Sweet Moments in Life

May I have the pleasure of introducing you to three special people in my life...

Tate
Tate (grandmother in Swahili) is an ancient woman who is also a fistula patient. Her body has been weakened and emaciated by years of suffering and hard labor, but she is a dear person. Even when people steal her little bag of soap while she does other chores, she does not display bitterness.
The day that Chelsie and I returned from Rwanda after the attacks in and around Goma in late October, the first thing we did was to visit the women at the transit center at the HEAL hospital. They laughed and danced, celebrating that we were back, that we had not abandoned them. We played ball with some of the younger, louder women; talked with the children about school and how they felt when they were hiding under their beds listening to the gunshots; we joked with the older women about life and the process of existing. We also made the rounds to the post-op rooms for fistula patients, where Tate was recovering. As we were catching with up with Tate and getting to know the newer patients, Tate reached over and started playing with my hair. The other women gasped at her audacity to touch a white person’s hair. She glared at them with daring eyes and told them in a stern voice, “I’m her grandmother. She is one of us.” Then she turned to me and informed me, “I’m going to braid your hair. Sit on the ground.” Obediently, I eased myself in between the two plastic-encased mattresses on their simple, chipped aluminum bed frames, trying not to wonder when was the last time they were cleaned. Calmly, with wrinkled hands and decades of experience, Tate proceeded to braid my hair. The rest of the women sat comfortably around us, another barrier being broken forever between us. Although my braid looked beautiful, my spirit was lifted by this undeserved grandmother’s love.

Cristina
About a week ago, I was visiting some of the mamas in their living quarters. This particular day, I happened to be teaching them how to use my camera, and they were giggling hysterically at the pictures they were capturing. One of the young fistula patients walked into the room and when she saw me, she urged me to come and see something. The Mama took her newborn from her friend’s arms and put the baby in my arms. “Majina yako!” she exclaimed. Surprised, I asked, “you named her Cristina?” She nodded proudly as I held this beautiful little baby; my heart warmed all over as the infant stared deep into my eyes. The mother grabbed my camera and took this picture of my namesake.

Helena (Evira)
Helena you already know… she has received a few name changes since the time we met her in the middle of the road in Masisi, unable to walk and stiff to stretch her legs. She has now been at the handicap center, through the support of HEAL Africa’s “Children Like Us” program for children with disabilities. As she has been receiving nutrition, physical therapy, play therapy and care, she has gained much strength. The doctors estimate that in two or three more months, Helena will be walking completely on her own. Her mother beams with joy and pride as she describes how little Helena now sits like a normal person on a chair, how she can lift herself up, and how she has even started walking on her own if she can lean on a wall. Helena herself shines as she exhausts herself in her efforts to show me that she can even jump if I am walking with her! Yes, Helena will walk.

Minova Refugee Camp, Eye Stings and Water

Yesterday we went to a brand new refugee camp that sprung up in Minova, right past Sake, about 10 KM away from Goma. We have a team of aid workers from Samaritan’s purse, namely surgeons and water treatment specialists. They were quick to respond to the vast needs here in North Kivu and invited Chelsie and I to help them set up a training session and distribution of water purifying materials. Cholera is quickly becoming a severe problem, and can kill many people simply because they cannot access clean water.
We bumped over the rain washed dirt roads that my body seems to never get used to. As we turned yet another hill next to beautiful forests and bright lakes, out in the middle of nowhere, we came upon the new Minova camp. This refugee camp houses 1,800 people, families from many different tribes, all shoved in in one faraway place out of reach of commerce and food. Their makeshift shelters lacked the UNICEF tarps, showing the camp’s newness, and how little help they had received since their recent flight.
Robinson, the Kenyan water technician, asked for the people to bring them the water that they usually drink. The men came back with a bucket full of muck. It is difficult for it to not seem like I am exaggerating, but truly, this water was dirtier than anything, like water you would be hesitant to wade in, like shallow, slightly stagnant sides of soft mud. The dirt particles, bacteria and mitochondria hung and waved lightly in the pail. We asked if they boiled the water before they drank it, at which they responded, “Rarely, because firewood is difficult to find, and it is rainy season right now. But this water does make our stomachs feel funny.” Samaritan’s Purse was happy to begin training some of the team leaders.
In the meantime, we roped off an area for working in, and the rest of us began separating pails in pairs, with stir sticks, a cloth to drain the clean water in, clothespins for securing them and PUR water purifying packets. Hundreds of people stared at us and then started laughing and joking with us as they realized we spoke Swahili. So many questions, so many proposals!
Out of nowhere, a misfortune for me: a random bug flew into my eye and stung my eyeball. I was told there is a bug that likes to sting people’s eyes and aims for them in their flight. And here I had been nervous about my feet and the huge spiders and bugs of all kinds crawling and hopping around in the bush! My eye has gotten quite swollen and red and constantly tears in pain; I’m also allergic to the bite, and the sting’s poison has spread out past my forehead and down past my nose. I’ve sneezed more times today than any other day of my life!
Back to the story. We finally set up 300 water purifying kits and people were being grouped in teams of six to share the kits, as it would give them enough clean water for 4 days. The results showed a sparkling clean glass of water after 20 minutes. We all tasted its refreshing coolness. Suddenly, it started raining. People got desperate and started pressing. The men guarding the twine barriers got nervous and began swinging sticks to warn people to stay away. We stood in the middle, trying to guard the kits as the mob began throbbing. Pressing in, pushed out. Tempers flared in a moment, rain came down faster and suddenly, they were all gone. The people ran for buckets and escaped as quickly as they could. Men with sticks chasing pregnant women. Children stealing stir sticks, having no idea how to use them. All this work, so close, and they will still have no clean water to drink. Desperation. How many children will die today because starving, thirsty refugees could not retain their anxiety, their fear that maybe they would be left out?

