and caring about me. I care very much about you all.

Please pray that I would learn Luganda (I think I am slow…), that God would give me a spirit of thankfulness, and that the Spirit would move powerfully in my life, specifically enabling me to walk in the gifts I have been given.

Love, peace and joy,
emily.

Mukama Yebazibwe

2005-07-09T08:22:00.000+03:00

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!