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.

Being a Bridge

One of my favorite things to be in this world is a bridge. I love connecting great people, gently shoving people in certain directions and watching them grow, sending people to study abroad in El Salvador knowing they won’t come back the same, etc…

Four years ago I was teaching a high school class in South Bend about my study-abroad experience in El Salvador. During the students’ 5 minute passing period, I mentioned to the homeroom teacher that I had spent time in Uganda. She expressed interest in the country and in the work I’d done and I connected her via email to those I had worked with here.

Shortly there after, she decided to say “yes” to this random invitation. She quit teaching and moved to Uganda for a month-long volunteer stint. She ended up staying indefinitely, and has since started a home for 23 boys who had lived for up to 10 years on Kampala’s streets before entering the home.

I can take no credit for the amazing work Amanda is doing in Uganda, but I do think that her “yes” is certainly a testament to what we are capable of doing with our lives when we respond wholeheartedly to life’s invitations and do not let fear/rationality/self-doubt hold us back. Four years after our meeting, I am lucky enough to be living for the year in Amanda’s home with the boys that have stolen her heart.

Reunions

On Tuesday of this week I as finally able to go back to Ssenge boys’ home where I lived four years ago.  Seeing the boys I love so much 4 years later, 4 years taller, 4 years more mature, handsome, charming…. was such a blessing. I wanted to cry as I found each one in his classroom at school (I went to their school to find them as they were in classes when I arrived). I had such a joyful reunion with them and with the home staff and they were all amazed that I can still speak Luganda (conversationally, that is… I couldn’t translate to save my life).

I am so grateful that the mysterious workings of invitations and hearts willing to listen and say yes have ensured that these boys have been well cared for these past four years, and primero Dios this will continue to be the case in the years to come. I will be spending one night a week at their home to continue to be a presence in their lives while I’m back in Uganda.

Ronal was the baby of the home when I left... he is so old and mature now and his English is great!

Shafik, who is almost taller than me now! At Ssenge boys' home.

I have also found some of the same boys still living on the streets whom I left four years ago, having treated many of their gaping wounds and having spent many days and nights in the slums with them. These reunions have broken my heart and have left me feeling impotent and angry at the unfairness of this life. I found one, Joseph, a few weeks back, and he is now taller than me, but his big brown (usually high) eyes and tattered clothes haven’t changed a bit. He saw me and nearly tackled me with a huge hug as he yelled “Nakyanzi!!!” (my Ugandan name). While I have been living, loving, growing and changing these past four years, he has been in the same slum, sniffing the same drugs, being brutally beaten by the same slum residents and City Council (local police) members…. He hugged me with such hopefulness in his eyes and surely thought I would be in the slums everyday like I was before…. but I won’t be this time.

Home Life

I am only here for 9 months, and I am staying at Amanda’s home for 23 boys between the ages of 14 and 19. They are now off the streets and back in school and overcoming addiction, etc. and have made amazing turnarounds.  I am trying to invest most of my time at this home so as to plant roots in one place and have a sustained presence (at least for 9 months) rather than being scattered about. This means that I won’t be in the slums like I was before and that I have no answers for the kids I know and love there. Our home is full and Amanda works miracles to find enough money to keep it going each month as is. She is taking some initial steps towards starting income-generating projects here (we will soon have 100 chickens at home, for instance) but self-sustainability is a long, long way off.

Meanwhile, questions of aid and sustainability aside, I stand in awe each day of these boys that (thanks to the sacrifices and funds of many families in the US, thanks to their own determination, and thanks to the love and conviction of Amanda) are making incredible strides towards turning their lives around. It is really amazing to watch them each day and to know bits and pieces of the harrowing stories that led them to the streets in the first place.

Jimmy, Richard, and Joseph sliding on the front porch during a rainstorm.

Each day the boys wake up and go to school (most of them are in fourth grade, and they continue to study though they are twice the size of most kids in their grade). The 5 boys that stay home are waiting to start breeding and selling chickens to raise money for themselves to get internships at garages to learn to become mechanics. While they wait for this project to get off the ground, Amanda and I homeschool them in reading, writing, and basic math. I’ve learned that I am a big fan of delegation and of others doing the heavy lifting (ie Amanda starting the home after I merely mentioned the country of Uganda to her), so it is a good chance for me to have to do the slow work of teaching these boys to read, when there is no one to delegate this task to. It is teaching me to foster a patience I did not know that I possessed, as I go over the same letters each day with the boys and delight in small victories, such as the long-awaited legibility of the lower case “f” after two weeks of it looking like an “s”. I hope this patience can stick with me for the long haul and spill over into many aspects of my life, and I can’t wait to watch these boys read (hopefully!) in the near future.

English class with the boys who are more advanced at reading/writing.

When the boys get home from school at around 4 a group of us heads to the netball court (a sport played mostly by women in Uganda that is like basketball, but you can’t move with the ball). I happened upon the court one day while out with the boys looking for chicken vendors and the women told me to come play. Since then I’ve been going regularly and several of the boys have started playing as well (breaking down their gender stereotypes slowly but surely!).

Playing netball with some of the boys from the home.

It is great to have found a space to share with Ugandan woman and watch them have fun and enjoy this life that otherwise seems so filled with arduous labor and second-class citizenship in a very sexist national landscape. This dynamic of sexism and male power exertion was demonstrated quite clearly the other day when the 35+ year old security guard at the netball court kicked us all out and refused to let us continue playing because the 15 year old girl he was hitting on at the court pulled her arm away from his grasp and told him not to touch her. His response to being “shamed” by her in public was to exert his power over all of us and kick us off of the court… And so it goes….

Netball court at a nearby school.

Each night Amanda, Uncle Steven (the amazingly patient Ugandan house uncle who runs the show here) and I run workshops and “devotions” with the boys. I am doing art-therapy type workshops, similar to those that I did in prison in El Salvador. This has been a fruitful space for discussion and self-expression thus far, though we are all pretty tired by this point of the day and some days we’d all just rather sleep!

More to come… thanks for reading!