What about Galula's Sisters?

Gulula is 6 years old and has two brothers and two sisters. The innocent little girls were playing together in their home last week when, in a moment, their lives were altered forever. They found a grenade in their yard, and thinking it was a toy, they played with it until the grenade exploded in their faces. The two oldest have severely burned their faces and arms; Gulula’s eyes were burned, and the scars on her face will change her look forever. Although the mother showed up immediately with all three girls, by the time we were able to visit them at HEAL Africa this week, only Gulula remained at the hospital.


Between two hospital cots in the crowded post-operating room, she sat shyly hugging her knees, motionless. The stiff, fluid-hardened gauze clung to her face like a cast, rendering her expressionless. Many attempts at connecting with her finally earned me her little, scarred hand, which she allowed me to hold as we talked with her mother. Annifa, the HEALing Arts manager, asked the woman where the Gulula’s sisters were. The mother looked down, ashamed, and whispered in a sunken voice, “We can only afford to pay for one of our daughters to have medical treatment, so we had to send the older girls home.” We asked what the rates were, at which she responded the insurmountable amount per girl, $5 per day. Stunned, I thought about what $5 per day meant to most of us in the developed world and my heart was suffocated even further. I looked into Gulula’s soft eyes through the blood-stained gauze and almost wept before them in the crowded, smelly room full of suffering victims.


Gently, we explained to the mother that HEALing Arts had an Emergency Fund that would pay the cost for her other two girls to receive treatment for their burns immediately. I also explained that HEALing Arts has a school where her girls can continue studying as they heal, and that she can learn to sew at our Sewing and Weaving School. The mother could hardly believe all we were telling her, but her smile was big and her handshake was strong as we said good-bye.

How You Can Help & Partner With Goma

PRAY FOR PEACE, SAFETY AND RESOLUTION BETWEEN GEN. NKUNDA (CNDP FORCES) AND KABILA (CONGO PRESIDENT)

To Donate:
1) Send us an email with the amount of your donation prior to mailing a check at cristina.m.edelstein@gmail.com. This allows us to approve funds for food relief and pre-approving medical procedures in a timely manner.
2) Write checks out to HEAL Africa with “HEALing Arts- EMERGENCY FUND” written in the memo. Mail checks to Harper McConnell at P.O. Box 147, Monroe, WA 98272.

To Advocate:
1) Write to your politicials using the letter below. To find them:
Senators: http://www.senate.gov/index.htm
Congressman: https://writerep.house.gov/writerep/welcome.shtml

2) Letter to ban "Conflict Coltan" from being imported to the US; to advocate for conflict-free trade of minerals.
http://healafrica.org/cms/files/media/Coltan%20Letter.pdf
To understand about the coltan problem, read http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/johann-hari/johann-h

3) To receive a copy of the Global Call for Action to Stop New War-Rapes in Goma & Eastern Congo! please email Harper McConnell at harper@healafrica.org to sign the petition and distribute it.


On behalf of the people of Goma, thank you for helping us. We thank God for his continual protection of our friends and that nothing- even catastrophes and evil people- is outside of his control. We will once again stand strong. ASANTE! (THANK YOU!).

Countdown to our Evacuation

Sunday, October 26
2:00 PM Chelsie and Cristina walk 30 women from the fistula transit center and 8 children over to the sports center, where Yole! Africa has organized a festival for peace and safety. Today’s activities include a ‘battle of the bands’ from local hip hop dance groups and a film about this year’s election conflict in Kenya. The women love the entertainment as we sit in the sweltering heat with 3,000 other Goma residents enjoying local talent.

