Moses

There are days when it is extremely difficult to figure out how to best love and support the boys at this home. Due to the fact that their early childhoods were shaped by neglect, broken promises, and abuse, most of these boys now have severe trust issues and their behavior is often unpredictable and bordering on bi-polar (I’m not a clinical psychologist so don’t quote me on that diagnosis, but it certainly seems to be the case). On any given day, at least 3 boys are likely to be giving me the silent treatment (for one reason or another that I usually cannot pinpoint for the life of me).

A few weeks ago one of the boys, Moses, came into my room, sat on my lap, and told me that I was his friend and that he loved me so much. We watched the sunset together through my window and I cherished this unusual expression of affection from a boy whose character is volatile to say the least. We spent the next two hours together working on letters to his sponsors and he took great care and concern in making sure they were perfect. When he was just about to finish, he stormed out of the room and has refused to talk with me since.

The following day when I went and sat on his bed attempting to talk to him and he informed me that in his heart he does not love me, and that it was useless to love me because I would not give him anything. Since these boys had to survive for so many years on the streets, part of their survival strategy consisted of cunning people into giving them things (especially foreigners with good hearts and questionable tactics as to how best to support kids living on the streets with severe drug dependencies). Their concept of love is now directly tied to what they will get out of someone.

The more time I spend with those who have been pushed to the margins of this world, the more I realize that our Western concept of true love (that isn’t motivated by social climbing) is often a luxury reserved for those whose basic needs are met and who don’t have to figure out how to keep surviving each day of this life. In general, love is much more of a commodity here in Uganda than a romanticized Hollywood selfless gift. In the Baganda tribe, high bride prices of cows, goats, food, clothing, etc. are demanded from the groom’s family before a bride can be “given” to a groom. The boys in this home, with their complex and heartbreaking histories, are certainly no exception to the rule, and their search for self-interested love can cause them to shut down completely when they don’t get what they want.

As I sat with Moses on his bed and watched him fake-sleep so that I would go away, my eyes filled with tears. I felt such a strong love for this boy who is wise beyond his years and who lost both of his parents and his younger sister at the age of 12. I couldn’t help but think that the deep love and rejection that I felt must mirror the love of the Creator, who waits for us to delight in Her creation, in the bonds between us and in the natural world that surrounds us, as we are blinded by our own pain and refuse to open ourselves to this joy. Maybe we, too, are waiting to see what we can “get out of” re-connecting ourselves to the divinity within and around us, so we shut down instead and continue to live in autopilot.

Moses does not have to decide to let me in. After all, I am just another passing figure in his life. I just hope that he does not continue to shut out those who wish to love him and share in his life. I can’t help but think that in doing so, he will conspire in weaving a future for himself marked by the same isolation, despair, and aggressive behavior that defined his past.

Moses modeling some of the jewelry and headbands we sell to fund-raise.

Walking Lunges and Paper Beads

About a month ago Amanda and I met up with a small group of women here from one of Kampala’s slums. These women were formerly part of a paper bead jewelry-making project designed to help them generate income and set up small businesses. Unfortunately, as is often the case with many projects here due to a wide array of complications, all of the women’s businesses fell through (with the exception of one woman who is rearing chickens). They also lost their foreign market for their jewelry.  The women now feel more skeptical than ever about being vulnerable and sharing their stories/photos/ struggles because they are scared of being exploited.

 Having arrived on the scene in the wake of such skepticism, we didn’t want to be more people that would bring these women false hope. We explained that at the moment we don’t have any of the answers for them, but that we would love to accompany them in weekly meetings if they were willing. They agreed and we have been meeting once a week for the past month. I start by leading with team building activities, stretching, and aerobic exercises and Amanda ends with a reflection/Bible study session. I’m hoping to come up with yoga mats, small hand weights, and jump ropes soon so as to give them some more tools to encourage them  (and myself!) to keep exercising as a means of tension and stress relief.

