Ni Kweli what I say

30-Second Answer

2008-12-09T23:59:00.000-08:00

"How was Africa?"

It was really good. It's nothing like we think it is.

"What? What it is then?"

Uganda and Rwanda don't look like the Lion King at all.
There's grass huts, swollen bellies, along with savvy business
people, fashionable university students, an efficient
transportation system, cell phones and a lot of Muslims.
If the other emerging societies are like some of the youths
I've met in East Africa, there's hope for the world.

And then they got nose piercings in this sketchy back room that was supposed to be a jewelry shop....

2008-12-04T23:33:00.000-08:00

Some got them with a piercing gun

and others had "Manny" sent down to do it...

but that's a long story. At least it wasn't matching underwear. The things we do for GoEd solidarity.

Last Owning Poverty: Hunger

2008-12-03T23:38:00.000-08:00

"The brokenness we see on the macro in the structural evils of this world find their origins in the micro in our own hearts. That interior landscape is equally as war torn. No one enjoys the feeling of being a charity case beggar with nothing to contribute, but if that is the truth, then we had better feel it. Yes, you say, but aren't Christians beyond that experience after saving. Grace? Going to that hard place of experiencing hunger, is an act of receiving grace from the God who fills us. He continually calls us there. While the world spends all its energies denying or reducing or escaping from the experience of realityy, we not only go there, but find life and health and peace. Christian discipleship is not a life of denial but is characterized with a heightened internal and external awareness of poverty and consequently, great hunger."

-Dr. Michael Pucci

In the beginning of this trip, I couldn't tell you what owning poverty meant. I could only make these seemingly profound, abstract guesses in hopes that I was slightly right on. I've actually always been good at doing that and just as long as people think I know what I'm talking about and it points me to future knowing, I keep the habit up. But I get this now. You say it and I get it. I understand the basis behind it deep in my soul, born out of the challenges of this experience. I thought this trip wasn't going to change me much but it has.

To me, poverty was this thing out there. I was blessed and they weren't, so I was going to help them. How magnanimous of me. I felt that there were a few similarities between me and them and that misfortune was the difference between my position and there's. What a shame. :tisks: It must be because we're in a fallen world. I didn't know that I was them. I didn't want to admit that I hungered and they hungered and we were all waiting to be redeemed.

I didn't give God much credit before now either. Deism was the way. Blargh, evangelical religious jargon. I hate hate hate hate hate it. I smite thee. "Praise God" this and "The Lord has been so good" that just made me flinch and mock your "praise report" with my people. Americans come from a Euro-hellenistic mindset and I supported this view: You found because you searched. You feel better because your hormones have shifted and your antibodies fought off that disease. I do this-this-this-this-and this will happen.

I'm a socialist and sociologist. That program is good thanks to good systemic infrastructure. Poverty can be eradicated if the government would get their policy together. You found that man to marry because he's in your same social class, race, neighborhood, and has your values. You want that particular job because you're going along with social trend--conventionality, individualism, prosperity, whatever. Not because God did anything about it.

But learning/doing development, I've learned that sometimes you do this-this-this and something else happens. Sometimes you do this-this-this and nothing happens. Sometimes you do nothing at all and miracles happen. And oddly, it has less to do with the greatness of your program. And oddly, it has more to do with something else.

Meaning is a gift given, not something that is harvested from the soil of a particular career. We'd like to think so, but I'm becoming less convinced that's the way it works. You can end up with no meaning at all as a social worker and all the meaning in the world as an accountant or media editor. Less about it, more about something else.

I’m not here because I’m a visionary.
I’m not here because I’m a saint.
Africa, Poverty, Social Change does not matter to me because I’m a bleeding heart.
I’m not a visionary, saint, or bleeding heart.
My pride's been widdled down to the point where my only motivation is to say thanks, God, for the compassion. Thanks for saving me from myself. I'm so pumped for the new world you're making.

All of this makes me sound really religious :flinch:, but....it doesn't mean its not true.
I cannot eradicate poverty. That’s not my job and I don't think that's a cop-out. However, that doesn't mean I don't try; joining the greater plan of re-creation is so exciting and revoluntary, man! Development is not something we put on people; it’s something we participate in. I didn’t get it before but I get it at this moment. Much needed sobriety..and now I want to go out more than ever. Anywhere.
To say thanks.

-Muyeti

Three Things.

2008-11-29T23:48:00.000-08:00

On the way home from Gitarama, a man crawled onto the bus into the seat in front of me. His shoulder lay bare from the heat of the day and he held his dusty jacket on his lap. He sat next to Hazel and greeted her "Muraho!" slightly interested that he was sitting mext to a Mzungu. His shoulder was the shadow of a whole shoulder. It was gnarled and small from the many blows of something sharp. Up his neck and the back of his head were the healed scars of that same sharp object. Whatever had happened had handicapped him in a way that he couldn't walk on his feet anymore--he had to move on his cushion-covered knees. The man across the aisle stole disturbed glances at him every now and then.

That man knew what it was from.

It's something you just know.

It's moments like this where the existence of Genocide comes back to you and you wonder, confused, about the phantom-like skill this event utilizes for cover, in a country so beautiful, in a country that says it has moved on.
__________________________________

TREE OUTFIT Day/Thanksgiving was SOO much fun. All of us were feeling kind of poopy and putting on our best this-day-doesn't-really-matter-to-me-faces because we honestly didn't know what to do with the absence of turkey, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie and someone familiar for Thanksgiving. There were no greens, for gods sake. I don't even like pumpkin pie; but seeing some would have been comforting. We had to admit it: we were corporately kind of homesick.

But then we put on our tree outfits (brown on the bottom, green on the top), took pictures and became each other's family. We filled in the spots of absence by sharing our creativity and intentional joy, like we did for Sarah's birthday. I never laughed so hard.

We enjoyed ourselves in our weird little creation of a holiday because it took our minds off of ourselves and directed it towards being together; being ridiculous together. No one will ever understand how much we love those photos and how hilarious we think they are (because admit it, tree clothing holidays are kind of weird but Hazel's face in the family photo is .so. good); they mean a lot to us. We meant a lot to each other that day. We mean a lot to each other now---this is why we have to tell the rafting story nothing short of five hundred times and will continue to tell it to others in every future form of communication. I wasn't even in their raft. My feast table voiced our thanks about this semester and sang annoying Sunday School songs about joy, with hand-clapping of course. And then we watched "It's Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown" to finish the evening.

I had one of the best Thankgivings of my life without collard greens and macaroni & cheese. [Beware, banality coming] I didn't need them. I had my family.

___________________

First day of Advent reading: Isaiah 42:1-4

Here is my servant, the one I support. He is the one I chose, and I am pleased with him. I have put my spirit upon him and he will bring justice to all nations. He will not cry out or yell or speak loudly in the streets. He will not break a crushed blade of grass or put out even a weak flame. He will truly bring justice; he will not lose hope or give up until he brings justice to the world. And people far away will trust his teachings.

I am thankful for

2008-11-27T03:51:00.000-08:00

hopefulness & expectation.

I really am.

today
learn about Thailand.
mourn with Mumbai.
pray for Congo.
They need some of ours.

"a change is gonna come. Oh, yes it will."
-roe

No, We Will Not Run Around In Our Birthday Suits.

2008-11-23T05:06:00.001-08:00

Together: "Haaaaappy birthday, happy-happy birthday. Haaaaaapy birthday, happy-happy birthday! Hey!"
Megh: "Do we have a birthday here?!"
Mob:"Yes, we have a birthday here!"
Megh: "Birthday where?"
Mob: "Birthday here!"
Together: "OOOOOOOH!"
"Haaaaappy birthday, happy-happy birthday. Haaaaaapy birthday, happy-happy birthday! Hey!"