Monday, October 27
7:45 AM Sun shining bright. Chelsie does some yoga as Cristina rides the stationary bike and studies Swahili. We go to the breakfast table and meet Lyn, who somberly warns us that we should know where our passports and money are. Nkunda took over the neighboring town of Kibumba and pushed back the UN forces in the Congo (MONUC). We expect 20,000 refugees running to Goma.
1:28 PM Distracted day with news reports; regardless, we plan for growth of HEALing Arts and Upper Room and CPC’s involvement in DR Congo. Cristina’s French lesson with Stewart is all about the imminent war. Thirty rounds of bullets go off two blocks away in the center of town, where we had heard reports that civilians were stoning MONUC for running away from the war; the UN soldiers responded by killing two civilians and wounding several others. As usual, HEAL Africa has to take care of them. Within one hour, tensions rise. Chelsie downloads some news articles before we race home past thousands of residents heading home.
8:00 PM We send house staff to purchase extra gas for the house and for the motor for our boat. He reports that gas and food prices are already increasing quickly. All short-term volunteers are ordered to return to their home countries the next morning.

Tuesday, October 28
7:04 AM Chelsie is getting dressed and Cristina is in the shower. Jo Lusi knocks on our door saying we should leave Goma immediately for a few days, because “the soldiers will see young girls and then there’s only me between them and you. Better leave and come back in the weekend.” Soon after, Lyn learns that the MONUC general resigned which pleases the people and gives hope. We decide to remain and go to work to fight for normalcy of life.
11:40 AM All our Congolese friends urge us to leave; they say it doesn’t matter that we don’t want to leave them. We are different and an easy target given the attitude towards the UN at the moment. This is the third time they will have lived this war in Goma, they tell us. “We just want them to do whatever they are going to do, kill and steal and then let us get back to life.” Government soldiers lost again and are fleeing to Goma, which is only worse than bad. Many prisoners from the local jail have escaped and increased the chaos. A sense of anarchy settles in.
2:15 PM We cross to Rwanda, our border friends eyeing with reproachful eyes, “You’re abandoning us, too?” We try to justify it, convinced we will return in a day or two. On the Rwanda side, there is a deluge of mzungus who have also been ordered out of the country. Unlike the wealthier NGOs, Chelsie and I are the only white people riding motos to the crowded bus on the way to Kigali. Friends open their homes to us, having cooked fresh lasagna for us. What world do we live in?

Wednesday, October 29
8:00 AM First thoughts after restless nights with dreams: our friends. We call the Lusis, HEALing Arts, Yole Africa and others. Only one friend’s dad was shot by a stray bullet, stores pillaged, bullets ringing all night long. Government soldiers are the main instigators, followed by hopeless and angry young men. HEAL staff lost in the region; found at a Red Cross camp that was later looted.
2:00 PM The urgency for food increases as we worry about our friends locked up in their homes with no provisions and the little groceries and gas available with sky high prices. We worry about how they will survive, since payday has not yet happened for the month and probably won’t anytime soon. We spend at least $20 per day on phone credit, checking up on people and assuring them we are praying and that God will keep them safe and that the world has not forgotten them.
6:15 PM Reports say Nkunda has taken over Goma. Any remaining NGOs are evacuated; Goma residents cringe all night long as more homes are looted, people hurt and many dying. Around 45,000 internally displaced peoples have arrived in Goma in two days, hoping to find safety there- which continues to elude them.
Night Nkunda steps back his CNDP forces, ‘generously ‘allowing the MONUC to keep Goma calm under the chaos and panic caused by the defeated soldiers and fear of the CNDP forces, under the claim that it is to “stop panicking the population of Goma.” Looting and the sound of bullets continue to assail our friends, who still have no food. Rwanda exchanging gunfire over the border into the Congo.

Thursday, October 30
6:50 AM First text messages from Congolese friends assuring us they are OK other than losing belongings to theft. The silent but screaming question demands: how will everyone eat?
9:00 AM Once the roads are a bit less dangerous, our friend finally carries his father to the HEAL hospital for treatment to his gunshot. His medical bill will be passed on to HEALing Arts as his family has not money to pay and surgery is needed immediately.
2:00 PM Hope seems dim that the door will be opened for us to return anytime soon. We now focus on pooling together our resources via friends who care, to start supplying starving people with food and medical treatment.

The Hardening of Boyhood

We received a little 7 year old girl at HEAL Africa last week. She arrived on emergency at midnight. She was brutally gang raped in her home and then shot in the vagina. She will never have babies and her pelvis is shattered. Although she is “awake,” due to severe trauma, she is completely unresponsive emotionally and psychologically. Her father had both of his arms smashed for trying to save her. Her brother is in intensive care from a gunshot to his stomach.
When I have no way to express the injustice that happens to innocent people, what I call “free verse” is my outlet. Forgive me for sharing so blatantly some of the thoughts that cross my mind, the struggle I experience in trying to make sense of the world I am faced with- the reality I have to face, but others have to live.

This free verse was inspired by this child’s experience, and my thoughts about the members of her family.