These weekly meetings have been such a source of joy in my life here and I laugh so hard with these women every week. I introduced them to walking lunges and the following week they were all complaining that they had not been able to walk for days following our first exercise session. However, they’ve all begun doing exercise in their homes and now don’t get so sore. Many of them say they’ve had less back pain since we started exercising together. Whether we are hopping around in circles, struggling to figure out how exactly to do arm stretches (that are second nature to me after years of cross country), or sharing our challenges in the reflection space, we enjoy each other’s company immensely.

Women in our weekly meeting space.

Thanks to friends in the US who are willing to buy the women’s jewelry at a fair price and sell it to fund-raise for the boys’ home, we have been able to place two small orders with the women. While this helps them momentarily, this is not a sustainable solution for them either, since it is not a consistent market. Due to the Kampala City Police crackdowns and “city cleanliness” agenda, it is impossible for these women to sell their wares on the street in the informal market without the constant fear of being picked up and arrested by Kampala’s City Council Police. Since most are single mothers, they don’t want to take this risk.

Should you know of any fair trade cooperatives/markets willing to sell Ugandan jewelry/hand crafts (or if you’d be interested in selling in any small shops, break rooms, or living rooms near you) please let me know! We also sell their items online at www.etsy.com/shop/lot2545 (I hear it's giving Tuesday... I had never heard of that in my life...?!)

One of the reed baskets that the women make.

Bracelets made from recycled magazines-- one of the many styles the women make.

Chickens!

A few weeks ago we started the first of our small projects here at home in an attempt to move towards self-sustainability. Donations have been inconsistent as ever, since it is impossible to feel the intensity of needs from a world away. When there is no money for rent and the landlord calls repeatedly, or when there’s no money for food and we have to figure things out on this end, the need is felt here, more so than at the sending end of a paypal account. Thus we’ve been looking for grants to start projects here at home to generate income (we might start raising pigs and rabbits in December if we find the seed money).

Three weeks ago we bought 100 baby chicks and started rearing them inside the house just outside of our bedrooms (they smelled great…!?). Five of the boys at home are too old and too far behind to start formal schooling, so they have been waiting for a year for the funds to be able to do an internship at a garage here to learn mechanics. Funds have been promised and have never come through, so these boys are now in charge of the chicken project in order to use the proceeds to start their own fund for their internships. They have not been thrilled about rearing chickens, to say the least, but slowly but surely they’ve begun the daily tasks feeding them, cleaning their house, and of heating up the charcoal fire so they don’t freeze to death. Our hope is that they learn to rear chickens as a life-skill as well, that could serve them in the future when they’re on their own, trying to provide for their families.

We’ve had two causalities thus far… one got smashed by a piece of plywood and another got eaten by one of our dogs, but we’re hoping that the rest can make it to a ripe old age (four more weeks, that is, until they get sold and eaten).

100 chicks in our house just outside of our bedrooms! They sing us to sleep every night.

 

Boys from the Ssenge home where I used to live preparing chickens for dinner. They rear chickens, goats, and cows to help fundraise for their home expenses and they're much more in touch with the circle of life than I was at their age...

One of the boys in the chicken project, Matthew, is 17 years old and is from Northern Uganda. His mother died when he was young and his father was killed by LRA soldiers. He ran to Kampala and lived on the streets for many years and is still struggling to overcome the addictions and hopelessness that defined that extended period of his life. He just came home in August, when Amanda found out he had been taken to prison for “idling” (the most common offense here used to throw anyone and everyone behind bars until their families/friends pay bribes to get them out). He came home straight from prison and has been here for four months now.

He is the boy that looks over the chickens with the most genuine care and concern and is always conscious of their needs. Though he is big in size, his huge smile and playfulness reveal the kid that is inside of him that now has a safe enough space to show its face. These boys test my patience every single day and I try (and often fail) to keep a calm, patient demeanor even when I am at my wits end, so as not to be another person that misunderstands them and leaves more wounds in their hearts. Matthew, with his huge smile and child-like spirit, is no exception to the rule. He loves seeking attention by pushing my buttons.