I was being greepy. I was greepy because Becca and Hazel had come up brilliant idea of coming up with a birthday rap for Sarah at 10:00 o'clock the night before and had chosen to put my name in it because I wouldn't help them. And I quote: "Roe is being greepy like the dwarfs grumpy and sleepy". Grant it, I spoke the idea of rap into existence but I was not going to participate: if it went wrong, I didn't want to be affiliated with them. It had words like yo, slammin', sista, holla and the phrase main squeeze in it somwhere. The plan for the finale was a choreographed dance to Will Smith's "Jiggy Wit It." Yes, please. I almost peed my pants laughing, it was so bad. They were determined to perform it for her though. I kept my eyes down and tried to finish writing my Japanese birthday greeting.
Sarah was turning 22 and this hilarious GoEd group wanted to make it really fun for her since birthdays overseas can be hard for expats. Coming together in the dark hours of the night (while Hazel and Becca perfected their lyrics) we overhauled the Gitarama FH meeting room and made birthday paper cranes, birthday cards, birthday signs, a birthday crown, a birthday canopy, and a birthday walk to 22 leading to the seat of honor: a go-ed shirt draped throne. Elizabeth and Katie blew up birthday ziplock bags. Birthday balloons, you see. We used lots of masking tape and sewing thread. We are hilarious and resourceful.
Morning.
"Sarah's going to be up soon! So we should all gather soonish." Kirsten announced, bounding, greeting the day. I shook Hazel's birthday leg and made my way to the birthday table to meet the others. The canopy and sign had stayed up. I mused about the times where one couldn't birthday sleep you were so excited for the friends you'd get to play with the next day and the cake you'd get to consume and the presents you'd eventually tire of that'd you'd get to open. Meghan taught the 10 of us the Red Robbin Birthday Song and we erupted in loud cheer and jubilation as Sarah strolled down the walk to 22, clapping on key. Mbish was a great camera man. She looked birthday regal in her birthday crown underneath her birthday canopy and we spent the morning having honorary breakfast with her! I was in charge of pressing the youtube play button for Jiggy Wit It and Hazel/Becca mowed the crowd with their birthday rap, and everyone was pulled up for a hip hop dance party at the end. Hallelujah--it was still as funny as last night.
Afternoon.
A lot of us took birthday naps, while others went to buy pottery. In the late afternoon, we took Sarah out on a birthday hike in a Rwandan village behind Gitarma town, in the hills. It was SO pretty up there and it felt good to be out under the sun, even though people stared at the strange Wazungus following Mbish and I. On the way up the hill, passing tiled dwellings, we picked up a mob of excited children and a man with 6 fingers (on each hand!) who only understood the word Obama and happily wanted a picture with his cow. What else have we got to do today? So we followed this man to his house, emeshed in a mob of children, to take a picture of hm with his cow. He looked dignified. It was a nice cow...ahahaha. And we kept walking trying to think what in the world we'd do now. We all took hands of children, singing rwandan songs, and walked to a school. At the school we stopped to sit and rest and about 30 children surrounded the Wazungus while I took pictures. Kyle started a game of duck-duck-goose and they thought that white people running around was the most hilarious thing that ever happened. It was so fun watching them play; some village members enjoyed how unusual this all was. On the way home, a funny drunk man put himself close to Sarah's face, demanding her name. It had become a birthday day for everyone.
Evening.
"SURPRISE!!!!!" Our distraction worked. She had no idea about the birthday picnic we had birthday planned all week. "You guys!" The home team cut up Hazels' green appples, brought out the nutella and cracked open the Crystal light-on-the-go packets. We listened to the Across the Universe soundtrack and had enough unhealthy snacks to wire a kindergarten class. Nice cookies are our friend. We cracked jokes, talked, and watched Meghan impromptu interpretative dance. Again--yes, please. The day was out of control. We easily came together and created such a celebration!! I can't get over how fond I am of these folks. In the evening was a mini-feast and we birthday watched a re-cap of the Office. Her mother would be proud of us.

Facebook Status seen the next day: Sarah hearts her most hilarious go.ed group ever.
Mission accomplished.

"National Hug a Kenyan Day"

2008-11-21T07:44:00.000-08:00

"It's been sweet."

It's November 21st. You should definitely go hug a Kenyan.

The ride out to the fields puts the whole world in perspective. The schema I had about this planet and the actual world is not the same. Steep, green lush hills ringed with banana crops, beans, cassava, and mini-cultivations dominate the landscape for just about as far as you can see. Nothing but hills. Rwanda's rural country is what I imagine the terraces of India resembling. Assumptions have not been working out. I'd like to add traveling to India to see them on my list of things to do. I'm this little student being bumped up and down a sloping, dirt path, in a Landrover that's taking my team to its research site. I smile (1) because I'm enjoying this group research thing, (2) because the children are yelling Komera to us as we pass, and (3) I still feel like an idiot for thinking all of Sub-Saharan Africa looked like the Lion King.
Reality checks are so good.
Social Context for Development class has been killing us conceptually in order to prepare us for our case-study. Katie: "I feel like a very small fish in a very very big pond." Preach it, sister. Well, our research is here. We arrived Tuesday in Gitarma, a town one hour south of the capital, to do 8 days of action research in Cyeza (chay-zuh) district. FH is going to use our reports to petiton for government funding and help Rwanda with their Vision 20/20 economic plan (kind of a smaller version of the Millenium Development Goals). Our research question: How do the people of Cyeza self report community variables that contribute to or hinder development in their community? We break up in groups of four and go out in an area of about 6,000 households to do as many interviews as we can to gather information about structural, contextual, environmental, and transformational concepts. As a group, we come together every morning, go over our successes, our critiques on questions, re-translations of changes into Kinyarwanda, and inputting our interviews for interpretations when we return to Kigali.
What I've learned about group field research
*I love it. It's the polis exemplified.
*It's still overwhelming, er, just... less overwhelming. And hard. I should admit it's still hard.
*It's much more fun to input data with a team member than braving an endless spread sheet by yourself. It also helps to have music on.
*I'm grateful for the questions my teammates come up with.
*Haha, You have to be strong enough to have your idea shot down in group debriefing time.
*Having three people rotating the roles of observation, interviewing, and recording is incredibly effective. Covers all bases and helps each person focus on their task.
*You can learn a lot about a social situation and values through observation.
It's been sweet. I enjoy this.

As a group, I think we've grown. The other day I looked on with maternal pride at dinner. (We get fed very well in Africa. We really do, however) Dinner last night was boiled eggs, hot dog bun loaves & sweet bread, nutella, cubed cheese, pineapple, and tea; and not one of us uttered one word of mal intent. In fact, we loved the stuff and ate until we were full. Every day, our cooks work soooo hard for us . It wasn't Olive Garden or the most balanced meal but we've come to the point where just about everything is a blessing.
Speaking of meals....next Thursday is Thanksgiving. Bizarre. Home sickness won't be an issue since since college has kept me in the midwest for this holiday so I've gotten used to it. I just hope we have greens! I will be happy to be a sea away from Black Friday and shopping ads. There's a really good article in Sojourners about it that you folks might enjoy. I think all of the comments make very good points. Never fear, the links is at the end--because I don't know how to embed...
Komera in Kinyarwanda is loosely translated into "stay strong". You'd be heartless not to be slightly melted when the children run alongside the car yelling "Komera, Komera!"... when we wish them the same. Most in this district work hard cultivating subsistence crops against the weather, walk up to forty minutes for water, have to tie up their animals in their sitting rooms to keep them from theft, and sleep on straw mats laid on mud packed floors. I'm a pansie. I couldn't live a week in those conditions without complaining. They wish us, "Komera" with such good will. -sigh- And we wish them the same. We wave back, matching their vigor, because to not return their hospitality, their wave, their greetings, would kill a bit of our souls.

-roe

article link: http://www.sojo.net/blog/godspolitics/?p=4014&title

Taking A Bearing: Inform and Rethink

2008-11-12T01:46:00.000-08:00

"But you've probably heard about the conflict in the Congo."
"No. What's going on the Congo?"
Lately I've been assuming that everyone's aware of the mess going down in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, our neighbors, because its so everyday for us here but am realizing more and more that maybe its not getting much play in the United States of Ay, so I put a link for people to check it out! It's getting really bad. And doctors are getting deeply concerned about a possible epidemic of cholera in IDP camps. Cholera. I swore we had eliminated that with Polio. The victims can't come back to Rwanda because they're probably wanted by the Rwandan government. Genocide complicity. It's really bizarre to be four hours away from a war and still feel isolated from its sting.
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/africa/2008/11/200811121854913189.html
--------
Questions I appreciate and am think-thinking over:

Is poverty a virtue? Or do we fail to take into account its dynamism?
In what ways do I create stipulations in my daily life about how much I will give or do? Is that okay to do sometimes?
What is my perspective of my position: Do I have, so I give in order to create restoration? Or do I have nothing and participate in communal restoration?
When children are begging or singing for money, what do you do??
If I'm honest, am I about issues or people?
How can we discern the heart of our actions?
What are some examples of how the inequality of the world has been made personal for me?
Do I let the existence of inequality change me?
What is rich?
Does being materially rich = blessing?
What does the Word say about who is rich and who is poor?
What does it mean to renounce all we possess? What do you make of this condition of discipleship? Was Jesus literally serious or symbolically serious? Is it more about obedience? What should push us to respond? What does obedience look like?
What do I consider to be the evidence of God's favor?
Ownership. Would we have resource problems if we rethought what ownership is or rethought its value? Is equality more about membership?
It is easy to interpret poverty from the premise that they are the ones with the needs; whereas I have need of nothing. Are there areas of wretchedness and blindness where God is pointing out our own poverty?

Being here has warped everything I once believed about "rich", "poor", "development", "compassion" and "discipleship". I don't have answers but am learning to ask better questions.
----
We do have fun too! We went to Kivu Lake in Kibuye for holiday and slept on the comfiest beds in East Africa. I rolled over in the middle of the night and smiled, they were so soft. I had really good, brilliant conversations with Hazel, Allison and Kirsten. I took the complimentary soap before Hazel could steal it from me. The next day we climbed Bat island. I'm so out of shape! I thought I was, no joke, going to pass out but I made it. And got sweet pictures of 236643928374659383621 bats. No one, however, got any pictures of Kyle's speedo. We don't want to talk about it.

Rejoicing and Mourning

2008-11-05T07:03:00.000-08:00

"Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn."

Romans twelve, verse fifteen.