The Hardening of Boyhood

Fathers emasculated by their inability to protect their daughters and wives.
The blank stare of trauma, the troubled mind eased by its surrender
To nothingness.
The anger, the pain, the inability to change
The government, the soldiers as they range
With empty, greedy, starving eyes.

Too easy to blame them, but little would you know
Their wives have also been ravaged with that blow
The stripping of feminine privacy, purity marred for the world to see
But would you believe it?
Often children they may be.

The destruction of war is destruction by greed.
Mask it as tribal, mark it as sexist; hatred is only the seed.
Who doesn’t want more- more wealth, more power?
More ability to protect one’s own family?
Dignity vanished…

A young boy dreams of becoming a doctor;
His impoverished father hands him a gun.
“Your work is cut out for you now, boy.
No, in this hard world we live in,
I must teach you to fight for survival.
Education is for the wealthy, not for people like us.
Let go of your childish dreams, wipe your tears, and straighten your back.
Today you will learn to defend your family so that when you are married,
No man will be able to do to your wife and daughters
What those men did to your mother and sisters.

Listen and learn:
Run until you can go no further, fight for what is yours.
In this world of evil, in this war, there are no rules.
Grab what you can, eat it while you have it.
Trust no one and do not plan for a long life.
This world is not a happy place,
So wipe your tears, straighten your back and
Stop your hand from shaking
As you hold this gun.
This is your future.”

The boy tightens his grip on the cold metal,
Wipes his cheeks with his tattered shoulders,
Bites his trembling lip and with eyes still welling with tears,
Learns as he looks up into his father’s hardened eyes.

Back to My World: A Dichotomous Life?

Fifty-some hours of travel back to the Congo after my whirlwind of a fun and intense “vacation” in Minneapolis, San Francisco and rural Minnesota. Eating food from all over the world with people, enjoying Caribou coffee, friends and family, jogging alone around the clean lakes by my old house. Paying over $4 for a simple coffee in the London airport.
My new coworker, Chelsie, and I arrive to Goma from Rwanda in a crazy thunderstorm, our taxi driver evading fallen trees on the road, driving through muddy fields to find an opening back to the main road, windshield wipers speeding like crazy to whisk away the torrential drops battering our car. We cross the no-man’s-land border by foot in the now sprinkling rain, pay a total of $4 to the four porter boys who are grateful for work in this weather and greet my border friends, flying through the paperwork for our visas without a problem. We wait tired and somewhat frustrated in the darkening evening by the border crossing for over 40 minutes until the driver arrives to take us home.
We pile in with about 8 other HEAL Africa staff into the vehicle, tossing our luggage inside. I am happy that I did not forget Swahili (as I feared) during the 3 weeks I was gone; instead, it’s almost as if it settled in. I catch up with the driver and some of my friends, all of us laughing and excited to see each other again. They update me on how Nkunda has been shelling the refugees in Masisi Center… my memories go back to the people I met there, the destituteness of tens, even hundreds, of thousands of lives compacted into a small geographical area.
I arrive home and am instantly inundated by guests’ needs. Practically hallucinating from exhaustion, I answer questions, concerns, collect rent payments and more until well after 9:30 that night, trying to shower and pass out before the lights are shut off. Sleep eluded me. I had been moved to another room during my vacation. I tried to calm my speeding thoughts as I sought sleep and readjustment to life in Goma yet again.
I leave my beautiful home by the lake, the morning sun glistening happily on the gentle waves by the flower garden. I drive over the lava rock and bumps, that familiar jostling of my body and feeling of dust invading my eyelids.
Joyous cries of “Cristina!” greet me as I walk past the smelly, bare-essentials transit center for fistula patients. They crowd around me, touching my clothes and my hair, “You are back! You were gone for so long. What is the news of your family?” They eagerly show me the scraps of African material they are sewing together into the body parts for the baby dolls at Healing Arts. “You know,” they tell me, “we are almost done with the order of 1,000 baby dolls. What will we sew after that?” I tell them of plans to make banana leaf jewelry and other items. The newer women that arrived during the time that I was gone eye me from afar. Their glazed-over eyes slowly warm up at the strange sight of a mzungu talking with them familiarly. They begin to laugh with me- and sometimes at me- along with the women who know me better. They like to tell me, “You, we know you well.” They love to laugh at my attempts at expressing more complicated thoughts in Swahili, and giggle whenever I get any phrase right. “Cristina loves to dance!” they chuckle to each other whenever I shake to the music in the sewing room.
My heart is at peace again. “I love these women,” I think to myself, “I didn’t realize how much I would begin to see them as friends.” During the days that pass, we joke together, I hear their stories, learn more about their children back at home, their extreme poverty. We pray together and sing songs about Jesus with the pastor who stops by to greet them. Oddly enough, I feel comfortable, albeit the smells of smoke, urine and dirty babies with ringworm. Even as I write this update, I sit comfortable by the lake with the breeze and the slowly-setting sun gleaming gently on the water.
A week flies by between the ups and downs, stresses and joys, lack of sleep and exhausted rest, wealth and poverty, successes and challenges: I am back in Goma, and most of the time, it makes me smile.