One of his favorite past-times is to lye on my bed at night, act like he’s sleeping, and refuse to get up and leave when I want to kick the boys out and go to bed. I’ve tried every trick in the book with him (including trying to pull his huge limp body out of my room) and nothing has worked. A few nights ago, however, I told him that I “begged” him to get up and go to his room. Matthew doesn’t speak English, so I was speaking to him in Luganda, and in Luganda “to beg” and “to pray” are the same word. He looked up at me and said, “ok, pray for me.” I put my hand on his head and prayed aloud that he might be given the strength to fight his addictions and that his heart might heal from all of the loss he’s experienced in this life. I prayed that he might be able to be resettled in his village with his surviving relatives so as to not be so alone in this world. He looked up at me and smiled, then got up and left my room to go to bed. Thanks to the double meanings in Luganda, I finally found the trick to send Matthew to bed.

Amanda, Vicent, and Matthew (Vicent is modeling the headbands that are available for sale at www.etsy.com/shop/lot2545 to support the home:)

Matthew and I at home.

If you have any ideas for other small income-generating projects, don’t hesitate to share them. Be well wherever this finds you and happy almost Thanksgiving!

Prodigal Son?

I hope this finds everyone doing well wherever you might be reading this from!

I want to write about a reencounter I had last Friday with a boy named Ivan whom I have loved dearly since the day I met him five years ago.

Ivan ran to the streets when he was 7 years old because his father beat his mother so badly that she ran from their home and no one has heard from her since. He began collecting scrap metal and plastic bottles on the streets of Kampala, as do so many children who have slipped through the cracks of their disintegrating family landscapes.

Ivan slept on the streets with boys who had run from their homes and their villages to seek independence and refuge in a life that ends up being filled with more suffering. He suffered regular beatings from Kampala’s City Council Police (with barbed wire, crowbars, or any object on hand). He started sniffing kyenge (jet fuel) as is common among children on the streets, because, as they state, it takes away fear, cold, and hunger (and is cheaper than a plate of food).

When I met Ivan in 2008, he had been taken off of the streets by a friend of mine who had started a home for boys, and he was back in school. He was shy and helpful and had the sweetest demeanor. He was one of those kids that steals your heart with his charm.

 When I came back in 2009, however, I found that Ivan had run from the group home and gone back to his father’s home, but soon found himself right back on the streets. I sat with him on a curb as the sun set over the chaos of the overcrowded slum where he resided. I had come back for three weeks to finish my thesis research and I was soon leaving again. I knew I could do nothing for Ivan, and as he averted my eyes and looked off into the distance, I sat with him and cried. I was looking at a ghost of the person I had known, with oversized clothing covering his lanky frame and cheekbones that spoke volumes of the suffering he endured and the drugs he still consumed.

Ivan in 2009 after having gone back to the streets.

When I came back in September, I went to look for Ivan, assuming I’d still find him on the streets since boys his age (he is now 17) virtually never get chances to live in homes or partake in rehabilitation programs. I found a man, Uncle Baka, in Kisenyi leading a Bible study/feeding program for street children and was overjoyed when he told me that he had in fact taken Ivan into his family’s home and that Ivan was working and learning how to weld. He explained to me that Ivan had gone back home, and his father had been so disgraced to see the “drug addict” and “thief” that his son had become that he took him to prison, hoping that he would “reform” there. Uncle Baka fought to get him out of prison and took him into his own home.

Ivan has been at Uncle Baka’s home for 7 months and he looks like an entirely different person. He is working and confident in himself, he has gained weight, and his eyes shine again the way they used to when I met him years ago. When I went to visit him at Uncle’s home, I couldn’t help but imagine what our world would be like if each family took in someone that everyone else had given up on. Ivan had been on the streets for 8 years and had been deemed hopeless by his own father, yet this family saw his potential and took him in. We write off so many people as hopeless cases, and we thus become the authors of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Isolation and discrimination will always breed hopelessness, whereas loving investment, trust, and dignified work can foster amazing changes in the lives of the so-called “lost causes.”