The phone rang and the news was in. Obama was winning. He was winning! I felt a bit overwhelmed and slack-jawed. This was really happening. The man was going to win! I was so happy for him and confused about what in the world (!) was going on. Here I am in Rwanda watching the election of the century on the BBC, talking on the phone with LA. It was all too much to take. McCain gave the best speech that I've ever heard and Obama spoke with hope and honesty about how these next years were going to go. He couldn't make change alone. It was going to be long, hard, and necessary for the cooperation of the American people to achieve it. I wanted a flag or something. BBC cut to a shot of Kenyans celebrating and I FINALLY had an understanding of what African partying was like. I hoped Rwanda would break out the drums soon. Kenya was declaring a public holiday. The apocalyptic facebook statuses were hilarious. Holy crap. I could feel the paradigm shift on that couch and the whole world celebrating. Oyee! Oyee!
----
I sat where a frightened person once sat. Sitting on the edge of a low, wooden pew in Nyamata sanctuary, I was trying to take everything in. A church. People had fled to this church for safety. In 1992, before the official genocide, muhutus practiced genocidal behavior by killing 600 of mututsis of Nyamata village. People fleed towards the church and the Interhamwe left them alone. Holy ground or something. Two years later, the Genocide began and people fled for the lives to Nyamata church and barricaded the doors. The Interhamwe came with machetes and tried to break in but couldn't, the refugees inside promising to defend themselves.
It was quiet in there. There were piles of clothes on every one of the pews beside me, in front of me, around me, and layered around the altar. People wore these clothes once--bled in them--died in them. Piles and piles of clothes lay moldy, brown, and decaying. The smell in the room was strong and acrid. This wasn't as sterile and pretty as the memorial in Kigali.
The Interhamwe couldn't break through but then the army showed up. With grenades and artillery, they shot into the church and watched the people inside fall one by one. The resistance stopped and they broke in, finishing the women, children, and men with machetes. Machetes created more suffering than bullets. The sanctuary was brimming to capacity:10,104 people. Not one survived. Not one. Bullet holes scarred the baptismal fount and the display of skulls, femurs, and other bones awaited downstairs and in the tombs. You could see the blunt trauma of a sharp object in these bones that were once people. Mother Mary looked down over the altar and clothes, praying. I wasn't sure if it seemed mocking or intercessional. In the house of God...for goodness sake. Where I was sitting, someone sat begging for their life; and no one answered. Sometimes faith hangs from a very fine string.

I couldn't stand to take a picture. Not in there. So I took someone else's picture, on someone else's blog to give you an idea. It was just awful. I feel like some of my innocence has been taken away. It was a big day today.

Genocide Memorial

2008-11-03T08:12:00.000-08:00

Irene Umutoni & Uwamwezi

Age: 6 & 7
Relationship: sisters
Favorite Toy: a doll they shared
Favorite Food: Fresh fruit
Behavior: daddy's girl
Cause of death:
a grenade thrown in their shower.

"When they said 'never again' after the Holocaust,

was it meant for some people and not for others?"

-Apollon Kabahizi

:sigh: The sin of omission and the capability of humans is too much to bear....

Rwanda--we're sorry we didn't know what to do. We're sorry that we probably would have made it worse. We're sorry that you few survivors lived in fear for 65 days and will mourn and distrust for the rest of your lives. We're sorry we didn't call it what it was.

a massacre.

Atrocity.

Genocide.

We called it a civil war and waited for it to work itself out.

Rwanda, we're so sorry.

"Adventures in Getting the Point" or "Manifesto"

2008-10-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

I love being in Rwanda. I look like everyone else.

"There's a definition of a word and it states that, um, a word is composed of two parts: and that's reflection and action. So that means if one part is sacrificed then the other suffers as well. So I'm sure to tell the students in my writing classes, that, um, we must be mindful of the words that flow from our mouths. And we should also be concerned about how they come out. You know, we talk about things like compassion...."
Compassion.
I think I've talked about compassion until I was blue in the face, but I didn't even understand what the word meant. Naturally, humans see themselves as compassionate because, honestly, who wants to say they're not (?) but often times what we're really talking about is kindness. Compassion and kindness are not the same thing. I didn't understand. Kindness is to pull those who are down up to where you are. Compassion is the shifting of one's inner bowels to tremble with the mourning of others. Compassion is being down and staying down to bring all up. Ugh. That is different.
Tons of people in Kigali are built just like me, facial structure similar. Wasn't the problem invisibility on your practicum? Didn't you want to be seen? Didn't you want to remember that you were somebody? Yeah, it definitely was hard for this little girl from nowhere, California, studying in nowhere, Indiana, with a skin color setting her back from birth, trying become to my family's dream. A somebody seen. But moreover, my problem was that I was trying to live my life for myself. Practicum was debilitating because no one was clapping for me.
It's simply amazing how insiduous pride is.
I wanted development and poverty to become names for myself, to validate my existence, and be known for what I did to alleviate it. It would be sweet if I was the next black Shane Claiborne female. (laughs) But I didn't know that trying to make my life as exciting and interesting as possible was killing my compassion in a field where this should be non-negotiable. I was wearing skills of research and education about social problems that I didn't even have on my shoulders. I couldn't feel for anyone else because I was spending too much of my time trying to be special.
This is what practicum taught me: I don't know anything. I thought I did but I don't. I don't have very much capability. I thought I did but I don't. Development and poverty are very very very hard. Joy for ones work and helping to alleviate poverty does not come from seeing results. People work their whole lives for the smallest difference, long after relatives have stopped liking what they do or praise their efforts. Often times, people stay just as sad, poor, sick, and miserable even after all our attempts. So is it worth it? Is development worth it? It is if you're not trying to be acclaimed. It is if something more than youthful idealism drives you. Youth is fleeting. It is if you believe something bigger will complete it. Gratitude pushes much more than title.
I no longer want to do this because I think I'll be someone or that I'll move mountains (uh. that's stupid) but because I want to thank God for the compassion she's shown to me by asking for some of hers. She can move far more mountains. I want to make sure I keep moving from comfort and the tempting ordinariness of "proper life", not to surround myself with misery or being creepily masochistic, but because I believe God is there waiting to show me what He means by all this existence business and pushing me to feel this way. Nowhere is somewhere. Voluntary displacement helps me remember that I don't have it all together and that in community of poverty, I experience our true condition. Messed up. And that's giving up that job, that title, that applause, that rat race for something better. Right, hidden and compassionate. Not interesting.

"As long as our primary concern in life is to be interesting and thus worthy of special attention, compassion cannot manifest itself. Therefore, the movement of compassion always starts by gaining distance from the world that wants to make us objects of interest." -Henri Nouwen.
If I become small, I can feel a pain of a population that I couldn't before. I'm beginning to know who I am. I have a face that matters: broke backs of field workers and silent victims of past, present and future.
I love being in Rwanda. I look like everyone else.

Tie your children to your backs.

Write your sponsor kids many letters. It makes a difference to them.

The Story about the Circumcision and Other Tales (I have to catch up on)

2008-10-28T22:36:00.000-07:00

I don't know why blogging has been so DAUNTING for me. I have started and stopped this blog four times already, for real. You don't even want to know what a disaster trying to make a photo blog was. I will defeat you, back log!

Circumcision
It was my day in Bufukhula (buh-ffoo-hoo-la) village and at the end of my it, during a sponsor child home visit, drums could be heard in the distance. "A CIRCUMSICION! Would you like to see it?!?" A circumsicision? These are really big deals in African culture. My book said to attend a cultural function! At least it wasn't a female one. Uh.....sure, Paul! I climbed on his boda and we drove down the road where the crowds were gathering. It seemed like the whole African village was gathered, hoisting their sticks in the air, pounding drums, crawling slowly on bicycles down a narrow, rural road. Our boda and my accent stuck out like a....something that sticks out. Oh my god, I'm on my way to a circumcision.

Passing hut after hut, women were running in the brush in front of us, shaking their hips, gearing up for the party. A circumcision in Africa is a really just a big party. I wished I had those dance skills. Finally after an hour of riding with the mob, the mob broke into a sprint toward some large hut to receive the candidate. "The boy is 17, 18. Around there! The circumcisor comes and cuts. Without any injection. That would compromise his manhood," Paul beamed. I cannot believe I am at a circumsicision.

I couldn't get into the crowd to see the moment, but Paul squeezed in there and got pictures. "You MISSED! YOU MISSED! This is the boy. This is knife. This is the pain." Paul was SO proud to narrate it all to me. My grimace was becoming too hilarious to everyone, but I was excited with everyone else. No one parties the way Africans do. Finally it was time to go--i felt I had see enough--when Paul asked me if I wanted to "see him". Well, yeah. I'd like to see his face. But I didn't realize that Paul meant more than a portrait shot. He talked to the crowd of men around the boy in Liguisu and the crowd parted like the red sea. Oh god. I stepped forward, feeling the weight of my presence as (1) the only female and (2) a foreigner, and as I walked closer, the stone-faced boy opened his sheet. "They want to know if you can send the photo!" I nodded slowly, holding my forehead. Paul, they could have the one burned in my head too. The boy was so brave.

Foreigner

A man was staring at me really hard. "Hello. How are you?"

He walked closer to me and gave me a quizzical look that I found hilarious. I tried not to laugh too much.

"You're not....You're not.....African........." No, no. I'm not. I'm American.

"Obamamerican! A sister to Obama!?!?"

-sigh-. I've never had my ethnicity synomous to a person as much as I have had here in Africa [I'm really not even sure that clause was correct], but I've been associated with worse things. (^_^) shrug. Obama Oyee!

Sophie

There was a beautiful orphan sponsor girl that had seemingly been lost in the Child Development system. Social workers had been so busy and she had been moved around so much that no one even knew what school she was at now. When Livingston and I interacted w/ her in the principal's office, we couldn't get her to smile. Outside, I tried everything and she wouldn't break out of her shell. She seemed so morose but I loved her. I loved her with a love I just didn't understand. I wanted to honor her with everything that I had. I loved Sophie. And still can't explain why she's in my mind still.

Safari

A family of elephants chose to station themselves outside of the hostel guesthouse we were watching a movie in. A few wild screams later and surveying of the porch, a mother elephant ended up fake-charging three of our team members. That's what you get for intimidating a mother elephant's baby. Oh yeah, and Kyle jump kicked a scarab beetle as large as a frog.

and now we're in Rwanda! I'll post more about my overall experience of practicum today or tomorrow.