The mother, little girl and baby brother who carved permanent places in my heart (part II)

Eugenie is the mother’s name; she showed up at HEAL Africa a few days later with her disabled daughter Evira, and starving baby boy strapped to her back. Upon being consulted, she was referred to our disability program, Children Like Us, to get physical therapy. As usual in this region, they must remain in Goma for the duration of the treatment, as there is none in Masisi. They have no money to buy food, let alone travel back home. Lacking income to rent anywhere, the hospital grounds have become their home, as so common for the impoverished, but lucky, patients who succeed in arriving for medical treatment. She and the other women mix fuofou from the meager- and sometimes moldy- cornmeal donated by the World Food Program.
Within the first few days, Eugenie and I laughed as we figured out that not only is my Swahili very much in the learning stage, but that it is also her second language after her tribal tongue. Since she speaks no French, we are limited to communicating in our developing Swahili. She had asked me for money to buy food one day, at which I agreed to help her for one month on the condition that she come to the sewing classes at HEALing Arts to learn to sew. It was painfully obvious she has never learned any marketable skills in her life, nor received any education at all. I had to lead her by her hand into the room and introduce her to the head seamstresses the first day. I led her by the hand again the second day, as she timidly entered again into the busy, loud, orange room that has become a place of hope for the fistula patients waiting at the transit center. I had to insist every day for over a week that she show up, scolding her when she was absent. After several days, she finally passed the “sewing straight lines on paper” stage. Every time she mentions needing more food, I challenge her to earn her own money, since we pay for every item each woman sews.
This week, as I was working in HEALing Arts, Mama Eugenie eagerly showed me a beautiful coin purse that she had sewn all by herself- to perfection. I was beaming for her, my heart glowing to see her proud face and growing confidence at her accomplishment. She is sewing regularly now, and making friends with the community of women.
As for Evira and her baby brother, they have also carved their own special place in my heart. All I can say is that we mutually understand each other. Yes, me and a 9 year old girl with cerebral palsy and an 18-month old infant (whose severe malnutrition makes him seem half his age, except for his teeth), both of whom are constantly covered in food particles, slobber and who knows what else. We’re friends…
How the baby, still urgently suckling on his mother’s breast, laughs joyfully every time he sees me. We giggle together as he shrieks when I tickle his tiny body; his mother shyly smiling at the boy’s wriggling body on her back. Personally, my joy comes from seeing his mind more at peace these days, his behavior less erratically desperate. And Evira, how her face transforms into a shining smile when she sees me. How she crawls right up to me and leans her body heavily on my legs until I play a bit with her, scratch her back and make her smile. How she then proceeds to drag herself up by my legs and clothing until she stands upright on her weak limbs, reaches for my hands, her gentle eyes and toothy smile begging me to go for a walk with her. This week- the same week her mother successfully sewed a coin purse- we managed to make our way up the steps of HEALing Arts and slowly amble over to her mother, baby boy peacefully asleep on her back.
Even when I don’t see them in a day, I think about them every day. Maybe, for this one woman, her life can change. Maybe she will return with a girl who can walk, as she should have always been able to, had there been medical services in her war-torn homeland. Maybe Eugenie will return with a new sewing machine and become the neighborhood seamstress. Maybe she will one day teach other women and maybe even hire some of them to work for her. Maybe her little boy will grow up to be a strong soccer player, or an orthopedic surgeon. Maybe things can change.
Today, her daughter starts physical therapy.

The little girl who broke into my heart

I feel like it is time to talk about her, as she has become a delightful, yet occasionally painful, part of my life. Maybe I was unprepared for her entrance into my life. This story, like any other, has two parts – first, when you meet someone and second, the development of your relationship- the second of which I’ll try to post soon.

Part I
To acquaint you with this little girl, I must first tell you about her mother and the story of how we met her little family. It was on a dirt path next to a trickling rivulet that runs next to the Nehemiah Committee’s building in war-torn Masisi, on that particular trip that I blogged about in July. A woman with sunken eyes, pleading for hope, had brought her little girl to us for help. Plagued by untreated cerebral palsy, this girl had been dragging her atrophied little legs on her calloused and damaged knees for the first 9 years of her life. She had a long-ago deformed shoulder, most likely from being roughly pulled from the womb at birth or early in her infancy. Her ankles were stiffly becoming fixed in a hyper extended position.