Last Friday I took Ivan back to the boys’ home where he used to stay so that he could see all of the people who love him still, though many thought that he was dead since they hadn’t heard from him since he ran. The reunion was bittersweet, as Ivan was reminded that many people love him, but also saw the world he left behind that he could have still been a part of, had he not run away.

Ivan with some of the people he hadn't seen for four years since he left the group home.

Ivan and I at his old group home.

On the way home, he told me that he wanted to go to his father’s home to see him. He told me that his father would be so happy to see that he had changed and that he was now working. Though it was getting late, we hopped on a boda (motorcycle) and rode to his father’s storefront shop (his father is a wealthy Catholic businessman with 10 children). When we finally arrived, Ivan knelt down to greet his father (a cultural sign of respect), and his father didn’t even pause his conversation to acknowledge his son. We spent an awkward half an hour there, where I did all of the talking, explaining how proud I was of Ivan for being hardworking and trustworthy, while his father shook his head, called him a thief, and assured me that he had never mistreated him. We soon got up to leave and as we were about to get on the bus to head home, Ivan called out “Good night father.” His father turned around to head back to his shop without speaking a single word. So much for the celebration of the return of the prodigal son.

I do not have children, but I cannot imagine bringing one into this world, and simply giving up on him/her. Thankfully for Ivan, there have been others willing to come in and pick up the pieces of his despair and patch them back together, but he will always long for his father’s acceptance, despite his abusive history.

If I ever settle down in one place, I hope that my home can be a place where the “hopeless” are again renewed, and where healing and forgiveness can do their slow work on hardened hearts.

Letting Go

Last weekend we celebrated one of the boys’ birthday here at home. Most of the boys don’t know when their real birthdays are because they ran to the streets when they were between 5 and 10 years old and have no documentation. The boys choose their birthdays and we celebrate with soda, sweet bread, and watermelon and/or bananas.

David’s party was last Saturday night. As soon as we finished eating dinner seated around the main room of our house, the boys started dancing and spraying their soda in the air. In my head, I was thinking of the possible lecture (--you’re wasting soda which we only ever have as a special treat, thus we won’t buy it again--). 

Once the floor was slick with soda, one of the boys filled a basin with water and proceeded to throw it into the room, showering many of us. (At this point I’m thinking of all of the possible reasons to scold them… “We are renting this house and need to take care of it and not flood it”…. “What will the 2 guests think who are here? What image of us are we leaving with them?” etc…)

The basin of water was the first of many and we spent an hour dodging water basins both inside and outside the house. When things finally settled down, we got the boys together to affirm David and cut the cake. This session ended in a giant wrestling match on the slick floor, several additional water basins being thrown, and a minor knife wound because we didn’t get it out of their fast enough after the cutting of the cake.

As I witnessed this party, marveling at the boys’ childish spirits despite the many years that hardened them on the street, I had to work to silence my critical voice. I realized that for the past three years, I have worked with many youth groups in different capacities and have been rather results driven, since funders demand results, transformation, and incredible turnarounds in unrealistic timetables. I have been hyper sensitive to what others will think as a result of being the butt of constant criticism (ie: Those kids are in the youth group and they’re the same kids doing x, y, and z…. They just go to that group to shout and waste their time, etc. etc.). This dynamic has led me to be on the defensive and to push “orderliness” and good manners on occasions where I really should just let go.

This life is really too short to spend it scolding those who don’t fit into the mold of a civilized birthday party.  If we spent more time throwing water on each other and having unrestricted fun, this world of norms, results, and rules would probably be a much better place.

While I was getting ready for bed and shaking from the cold, two of the boys knocked on my door to bring me tea. I asked one of them if he had enjoyed the party, and he responded: “Yes, Auntie, I have enjoyed so so so so so so much.”  At the end of the day, that’s really all that matters.

I admire Amanda for her grace in both guiding these boys and giving them the freedom to let go. If this were another home of strict rules and punishment by canings (which is the norm in homes and schools alike here), all of these boys would have run back to their lives on the streets long ago.

Many hands cutting the cake.

Just before the cutting of the cakes.