(Untitled)

2008-10-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

The laughter of African children rings like bells and chimes.

Conflict Theorist

2008-10-09T02:48:00.000-07:00

[Electricity sputters and goes out]
[Darkness]

Meghan + me: "Ohhhhhh Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo."
Me: "You're kidding."
Meghan: "Noooo way!"
Me: "You are being unserious right now!"

We're alive! I haven't been able to blog or do anything in the electronic sense because FH-Mbale has been experiencing a black out for a week and a half. The sketchy thing isn't that you never know when they'll be a bit of electricity, but you never know when the water will shut off. There is this uncanny connection between the power and the water source. And sometimes they play games. No power, water. No water, power. But mostly it's been the lesser scenario for a bit now. When there's no water and power, Meghan and huddle around our candles trying to figure out if we want to brave the toilet (that won't flush) that has bugs living in it or if we should use the latrine (where our aim is bad). Or try to figure out when will be the next time we'll be able to take a bucket bath since these are the only kind to take here; but if there's no water how can we take them? Or wash our faces?

Candles are becoming familiar.

I don't have enough time to go on and on but I promise I'll fill you in when I get to Rwanda.

African Names: Meghan--Nashisa (the one who is merciful). Roe--Muyeti (the one who is helpful).
Community Assessment progress: frustrating
Challenges: slow concept of time, efficiency and miscommunication with key informants.
FH-Mbale CDP: doing really great things for their sponsored children.
Praises: Child sponsorship is making a big difference in the lives of parents and children. Last Christmas, every sponsored child received a goat.
Concerns: There are only a small number of sponsored children in the scheme of things. The children who are not sponsored feel bitter and unloved that they are not in the program. Are not provided lunch like the sponsored children and have a higher probability to drop out of school at P7 (11-12 years old). Teachers are concerned for the well-being of the unsponsored.
Next on Research Agenda: Maybe Public forum with Makhai (Muh-hye) church. Emphasis on maybe, since nothing ever really works out the way you want it to, ahahahahah.

Our office attendant, Vicki, is amazing. Every day we thank our stars for our new friend. And? She's a freaking outstanding cook. Nigerian Films are..................interesting.

I had a really bad day a few days ago, but I'm feeling much better. This practicum is beating me up, but without conflict there is no growth. I can't get better if I'm not thrown down, humbled, and made to realize my pre-conceptions are not as true as I think they are. In the really hard times, I wondered "UGH. Why didn't I just stay back in the states and do something practical. Why can't I just live a life of comfort and apathy where things never get hard? What am I doing here?"

But then a friend spoke comfort into the dark:

"We have to hope that God respects our struggle to follow his/her will."

I'm hopin'.

-Muyeti

The Break Down

2008-09-29T23:32:00.000-07:00

"We talk about these things and then we feel better."

Mbale is already so much different from Kampala. Instead of accosted, you feel respected. Instead of objectified, you feel like a guest. A Mt. Elgon-looking rock looms in the distance and everything around here feels like Hawaii--just with a lot of Africans running around. We're going to hike that rock one of these days.

I'm so happy with the staff people we work with: Patrick, Paul 1-2-and-3, Livingston, Miriam, Vicki, Susan, and Moses. I couldn't think of better people to work with.

Yesterday was our orientation and, for me, my hardest day in Africa actually. Since I've been here, I've been aware that I'm nothing of interest in comparison to European skin, but being in a more intimate environment, these feelings are magnified to the extreme. Livingston took Meghan and I on a walk yesterday to get us acquainted with the area, and little beautiful children would see Meghan coming from up the road. They'd call the whole child-clan to greet her as she passed by! She was making their whole decade. If they came to shake our hands, they kneeled to Meghan first and then, with prodding from Livingstone, would come shake my hand out of courtesy. As we kept walking around, people would look past Livingston and I, to laugh and smile at Meghan greeting them in their tribal language. Livingston spent most of the time talking to Meghan--I trailed behind feeling ignored. I knew none of this was intentional--just the way things were. I was not obviously foreign and was therefore less interesting. I wondered bitterly what was I going to do when I went to the village. Research was going to be impossible if I kept on being disregarded like this. Walking freely into political offices was going to be much harder than I had previously believed. I thought with much chagrin, "this whole thing would be much easier if I had been born white".

Ugh. White skin wins again.

Back home in America, I have to forget that I'm different. I am not given the chance to have a unique perspective very often because everyone's so concerned with being "color-blind" and the more we avoid talking about race or acknowledging that race has dynamic contributions, the better. But the "middle-ground" culture we communicate from is actually white culture, and so to function in society, I take it on and live "outside" my skin. In Africa, I'm not given a chance to have a unique perspective because I just look like some strange African they can't place geographically and I don't have anything interesting to say or look at because I'm not white (even though I'm American too). Or I'm just synonymous with Obama. To them, Meghan is gorgeous and I am not. Meghan is brilliant and I am not. Meghan is esteemed and I am not. Holding tears back, the final blow came as we neared the office. A man on the staff bee-lined towards Meghan, shaking her hand and praising "You're welcome! You're most welcome!" laughing and joking and then after (since its impolite to not greet everyone), he shook Livingstone's hand, and then my own limply, without saying a word, returning quickly back to Meghan to talk to her. I took my bag and walked as quickly to the bathroom as possible. Chopped liver. I sank to the floor and cried for ten minutes. I cried and cried and cried. I'm worse than an African-American. I am nothing at all.

It's not anyone's fault. It's funny how race takes on a value, life, and system of its own. Does it have to be this way? I don't know. I do know I have to bear my most of my burdens alone here and when I return to Kampala because no one will be able to remotely understand because its so far from their realities. I'm having an identity crisis. I'm just a piece of unassuming, brown wallpaper. I don't mean to sound calloused--I just wanted to be honest about what's going on in this heart. I'd trade this anguish if I could. Yesterday, all I wanted to do was be back home with people who love me and think my existence has weight. Meghan and I talked about it a little in the afternoon. She felt really uncomfortable being singled-out by Africans. We hashed out race for a little while--it was a good conversation. "That's why I think I like artists so much. We talk about these things that have no answers and then we feel better."

So I still feel really awful, and lonely, and invisible, but I think this is something I'll just have to get used to. I'll resist the urge to become a silent space-taker-upper. Today is better than yesterday. If I focus on that, perhaps it won't be so bad. Maybe that's the foundation of humility. Maybe what is indicative of transformation is stripping away the decorum and cutting the bows away. Welcome to the change process.

OH YEAH!

2008-09-27T12:34:00.000-07:00

Alright, so before I can start anything,
shout out to Julia and Kenny for throwing an fantastic "Office Premier" party for all the ex-pats. Grace out did herself on the food/pastries, and the set up was prime for viewing. It was all very uniting. Two days late for American viewing, but to us in Uganda? Right on time. Appreciate'cha.
-----
I've been slacking on updating and this post is really on the fly, so excuse me for its brevity! I'll be better since I'm going up-country for a month tomorrow. Oh, there will be much material for sure.

I got the practicum!

Position: Jr. Project Officer
Duties: conduct a community needs assessment for the FH Child Development Program, do qualitative and quantitative research in the FH development communities, make home visits, organize public forums, private interviews, conduct surveys and do field work in Eastern Uganda. Compile a report and photo essay about the greatest need for child survival, health, or food security. Assess how well FH is meeting those needs.
Location: Mbale, Uganda. 5 hours northeast of Kampala. By Kenya.
When I leave: Tomorrow!
How Long: almost a month

I get to ride a boda motorcyle to work every day. Um, awesome.
Meghan's going to be with me, doing her practicum at the health clinic, working for HIV/AIDS awareness, teaching (explicit) sex-ed classes to Ugandan teenagers during the week. Hahaha, I want to be a fly on that wall. I'll stand in the back for a few. She also gets to plan soccer games for the children and conduct bible studies in our area. Experience-wise, it's going to hard because it's a whole new culture in Torroro and, for once, we'll be away from our team! 13 to 2 is crazy, and we just don't know what to expect; but it'll be really rewarding I think. Ugh. I'm really nervous about my research abilities. Research methods was only theoretical.

I don't know how to create an impromptu public forum; especially with one translator and several of Ugandan's calling out suggestions in tribal languages.

Maybe I might be able to walk away feeling like I kinda know how to do something. (laughs)
-----
I'm missing some folks and wish they were closer.

Confessions of a Ugandan Friend

2008-09-21T09:49:00.000-07:00

"Roe, I look up to you, I only beg you not to send me away. I am very proud to know you. What does it benefit to be elder but only knowing what happens in the villages and in Kampala. When will I ever get a chance to know about western, current technology, etc, if not from you? I am grateful for you. I will also begin to think, eat, talk, like an American. You can only look up to me for knowledge about tradition in Africa. Where can I end up with that? Can anything current come out of anything else?"

UGH. Don't say these things.
The fact that I know millions think the same about their position is devastating.

I'm sick of the hegemonic forces that keep telling people--nations-- it can't. I'm sick of having to admit that, in this system, some of these thoughts are true. Western knowlege really is power for someone who has nothing. But I don't think they have nothing! I think they have a lot. However, who helps them believe it? Isn't this what Africa's politicians have been struggling to do for decades? Or have they been merely adopting a method that was never meant to work in the first place?
What do we do with this uplifted pillar where we've been placed? There has to be another way.

:sigh: Thoughts on Euro-hellenic worldview vs. African conception later...