That fresh and sunny morning, her mother showed up at our doorstep with the Nehemiah Committee, her few belongings wrapped in African cloth and begging us to take her to HEAL Africa, saying she heard we help all people. This woman had a squealing baby boy strapped to her lower back, whimpering and demanding more milk, chomping violently on her breast, beating it for milk it couldn't give. The baby malnourished, the mother finished. She looked to be 45 but could not have been more than 30. Another of her children sat by her feet, and the little girl sitting in the middle of the road, disabled, on her knees, hands with fingers interlocked nervously, staring off into space as we all regarded her state.
We were fortunate enough to have a physical therapist with us on the trip. As Loran looked at the girl’s little legs so encrusted with dirt you could hardly tell the difference; with gentle touch, this previously unresponsive child started to smile, then followed directions and within minutes, clung to Loran. The mother watched us as her baby boy peed uncontrollably on her, the hot liquid dripping all the way down her back and skirt, creating a puddle behind her worn, green sandals as she tried to explain her needs to us. The troubled baby screamed disturbing, high-pitched shrieks, demanding to be fed.
I cannot imagine waking to her life every day.
She watched confusedly as everyone argued about how and when we could help the little girl, some of the men forcefully grabbing the child in typical African manner. The mama produced a letter of recommendation from a regional disability center for treatment in Goma. Finally, we gave her transport money to get to the hospital.
To me, she is an example of selfless sacrifice for the good of her family at whatever cost to her, a classy quality that often permeates this society. Women like her have my respect, however, I mourn for her above anything. Is there not something we can do to help women like her engage in their lives with dignity- as women, as mothers, as human beings? How did someone like her end up with so much trouble, with so little opportunity?
My heart suffocated, I watched as she balanced all her belongings on her head- a pot and a pan wrapped in a big cloth- and, the baby still strapped to her back, her skirt still soaked, she lifted her little daughter onto her shoulders, her other child trailing behind her as she made her way up the path. Maybe with some hope renewed, yet her problems, in essence, unchanged.

Singing for AMANI

Amani means ‘peace’ in Swahili. Every Saturday that I go to Yole! Africa’s Jam session, I am constantly amazed and energized at the commitment and vigor of Goma’s Congolese youth who fight to communicate their messages of peace for their country. These teenagers and youth in their 20s write hip hop songs about ending war and ethnic conflicts, fighting sexual violence, building people’s rights and opportunities in their country.
These days, HEAL Africa has partnered with Yole! Africa to produce a CD of music from local artists, with songs expressing HEAL Africa’s themes of holistic healing of the people of the Congo. Last Saturday, they held a competition for the bands to participate in this CD. Yole’s driveway, which is regularly transformed into a music stage and benches for the audience was packed tight in the bright sunshine of the afternoon. Eager artists were prepared with their best, the neighborhood was watching and cheering, street boys in their tattered outfits giddy with excitement. At least 16 bands played, each displaying their own style and original lyrics, although most are hip hop artists. The harmony among these bands was evident as they cheered each other on, high fives flying everywhere, voices in the crowd singing along in support the different artists.
To wrap up the whole afternoon of fun and music, Yole’s organizers presented some surprise guests. Sekombi worked up the crowd with cheers as he introduced the three famous Congolese artists, each from different generations. They sang songs with joy; the crowd was ecstatic. The last artist called all the artists up on stage with him as they sang a chorus in French, saying, “unity, unity for the Congo; let no one divide us again.” Interspersed between each chorus, every musician sang an improvised stanza- the whole experience was electrifying!
Keep your eyes open, your ears listening and your wallet ready for the HEAL Africa/ Yole CD that will be released in September! If you can’t come to hear them sing live, buy it: you won’t want to miss this production.

Cows ate all the Produce!

Last Thursday, Annifa and I spent some time with the women from Grounds for Hope, helping them brainstorm how they can continue to improve their lives, using the skills they have been learning through HEALing Arts and Mawe Hai and the income generation grants they have received from Upper Room.

As we arrived, we were immediately interrupted by soldiers demanding to use my cell phone, saying they had heard bombs go off nearby minutes earlier. The women at Grounds for Hope confirmed this. We sat there with the four FARDC soldiers- one listening to annoying, scratchy and untimely music on his radio, the others, staring- while the sergeant yelled over my phone at headquarters, trying to find out any information on the explosions. After a few calls that were void of any useful news from Goma, he returned my phone, eyeing me the whole time until we deleted the numbers he had dialed. The expressed their gratitude, tried to flirt a bit and finally left us, our friendly rapport with the area’s soldiers sustained.

This led to an earnest conversation with the women about the process required to finish building a wall around the whole property, as it has only been built around half of it. They expressed concerns, yet appreciation for the guards that watch the property all the time.

Very early the following morning, we received the call- TWENTY-EIGHT COWS had slept on the property and eaten all the vegetation the women had been growing through the Mawe Hai program. Annifa had to negotiate with the chief of Buhimba to ensure the owner of the cows will pay back the damages. Apparently, it is not customary to kick out other people’s animals from your property, as you would then be responsible for the livestock, should anything happen to them. On Monday morning, Annifa and I observed the damages done, as well as the two hour wait the chief spent hoping the cows’ owner would meet him, as promised.