Adventures in Being By Myself

2008-09-19T11:48:00.000-07:00

"They call me sistah and charge me regular price."

I had been standing on the curb waiting for a Matutu for fifteen minutes and had yet to steal a spot from professional Matutu grabbing pedestrians standing with me on said curb. Maybe this going off alone for lunch thing wasn't the most befitting idea of ideas.
------
"Where you go?"
"Oh! Garden City. Do you know how I can get to Garden City?"
The whole taxi park was really chill this particular lunch time. Without my posse of European persuasion, I wasn't a big deal to anybody; I looked like every other African on the street, maybe just less prominent cheek bones, a little bit redder in skin tone, and skinnier in build. They call me sistah and charge me regular price.
"Here, I'll take you to it."
The young kid, introduced himself as Anthony, inquired if I was American, and tried to get me to explain to him what AOL was and why the email an American had given him once didn't work. He was so warm to me when he realized I was African-American and spent the next few minutes wanting to know who I was voting for. I entertain the thoughts of answering McCain one of these times.

I was standing there talking to Anthony, assuring him that AOL was a legitmate email system when (( cue jaws theme music)) this son-of-a-you-know-whats-it walked through the crowd, working his creepness with exceptional creativity and touched me where he was not supposed to. I swung around and looked back catching his eye---the satfisified smirk was unmistakable. We, as a group of women, have had a lot of trouble with the men here, and were just talking the other day about possibly coming up with creative ways of dealing with this instead of violent means; you know, exemplifying the "Jesus Third Option" that always trips people up. I had not thought about it beforehand and ended up sending him my automatic disgusted look. Take that.....you! He disappeared in the crowd, unphased & apt to do it again to some other girl. :sigh: Jesus, could you help a girl out with some pointers?
----------
Anthony was an incredible guide. He had found a taxi, made sure they got me as close to Garden city as possible and everyone in the taxi agreed, giving me the seat of honor in the front. I was a chick under their wing. Then this Matutu backed up with speed and, BAM, ran into the front of my taxi. It reversed and sped off . The vehile shook and I looked around amazed. A car accident too. I was cracking up and the driver simply clicked his tongue in annoyance and tried to start the van. I saw an tandoori restaurant I wanted to go to and asked to get out early, but they weren't having it. No, sistah. We are taking you to Garden City.
-------------
So I found a sweet, local restaurant next to it, instead of the ritsy food court.
"Can I have the Gotika meat?"
"Oh, we don't have that."
"Oh, okay! What do you have today?"
"Posho, rice, beans, cassava...."
"Do you have chicken?"
"Mmhm."
"Can I have chicken??"
"It is not ready."
"How long do you think it will be?"
"We have chicken at mid-day."
"At twelve?"
"Mmhm. What time is it?"
"It's...11:50. Can I order chicken now?"
"Yes."-leaves and comes back.
"The chicken is not ready yet."
"But it will be ready at twelve?"
"Yes, at twelve."
".....it's 11:55."
"The chicken is not ready."
"Well...can you come back in five minutes and I'll order the chicken?"
" Okay." -and walks away.
(O_O). Bwahaha, and really? It was the best barbecue chicken I've had in Uganda yet.
-----
The hurried, taxi driver hit his fist irritatedly. "I'm Moslem! I want to go to prayer! and I'm in a jam!" and, torturingly enough, we were stopped right in front of a mosque, the surahs being read on loudspeaker. He had been so kind and I was feeling bad that I had widdled him down so much, trying to get back in time. "I'm just a student!" It was hot and the jam was bad in this part of town. Pulling up to the university, I paid him extra for his trouble, wishing him "Ma'salaama." Surprised and touched, he spoke lug-arabic back to me and waved. I really hope he made it to prayers.

Visits of the Rural Kind

2008-09-14T13:11:00.001-07:00

"C'mon, girls. Get up and wash your faces; then Roe will slaughter."

:rustle:
"What was that?"
"What was that noise?!"
"That rustling?"
"Yeah."
"A snake...?"
"That definitely was not a frog sound."
"Snake?!"
:grab:
"Ahhh!"
"Winney says there's snakes."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN SNAKES?!!"
"Can we not talk about the snakes that I can't see in the darkness?"

Walking to the latrine in the blackness, I thought about our day. Some things are too funny. Being jolted along during a bad, 10 kilometer, pot-hole (no, crater) stretch in a hot Matatu up country, I wondered how Rachel could read the lit assignment?! The heat was beginning to be smothering and we had hours to go. Paul looked back at Elizabeth and I sympathetically, wishing he could make it better. We laughed at him and the bumps. Now I knew why Doc Stockley had called Matatu's death traps--they pass four wheelers doing 80. You could tell that Mr. calm, composed Paul was worried about this visit from the moment we left. He hadn't been home in years. He kept shaking his head and laughing in his embarrassed way anytime he'd go over the details. Destination: Torroro District. Village: Iyolwa. Family: Polygamous. Electricity: Negative. We were pumped.

Under the shadow of Torroro rock, the countryside was lush and thick with tropical vegetation and crop fields. Night was coming on, we were super late, and hit the town for supplies. While Paul went around running into long-lost caretakers, Elizabeth, Hazel, Rachel and I introduced ourselves to a Indian toddler girl, Janwee. "We need to get back so they can see your faces!" Down a long bumpy road, we drove past grass huts, and finally pulled up to a cement compound in Iyolwa village. Paul made a weird 'this is like prison' comment and we just looked at one another. Welcoming us were one of Paul's mothers and his elder sister Winafred. She hadn't planned on even being there. She embraced and laced us with very religious, evangelical rhetoric.

Inside the house, we sat in latern light, trying to make out figures and waiting for food to be prepared. We were exhausted, but we were guests so we waited. David, Paul's bro, asked us prying questions about America and laughed mirthlessly at our confusion. "MORE QUERIES. MORE QUERIES," they pressed and...we were just really confused. On the dark stone walls hung many photos of White Jesus. I kept laughing at our situation. After a delicious meal and family prayers, the four of us crammed into a kingside bed, talking/laughing about the latrine, guessing if the sound we were hearing were bats or rats, and taking photos underneath the mosquito net. In the morning, I found a hen warming her eggs in a roasting pot. Irony.
Paul spent the afternoon giving us a tour of his village.

Interesting cultural observances:
*boys move out of the home at 13 to build a grass hut to live in as a sign of independence.
*Women and young girls bow to elders or those they honor as sign of respect.
*Bride price and family involvement in marital arrangement is still a very important to Japadora culture.
*Farming is subsistence, so any extra crops sold on the side of the road is for other necessities (i.e. soap, plates, etc.)
* Women have more responsibilities since husbands are in the city or away at other wives' houses.
*Women have very important, authoritative roles in the rural church.

Who slaughtered the first chicken for dinner? I nominated Hazel....the vegetarian. She stepped on the wings with one foot and the feet with the other and did the deed with a sharp knife. Rachel ran around with disgust and I hid behind Elizabeth and peeked over her shoulder. I was very brave. We spent the night talking about gender equality with Paul, catching fireflies, and laughing under the moonlight while the non-english speaking herdsman taught us Swahili. I couldn't help but think how amazing everything was.

In the morning, Winney came in to wake us up for church and get us ready for the day. "You have tasks now, praise the Lord? C'mon girls, get up and wash your faces; then Roe will slaughter!" Is she kidding? No, I don't think she's kidding. No, I think she's dead serious. Oh god. And she was. And not only was it not a chicken but it was a big rooster. And not only was it awful, but it was gruesome actually. My left hand wasn't strong enough and so (to be graphic) there was a lot of sawing motion, and when I had cut through the neck bone thinking I was done, I realized the throat was still attached and it was kinda still alive! AUGH. The family laughed and gave their support. It was done. I killed an animal. I'm not vegetarian yet, but I do now have a better appreciation about where my food comes from. There's no denying it; :shrug: The rooster tasted really good for dinner.

The conclusion of our time was sad, indeed; we attended a funeral of a mother who died in child birth. She lay there very still and her child, red faced and hungry, laid in a hut a hundred feet from the funeral grounds while her family mourned vocally. The pain was too much to get her on a bicycle and she died from shock. "Challenges of rural life," Paul remarked quietly. I hadn't thought of maternity deaths much before this.....God, be close to the heartbroken. I held the baby's hand and did the only thing I could do: hold on. Our rural visit overall was incredible (none of this prison business) and I wish I was still there now. Our last scene: The sky is open and chickens are scavenging in the front yard. The cattle come in from their grazing and four foreigners drive down the road back towards city hustle.

"Now Close Your Eyes...

2008-09-11T12:33:00.000-07:00

...and hold out your hand so I can give you something real."

Being here in Uganda-a-go-go-land, I leave my journal in my backpack and think my funny and hard thoughts to myself instead. I said it once and I'll say it again: I am hilarious in my head. At orientation they told us to reflect, reflect, reflect, and I noted what they said, but I haven't been able to go to a place where I feel I have nothing but time and all the ability to take my journal out and write. In pen.
How novel.
And so ((claps expediently)), it's time for an internal assessment of my thoughts. Please give me grace in my explanations.

1. My eurocentric worldview goes deeper than I thought.
For Post-Colonial Literature, we read an article by Chinua Achebe, and he evaluated the fact that early European literature has set the tone for how people presently conceive Africa. Before the civil rights movement [okay...I take that back. It's prevalence still comes up], Westerners viewed Africans as pagan savages (thanks, Heart of Darkness!), and now it has morphed to seeing Africans as helpless, poor, and ignorant of proper success. In paraphrase, he basically said that books about Africa talked about a reality he didn't live. It wasn't wrong, just different. In America, we call the helplessness "underdeveloped"---but really, as a culture...don't we really mean "uncivilized"? Are these the influences that makes me zero in on street children in ratty clothes and not the businesswoman walking to work? Have I been trained to see slums? And why do I still fail to give credit to the Ugandan's that have fluorished under the free market system?
A Ugandan friend back home excitedly asked me if I'd been to any big Ugandan mansions yet. She spoke with such pride. "There are poor, sure, but they're happy! You see? You see?" I angrily thought of the Shanty-town below those big mansions; and I wondered soberly, after this thought, who, in fact, was blind?

2. I'm still in the US.
My thoughts are incessantly with situations back home that I really want to work out. This little girl just wants to be loved and for people to feel loved. Can't a person get some assurance?! However, for some uncanny reason, tribulations are coming up and things are getting harder. I don't do well with uncontrol. Handle bars are my thing. I'm also focused on the harrowing thought that when I get back, there will be 500 faces I won't recognize and no one to eat with at lunch. Ahahah, grace, grace. I love that I'm here and the frequency of these thoughts are keeping me from being present. I'm trying to use my Jedi powers to keep me from drifting away from people instead of relaxing and allowing myself to truly ask hard questions about God, poverty, my surroundings and myself. It's not working. My team's hearts are breaking for children, people and I haven't even left Indiana. If I don't make a change, I will have wasted this time. Ouch.

3. Applying For Practicum
I'm really excited to go and use my skills here in Uganda! I'm also overwhelmed because these kids* are so talented and qualified. By talented and qualified, I mean intimidating. They've done so many incredible things for social justice and development in High school and college. It's humbling. And annoying*. :laughs:
I was worried there wouldn't be anything I could do, but some opportunities opened up in Child Development-Uganda that fell into my specialization. We'll see. I can't control that either :smiles:.
There were no relevant opportunities in Ethiopia so I won't get to spend my time there but that's okay. Kenya was cut because of travel warnings! KENYAN GOVERNMENT, GET IT TOGETHER! Haha, but I'm pumped for being here for October and getting to know the communities. Two more weeks.

*my term of endearment.
*hm, I hope my humor translates.
----
Reading our weekly devotional, Owning Poverty, the conviction was too much. The issue's topic was embracing the unknowing. "We have to start with what we don't know in order to receive wisdom in the area we lack it. It is as if God is saying, First, open your hand. Yes, drop altogether, what you think you have in your hand already. Look there, see it is nothing, dust, lint, empty. Now close your eyes and hold out your hand so I can give you something real. There is a lot of wisdom God wants to give us on this journey which requires a shift in our worldview. That will be harder to shift if we are clutching to it tightly. They bring comfort, but they are not the 'truth'...It is incredibly uncomfortable to not understand and be O.K. with that, to not race in your mind to solve things or figure it all out. We want to open our eyes and peek. Starting with an empty hand not only makes us learners toward other people, it puts us in the right attitude to receive Divine wisdom. If we trust God enough we will close our eyes."
I'm trying to get them closed. I'm trying to get my fingers open.

The pop music of the bar floats over the fence, meeting the mosque's call to prayer. Prosaism just doesn't seem to catch it.

Middle School Dance Party

2008-09-08T01:33:00.001-07:00

Meghan started it.

Nebaza Katonda: Part 2--Here Comes the Bride, WOO!

2008-09-07T07:14:00.000-07:00

"That was the craziest wedding I've ever been to."

"You have to eat!"
"Grace, we don't have time to eat!"
"What's she want?"
"Grace wants us to eat. She says no African wedding starts on time."
"But we're late. Our Matatu is already here! We don't have time to eat."
"She seems to be sure that no African wedding starts on time. She says we'll be hungry. We have to eat before we leave."
:sigh:
Like good grumbling American students, we herded into the dining room and waited for the pasta to be brought out. Jumah's wedding was today! All dressed up (and pretty western snazzy I must say) most of us were on our way and excited for our first African wedding! Someone told us that it was just like a western wedding, so some of the group opted to only go to the reception. A wedding! But at present we were stuck under Grace's discerning eye, forced to eat. We'd never make it by noon! "You have 10 minutes to eat," Kenny grousingly instructed the table. Julia put on her sunglasses and shook her head. We ate begrudgingly.

Jumah was one of our Ugandan student assistants from Cornerstone Development who helped us navigate the precariousness of Kampala Kabonye taxis parks, among other things. A jokester...mmm, yeah. Serious....er...could be. And he was marrying Alice today (whom we hadn't met but who he assured us he paid an exorbitant bride price for). Our taxi pulled down a dirt road filled with craters and pulled up to a creme, plaster building with a taffetta arch in front of the entry. Paul, the other student assistant keeping professional guard of the taffeta arch, smiled as we unloaded.

The Wedding
Started at 1:15! The few on-time stood clapping with the energetic worship band for an hour waiting for Jumah/Alice to arrive. Precocious Steve, a contact-obsessed Ugandan "jr. pastor", harrassed the 13 of us for our email addresses and photos for forty of those 60 minutes.

Alice was stunning. There was no wedding march but ugandan pop music instead and the bride and groom danced/marched toward one another (meeting in the middle) in between a entryway of 9 (wedding shuffle)bridesmaids in hot-pink and polka dot dresses. No comment. The bride and groom sat with everyone for the message, and every now and then, an excited relative would spasm and burst

"HALLELUJAHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"

whenever he got really excited about his friend getting married. The room would erupt in clapping and his school mates from the back would start chanting. The messages were one of those appalling "Man is the ultimate Head" speeches. "Even if you're the president of the country, in the home, you are the wife of Jumah." I--didn't comment. The pastor went on and on like that for a long time. Jumah and Alice went up to the front to say their vows and everytime something important would happen, the drummer would start drumming in the background! "I do". Boom boom boom boom bum, Buh-dum-ch. Ahahah, Meghan and I tried to keep our laughing quiet. In fact, there was drumming and music for everything! The entire hour and a half was filled with celebratory African worship music. I thought in my head about how quiet and orderly American weddings are. Jumah smiled at his bride and wiped sweat off his brow. Nothing was interpreted for the vows, so I have no idea what was going on. Just like in traditional

(HALLELUJAHHHHH!!! :applause: :chanting:)

African culture, she kneeled on the floor, said her vows, and gave him her ring. I--didn't comment. And then, they hugged. Ahaha, they never kissed. Then they disappeared on the side of the stage where the bridesmaids shielded them, in order to sign the marriage certificate, and everyone else danced and clapped frantically to the band on stage. The place was drunk with happiness. At the end, everyone clapped, we threw irritated looks at Precocious Steve, and the wedding march began. The drum heavy instrumental, "Here comes the bride"

WOO!

"all dressed in white"

WOO!
started playing over the loudspeaker and we wooped at intervals when everyone else wooped. Everyone stood outside to congratulate the couple and children ran around Meghan. That wedding was as "western" as a djembe. Meeting the others at the reception, we didn't eat until 7:15pm, after 3 hours of waiting for it to start, 6 lengthy speeches, cutting of the flaming pastry, a power outage, and the (slooow) syncronized wedding shuffle. Precocious Steve stalked our heels and Rachel was proposed to by a Congelese man. That was the craziest wedding I've ever been to. Getting a first hand lesson about the African concept of time, the chaos was a blast, really. I'd have to make sure to nominate Grace for sainthood.

Nebaza Katonda: Part I

2008-09-02T03:42:00.002-07:00

"Just being here is really epic"

At the tone, it will be 1:05pm and the call to prayer will have already sounded from the hill. As a team, we keep on realizing we've only been here a little over a week, but it seems like AGES! A week is an age and a semester is a lifetime.
"We're going rafting tomorrow!"
I was really concerned about going rafting on the Nile. I've been white water rafting before on class III's and IV's, but the Nile was class V, and apparently a lot of people had flipped with the company we were going with. To put things into context--class VI's are unraftable. Julia, our R.D., was hesitant about us going and Julia and Kenny the most hardcore married couple I have ever met. Julia was proposed to after sky-diving, and after this couple tied the knot, they hiked the Appalachian trail. THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL. If Julia was hestiant about it...
Class IV's are a blast, but I didn't even know what class V's looked like, let alone what it was like to go down one. So we looked it up online: And I quote:

"Extremely difficult. Long and violent rapids that follow each other almost without interruption. River filled with obstructions. Big drops and violent currents. Extremely steep gradient. Even reconnoitering may be difficult. Rescue preparations mandatory."

((sigh)) We're going rafting tomorrow. The bus picked up at the guesthouse to take us to Jinja and an hour and half later we met the other British, Irish, Aussie, Kiwi, Canadian, French, and American Mzungu's at the company's base located on thesource of the Nile. Apparently, such sports are only preferred by westerners. [Observation: All of the westerners I meet are doing development or medical assistance. It seems like the whole western world is out to "help Africa". I wonder where are all the Africans?] If there was a Ugandan around, they were photographers and guides. We split up into teams of eight, and I rafted with a few Brits volunteering in a medical clinic in Kenya, an Irish girl tagging along with them, an Aussie geophysicist (the only male) taking a vacation on someone else's dime, and Allison and Rebecca from the GoEd team. No joke: my boat spent about 6 hours talking about tanning. I kept quiet and watched birds. Our guide was Tou Tou, an energetic, ugandan man with huge biceps and several missing teeth. I wondered if this was from dental hygiene, or a few unsavory encounters with the rapids. I never asked.
Rafting was intense, but sOo fun! The forest and wildlife, to say the least, were stunning. Children waved to us from the bank. We went over a waterfall, paddled through eddies, had lunch on an island, and at the last serious rapid, we opted to do "The Bad Place". The Bad Place is a V rapid with 100% flip rate, and when you fall out, you can be sucked down for 15-19 seconds. After watching everyone else flip on the "Big Brother" and "Overtime", I just couldn't miss out! And I figured, (shrug) if I died on this, at least it would be cool. oh, youth.