Let’s hope he did show up and will repay the women for their lost labor!

The land of plenty and those who are displaced where there is no justice

On July 12th, Ndungo with Choose Life, Dick with HEAL Africa US side, Likofata our new Public Health Director, Loren and Loran, two physical therapists, and I headed into Masisi territory, an area that has been closed off for so many months. Due to the war and ethnic imbalances, we were forced to terminate a child sponsorship program in the region after having no knowledge of the status for over four months of the families that fled. At this time, however, they have returned despite the continued instability. We made this trip to discuss future steps with the Masisi Nehemiah Committee. HEAL Africa Nehemiah Committees are groups of local leaders elected to represent the community through various churches that collectively represent the population in each region.
Masisi is a highly coveted region- the land of plenty, however, the question blatantly demanding an answer is: who is benefitting from it? Rich in agriculture, this fertile land that feeds milking cows that have displaced people for General Nkunda’s fattening herds, coltan mined by children and profited by foreigners and every one of us who has a cell phone; gold… these resources that have been stolen from the people have become their biggest threats. They should rightly own the land and profit from its wealth; however it has been rudely and violently ripped away from them. Nkunda may say he is endeavoring to protect Rwandan Tutsis, however, all has been done at the expense of those who have lost their livelihoods, their land and their cows to his hostile takeover of Masisi.
Governmental statistics say the population totals to 360,000. Local refugee camps count 15,000 households surviving there, even as they have taken over any available space in the town, all separation between homes and refugee tents being lost. Each household averages at least 6 members, which multiplies to at least 90,000 refugees with no place to call their own. Each family exists in the space about the size of a few coffins stacked on top of each other, walls of sticks and leaves and a meager Unicef orange or blue tarp strapped on top of the roof in hopes to keep away some of the region’s torrential rains. The World Food Program still has not realized that the local tribes do not usually eat sorgum, and their supplemental food has caused serious problems with diarrhea. Malnutrition, desperation and the lack of peace is evident in all the people’s faces. Just like the dust of the road clings to our every pore, so does the heaviness that settles on your heart if you are willing to see with your eyes and hear with your ears.
We arrived with a layer of dirt on us that would imply a 10 hour drive, even though it was only 3 hours long. Throats parched, eyes stinging from the earth, and breakfast already long digested since 8 that morning, we met with the Nehemiah Committee in a dim room well until 3 or 4 in the afternoon. The lack of water and food that day and my brain reeling with trying to follow and participate in the conversation in Swahili took every ounce of my energy and attention, as we listened to their evaluation of the results and challenges of the sponsorship program. All 65 children were back and safe, none of them had continued with their schooling since the war due to lack of funds and all the families had lost all the fruits of their income generating activities. The responsibility we have towards helping these children and the families caring for them is clear, yet the options challenging. Exhausted, we decided to reconvene the next morning to discuss sustainable solutions to helping this vulnerable population.
As we waited for our vehicle on the steep mountainside, children ran up to us, eyeing us curiously. As tired as I was, I cannot seem to resist cute children, especially when they are not asking for biscuits, candy or money. We played with their soccer ball (made of rolled up plastic bags and twine) and sang together, including their collective repertoire of their national hymn at the top of their lungs, and ending with my “cho cho cho… cho” cheer that had them squealing with laughter.
Our hotel rooms were conveniently located directly above a huge refugee camp. I was grateful to find a clean bed in the bare wooden room. We sat in the flickering light of kerosene lamps in the dirt patio next to the outhouse, waiting for our food to finally arrive. When it finally did around 8 pm, we shoved food into our mouths before passing out for the night. Promptly at 4:30 am the buzz of a waking refugee camp met our ears, growing louder by the minute as families lined up for water and food distributions, the sound of drums and music melding with the clamor of innumerable voices. A couple of hours later I finally hiked down the hill, having found an opening in our bamboo fence, and found myself greeted by friendly faces looking at me emerge from the mountain. They were happy I spoke some Swahili, but could not understand why I did not speak Kihunde or Kinyrwandan, the local dialects. I suddenly found myself at the edge of the refugee camp, their huts overtaking the plots of regular houses. Off to our right was a large field where some displaced youth were already off to a serious soccer game while the women and children fetched the daily rations.
Has it really been less than 24 hours since I left Goma? We are off to meetings with the UN and the Nehemiah Committee before heading back to Goma.