"HOLD ONNNNNNN!!!" Tou Tou shouted. We fell straight into the rapid and I could feel the back of the raft lift. Being in the front, gallons of water splashed into my face and I was launched into the surge. I flipped around a bit and came up to the surface quickly (thanks life jackets!) but met walls and walls of waves every time I came to inhale a good breath of air. I kept my legs up like a canoe ("straight like a canoe!) to avoid getting scraps on unseen rocks. As I was swept further down stream, to where the rescue kayaks awaited, I began laughing. It was the most insane thing I have ever done in my life. I felt like I was drowing for a minute but I survived. I am a crazy person.

"Roe, we did it!"

On the bus home, I felt nothing but exhaustion and contentment. I rafted the Nile.

"Just being here is really epic," Allison quipped in a conversation going on in the back of the bus. I took note and shut my eyes.

Trying to...

2008-08-26T09:38:00.000-07:00

convey best what I see in the most descriptive way I can.

Outside

Black, exhaust smoke trails along concrete byways and lifts into the air
Burqa clad women brush shoulders with street hawkers
peddling fashionable skirts
a Matatu with "God is Good" written on windshields pick up taxi fair,
and dark skinned people walk
through the congested traffic jam (dangerous), on their way to
shoot breezes
with their community.
Eyes watch the familiar and foreign.
The city's music are the voices of its people crying
out greetings, cars honking, bota botas picking up motorcycle speed,
and the cuckoobarros greeting the afternoon humidity.
A sleepy 3-year old begs in the street, nodding off, hands out;
while another is held firmly above her mothers big hip, secure
in fabric--bright printed colors,
looking to the throngs, petitioning
"Muzungu! Muzungu!"
The sun, from above, observes all the going's on of African heritage,
and the students walk to class, walking the red, dirt clad streets
eager to learn; receiving new eyes.

Inside

In Post-Colonial African Literature, my teacher reads her poetry to her little class,
in the little, run-down room, where she helps us discover the African mind.
The view of the city stretches for miles. We listen and are amazed. In a line, she
speaks the truth I'm looking for.
"We do not write poetry. We live it."
-------
Rachel, Becca, and I are going to Sanyu tomorrow. It's a baby orphanage on Mengo near the King's palace. We, as Americans, tend to sensationalize starving African orphans with snot running down their noses, with no one to nurse their swollen bellies. And its not like that in Sanyu at all; I'm positive. What surprises me is I just never expected to feel this burdened feeling when Julia pointed it out to us.

Rushing Go Great Distances

2008-08-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

"Why can't I ever go anywhere in a normal fashion?"

So two minutes after I wrote the last post, Julie, Our RD, rushes into the room shouting commands.
"C'mon! C'mon! C'mon! Everything needs to be packed up right now. We moved up our flight and it's in half an hour! It leaves at 6:30pm. Let's Go! We have to make it to the airport."
Everyone, with graces of gerbils, rushes for our luggage, carry-on's, and any other little items we might regret leaving behind (snack bags are necessity), and shove into FH vans. In the vans, we talked and looked at the stoplights that were holding us up. We make it to the airport half an hour before boarding. All ten of us stand in line with our hiking backpacks and duffel bags. But at the ticket counter, apparently the clerk has never checked in a group flying internationally and does not know a way to get our luggage from point A Phoenix to point B Ethiopia without having to recheck our bags at each of our five stops. Besides, there was the additional fee required for all our extra luggage. Teresa, our program manager, is an insistent woman. We wait 30 minutes for this woman to finally renig and handwrite each and every bag ticket and receipt. Plus take our wad of cash. None of this is making any sense. Our plane is boarding right now. The clerk is pissed because it's the end of her day and this was the last thing she needed. Two girls manage to check their luggage ahead of me, and when it's my turn and it's all done, Teresa,the program manager, turns to me and sternly gives me my mission.
"Roshanda. You are going to run in front of everyone in security. You're flight is leaving now. They're going to stop you at security anyway. RUN and make that plane."
So I sprint. I spring like a flip-flopping wind with my backpack that weighs approximately 293,374 pounds and I negotiate my way to front of security where, wouldn't you know it, they stop me in the "holding cell".
I wait 7 minutes for someone to pat me down.
7 of them.
By the time the woman comes over and begins to spot check my laptop, it is 6:17. Interestingly enough, the woman is very chatty in my controlled frantic-ness. "Oh, so what time does your plane leave." Now. RIGHT now. It takes off at 6:30. "Oh! You need to go then, don't you?" (#_#)

So I run again. Like the wind, the wrong way, and by the time I make it to the gate, it is two minutes before United Air locks the gate. Panting like the elderly emphezema victim, I stumble onto the plane looking for the two familiar faces that should have made the plane before me. However, I slowly realize, they aren't there. They are not on this plane. I sit down and wait for my equally frantic team to board the plane that has miraculously been held for them. But the flight attendant shuts the cabin door. As we take off it begins to sink in: No team. Just me. I am alone on a flight to Atlanta and I don't know where anyone is or how I can meet them. I am slightly frazzled.
Why can't I ever get anywhere in a normal fashion? At 1am, I arrive in Atlanta and call Teresa to see if she knows where everyone is. I'm instructed to take a connecting flight to Washington at 5am and meet them in Washington D.C. I share this hilarity on a payphone to my parents in the lock-downed Atlanta airport.
When I see them in D.C., I raise my arms in celebration! We cheer! Thank God! I was worried I'd have to take a 15 hour plane ride to Ethiopia by myself! Julia and Kirsten even hug me. However, even at the point in the game, was possible impending disaster because as Julia went to check in, they informed her that her ticket had been canceled. She's our young house mom! There was nothing she could do about it but buy another $1,000 ticket. We thought all ten of us were going to have to leave without her and catch up with her later.

At plane ride hour 17, 3 hours of good sleep, I looked outside the window on Ethiopia Air, and saw the sunrise in Sudan's sky. It was like a magma ball of deep orange, levitating up above clouds, the air navy, yellow, pink, red and then exploding the sky with bright light, washing everything white. I smile and turned away. I'm almost to Addis Ababa.
------
In Kampala, It's completely different than what I imagined but I'm so pleased. Poverty is evident even in the midst of downtown. I didn't think I'd see it so soon. Thing is...this poverty is.... different than what I've experienced before. Uganda is kind of like what you see of Africa on T.V. and then not at the same time. My mind is still taking in the co-existence of chickens, goats, metal shanty houses, barbed wire, high rises, taxis and food stands on rolling, green hills. I'm bothered, feel helpless and couldn't even begin to tell you what to do for them, let alone grasp the picture I see in front of me.
------
There's a quote that stands on a billboard made by past GoEd teams in our (beautiful) compound house:

"Don't convince yourself that the suffering of others reinforces your moral status."

oof.
In four words: I am learning quickly.

Ninety Degrees by 8am

2008-08-20T22:06:00.000-07:00

"Welcome to the change process"

Flying in a plane, looking over Phoenix, it still didn't hit me that this whole thing was really happening. After talking to an flirtaceous, insistent Zimbabwean man who talked to me the whole plane ride, it felt good to focus on my luggage and this whole crazy adventure.

I walked into the hotel lobby, laden with all my packed-up-life, and spotted Elizabeth first! Yes! Haha, Elizabeth was the overwhelming World Vision Intern/Relay Marathon/Ex-dread wearer who I kinda sorta facebook stalked over the summer with the other members. I went in for a hug, actually, but when she stuck out her hand, I readjusted quickly, ahahaha. Oh. Hands; right-right. Upstaris, they put us in swank digs, and around noon, the bulk of the kids sauntered down to the lobby to be carted over to Orientation at Food For the Hungry Headquarters. I recognized them all from the pictures I posted on here. Oop, there's Allison, and Kyle, and Rachel, and Rebecca, and Katie.

Headquarters is beautiful with color photography of national everywhere. In the conference room, everything was laid out for us, food, snacks, water, lunch, folders, pens.

As I listened to the speakers, I began to feel the weight of what I'm doing.
If I'm going to walk with God, that has to be my posture toward humanity as well.
Poverty is not an object.
It is me.
I am not outside of it, doing "good to others". I'm in it. Everyone is in it.
Geography is merely relative.

We talked about God's grace, and Food For the Hungry's mission and vision, and I began to feel emotionally overwhelmed. I caught myself tearing up during one of the lectures, actually. *sigh* Insufferable.
This is going to be beautiful, I thought. We leave in 3 hours for our plane journey. To Africa.

I didn't realize it before but I'm feeling it now. This is going to change my whole world.

Check Check

2008-08-01T20:35:00.000-07:00

*Student Travel Insurance
*"The River Between" read
*Research MDG #1
*Flight to Phoenix
*Passport
*Sweet, handmade, passport case

check, check, check, check, check-check.

Days left in Wyoming: 10

Days until GoEd Africa Orientation: 19

It's coming....

And I Quote

2008-07-20T20:39:00.000-07:00

Jamaican Coworker: "Why arrr yew leavin' so urrrly?
me: "Oh, um, I'm going to study in Africa for four months."
J CoWo: "Oh....goin' bahk to da muddaland...."

::laughs:: Why, yes. Yes, I am.

"I Think They Call It Roots" or "Cradle"

2008-07-18T06:08:00.000-07:00

The more I think about this trip, the more I'm realizing: this is turning out to be a very big deal.
I was sitting in bed this morning and the impact of it all hit me. I mean, I don't know about the realizations of my fellow travelers, but my reality is that I'm going to back to my "homeland", to be inappropriately sentimental about it. I really am.

I'm going to land of my people.

(laughs) More than once, I've been asked by my Hispanic co-workers here in Wyoming where in Africa my family is from. You don't know what country? they ask. Has any of your family ever been? they inquire. What can I do but stutter around it and look regretfully down at the floor. There weren't any countries back then. We were bargained off, mixed together, and sold. Few records remain about labor cargo. European societies didn't even think we had souls, let alone gave courtesy to future desires to return to our origins. "I don't know" and "no" I have to respond to all questions regarding Africa. Over the years, family genealogies my teachers have asked me to do, I've simply skipped. It was distressing to think that after my people got here, our tribal ties were disregarded and we simply took on the name of a landowner. Cummings. This fact reminded me of slavery and I just didn't want to think about slavery anymore.

There's no information? my professors would ask.

I would sit their resentful as my classmates traced their lineage practically back to the Bible.
In my youth (no, wait...I'm still young, aren't I?), I just became incredibly cynical. The back-to-Africa movement was completely ridiculous to me. Look here, Tyrone! Take off your darshiki and go back to Cleveland where you were born. You're African-American. Deal with it like the rest of us. But things are changing. The land is drawing me to itself. There is something that's stirring up in me for my home-home. The knowledge that I'm returning overwhelms me with pride. Just think about what it would be like to go to Ireland, England, France, Switzerland, Holland, Germany for the first time? That excited, anxious, pressury feeling? I have that. My family could be from anywhere on the large mass of land but going back even to the nearest vicinity has a power I have never seen coming. They say that Kenya and Ethiopia are the cradle of civilization anyway...maybe I'm going back to everyone's beginning.
The required books I'm reading (about the invasion of Western Christianity) is making me defensive for story-book African tribes that may or may not have really existed--but more on that later.
And, something else that hadn't occurred to me,
In 3 weeks time and for once in my life...I won't be a minority anymore! Everyone will kinda sorta look like me. Shorter but very very brown. I tell you, the thought is too much to take.

...the natural state of mankind is instead - and I know this is a controversial idea - is freedom. Is freedom. And the proof is the length to which a man, woman or child will go to regain it once taken. He will break loose his chains. He will decimate his enemies. He will try and try and try, against all odds, against all prejudices, to get home.

-John Quincy Adams
Amistad (1997)

Oh Yeah, about that...

2008-07-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

I still haven't but need to:

Research :
*Uganda, Kenya, Ethiopia
*MDG #1
*Water provision/management
*surveying
*qualitative/ethnographical analysis

secure student insurance

get immunizations

Read:
*The River Between (I've already read "Things Fall Apart". Thanks Professor Prenkart!)
*Pedagogy of the Oppressed
*Post Colonial Identies in Africa

(sigh) Three and a half weeks and no library. Hahaha, brilliant. So I'm thinking about practicum programs I would be honored to be apart of. Now that I've typed them out, I'm really excited about them because they utilize something I enjoy immensely and the only thing I know how to do: watch people. At the same time I'm nervous because I'm just an undergrad! The smartest minds of economics, environmental science, and and foreign affairs have been addressing these questions for decades. I'm young, maybe my eyes are "new" but I don't know anything about poverty and you want me to work on it for a month? I have a feeling everything that I thought I knew is just going to come tumbling down. Man, I hope I have something to contribute.
The work practicums I hope to apply for:

(Marsabit, Kenya)
Community Water Provision
Responsibilities:

Analyze community water needs, including distance to water and time spent by various family members in meeting basic water needs.
Observe water management committee meetings and describe problems and potential solutions for community water needs.
Analyze impact of technologies, such as bicycles and pumps, on gender workloads.

Food Security and Emergency
Responsibilities:

Under the guidance of Virginia Nzisa Mutiso, carry out an analysis on the barriers involving 58 relief committees and the factors that hindered them from reaching the most vulnerable groups.
For World Food Program relief feeding programs, prepare a suitable manual focused on reaching the most vulnerable people groups in a culturally acceptable manner.
Determine impact of food aid on different faith based groups.

(Kumi, Uganda)
HIV/AIDS Survey
Responsibilities:

Find out the status of HIV/AIDS children in the area.
Create a report listing the behavior of these children, including social involvement, family relations, various attitudes, etc. Include statistics such as family income, family structure, and available schooling.
Come up with recommendations on how to best support these children.

(Oromo region, Ethiopia)
Integrated Community Development Program
Responsibilities:

Major activities are water and sanitation; agricultural support to farmers on improved farming technology; and capacity building of villagers toward sustainable livelihood and leadership to 40,000 people including Muslim settlers.

My parents have been super supportive and helpful in getting this last minute girl's stuff together. They're the dream team, I swear. Immunization appointments, hide-n-go-find the shot records, everything. I'd be up three creeks without 'em.

The Squad

2008-07-10T16:54:00.000-07:00

So when I refer to them, everyone knows who I'm talking about. Gotta love reading aids.

Let me introduce you to the GoEd team:

Elizabeth Moreno (Whitworth College)-->

<--Meghan Hedley (George Fox University)

Sarah Peoples
(Northwest U.)-->

^^Hazel Shively (Messiah College)

Kyle Navis (Whitworth College)-->

<--Allison Hood (Georgia Institute of Technology)

Christina Hunt
(Northwest U.)-->

<--Rachel Kleinow

(Messiah Co.)

Kati Tefft
(George Fox U.)^^

<--Kirsten Bolter

(Houghton College)

Rebecca Coover (Messiah College}-->

Plus:Dawna Daiman [Bethel University],

who I'll get a picture of later, of course,

and me, from little Bethel C--------------------------------------------------------------->>

I am getting so pumped.

Pre-Meditations...

2008-07-09T18:19:00.001-07:00

Ni Kweli.

My passport just arrived at my parents house in California and (counts) five weeks from now I'll be on a plane to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. What in the world....?

There's a lot of hindrances that I have to overcome to guarantee that I'll be boarding that plane [last minute immunizations, check-ups, cv/resume concoction]
but I suppose I've jumped a lot of them (or something has carried me over) to get me this far. Four months ago, I was convinced I'd be going to Cairo, Egypt for my semester abroad. This may sound bizarre, but five years ago, at a missions conference, someone reached out for my shoulder and prayed for the people I'd affect in Africa. He walked away like a phantom; I never saw his face, so I could never thank him for [scarily] confirming the foreign thoughts I had been fanticizing about for a long time. How come he didn't mention any of the other 17 countries and 4 continents discussed? How did he know? That year and for the first two years of college, no one was coming up to me with job or missions opportunities to the place, so I changed my major and worked on directing my own path. I was going to get myself there through social science. The Uganda program through CCCU just didn't appeal to me, but Egypt was exotic. Lots of people, spicy foods, arabic, and shisha. There were pyramids.
Hey, it's in still in Africa. The voice should have been more specific.
But, if you're well familiar with geography, anthropology, and political science, Egypt is in North Africa or considered apart of the Middle East, which is completely different from the rest of Africa underneath the Sahara Desert. I guess the voice meant below. I was waitlisted for the amazing Egypt program and I conviently moped around for a month and a half over my bad luck. WAITLISTED! Arrrrrggggh, was I not good enough?! But the voice was not silent for long. I was scanning Food For the Hungry's website for future job opportunities/internships, when I saw the link. GoED Africa.

"You've read about poverty and development in textbooks. You've seen pictures of war and hunger on the news. Confused by the complexity of the issues? Wondering how you can make a difference? To understand poverty, you first must own it. Transformational development starts with you. Go ED. is a unique study abroad program that will change the way you think about your world."

Um, excuse me? Its focus and goal: community development and peacebuilding. I'm sorry, can you repeat that amazing thing one more time? The deadlines were past so I inquired if this could be an option for Spring since it didn't look like I was going anywhere for Fall (ahem, ruining my whole academic plan) and the hub emailed Brent Reimer back immediately. "If she's still interested, we'll consider her application for this fall." And they accepted me, after all deadlines were past, and it was one week before school ended. The program was 3x better than the one I'd applied for, would put me in the field I wanted to study, and give me practicum experience to help me know what I'm doing. Africa. I had been trying to get there my own way, and the voice insisted on doing it hers.

The semester plan:
Week 1-4 (Uganda)
INCL 340: African Traditional Religion (ATR),
ENG 206: Post Colonial African Literature
Week 5-7 (Rwanda)
INCL 345: Issues in Peacebuilding: Genocide and Diversity ,
SOC 381: Social Context for Development
Week 8-11 (EthiopiaKenyaRwandaUganda)
Supervised Field Practicum in Development Work
Week 12-14 (Uganda)
INCL 340: African Traditional Religion (ATR),
ECON 240: Development Economics,
ENG 206: Post Colonial African Literature

plus some Swahili 101; and so I created this blog to document my time and all the moments where my preconceptions about poverty, aid, and Africa get kicked in the face. Ni kweli means "it is true" in Kiswahili and I hope to convey what is to you and to myself--all that comes along with this crazy trip: the truth about life and humanitarianism a world away. What am I getting myself into?

Ni Kweli what I say.