Holding Justice High

July 8, 2008
After an intense conversation and an important history lesson with Lyn about the worsening political situation, and vast injustices occurring and perpetuating in eastern Congo, even as the world hardly knows about it …
Me: “I have such a hard time hearing about what is happening to the most destitute people and not doing anything about it, not taking the weight of the world upon myself. But if I do, I’ll exhaust myself before I can even do anything. But it just weighs upon me…”
Lyn: “It’s our natural aversion towards injustice. It shows our divine nature, that we are not able sit here and do nothing about what is happening. We must fight for justice… we will hold the flag of justice high, even if we are sinking, all the way down we will hold justice high.”
Me: “Justice... but as humanity we have so completely messed up the way that God wanted things to be. We have totally screwed it up in the worst way and done an unbelievably phenomenal job at it.”
Lyn: “Yes, but that’s why Paul, in the Bible, states so firmly the three virtues that we must always cling to: hope (for if we lose it we have lost it all), faith and love. Hopelessness is contagious. But so is hope, so we must cling to hope!”
A final hug, the sharing of hope and strength from one person to another. May God give me hope, faith and love as I go to Masisi on Friday, the territory controlled by Rwandan rebels since August.

What could I hope for in a day?

When so much goes exactly the opposite of how I hoped for in just one day that it’s almost comical…

8:30 AM: I have a beautiful breakfast of omelettes ready by 8:45 am for the 8:30 am meeting I had scheduled with a HEAL Africa coworker. She arrives more than 45 minutes later, the eggs cold and my stomach growling rudely. I listen to her in-depth explanation as to why she thinks she got poisoned a couple days ago via a handshake and is going through intense traditional healing and therefore can’t eat the eggs I had made. She tells me that after she finishes the traditional medicine, she will take the malaria medicine that she tested positive for at the hospital, maybe in a week or two. I am baffled, at a loss of words, not sure how to respond as she seems to be neither poisoned or nor sick with malaria. After we eat, I ask if we can finally look at her laptop to work on the budget and projections. Her laptop is out of battery, and as usual, we have none at home during the day, so we head back to the office. The whole morning is gone before I’ve done one productive thing.

10:42 AM I drive our little Suzuki, which is as dependably non-dependable as the roads I drive on and the country I live in. The axel has worsened to the point where the car keeps going straight even after I’ve turned the wheel 360 degrees. It finally catches and my heart sinks as it veers suddenly onto the oncoming traffic, motos zipping past us. I turn the wheel another 360 degrees in record time, correcting it just in time … survived another day!

4:38 PM While the Suzuki is in the shop that afternoon getting fixed, I take a freshly repaired Nissan van to rush to the border to pick up a guest. As I park it, it dies due to an electric shortage and a dead battery, smoke billowing. Dang, now that I’ve finally learned how to drive stick shift on these Goma roads, the car dies on me in front of everyone at the border! I call our mechanic and watch, horrified as 12 men are eagerly sticking their hands under the hood, sparks flying everywhere, tools unheard of pounding on the battery. As the whole population surrounding us watches, I kindly decline marriage proposals offering 15 goats (not a bad dowry!) and promises of a bigger, better car I could drive in, should I accept their propositions. Jean Pierre finally arrives on a moto and fixes it with a broken piece of a rusted nail that he pounded into the battery. The car runs again, it seems, as I make my way back to the hospital.

5:41 PM I drive many people home in that Nissan less than an hour later, looking forward to playing basketball at a friend’s house to release the stress. Yet when I try turning on the car again after changing, it is fully lifeless. Lifeless as in not even the electrical lights will turn on, dead. I slowly bang my head against the steering wheel a few times, trying to collect myself in front of a guest, praying for sanity… can not one thing work as I would hope for today? Such seems to be my lot these days!

6:25 PM I trudge back to the new room I just moved into after Harper left me (what seems like months ago already, even though it’s been less than a week). The light switch won’t work. Sigh, I’m too tired to even get worked up about this. I go to the bathroom to find that my toilet that was running non-stop this morning before I shut it all off still doesn’t work. Really, what can one say besides finding it sort of, in a twisted way, amusing? Has it really only been one day?

Espace d’Enfants

May 14, 2008 (oh, the joys of connecting on the internet)

On Monday afternoon I met a kind woman named Ernestine. She is one of the two teachers at the HEAL Africa site for a program we have for street children called Espace d’Enfants (Space for Children). We have 8 locations for street children, vulnerable and traumatized children to come and receive basic schooling, some food and the opportunity to express themselves through art and receive healing and counseling. Altogether, about 300 children are active participants. Space for Children had received funding for one year during its inception last year, and despite its remarkable success, the funding was in limbo for months; however, we just learned funding was renewed for another 12 months.
I asked Mama Ernestine if I could come and see the work she was doing, as it seemed so significant and utterly challenging. She lit up, yet looked dubious that I would actually show up on Wednesday morning. When I did, I was surprised to see that I knew and had often played with about half of the kids that were there that morning. I was surprised because I had thought all along that many of them were children of the women at the hospital since they are here all the time. Many of them are as young as three or four years of age! As I arrived, a little two year old boy with curious curls had wet himself all over and left a huge puddle in the middle of the floor. None of the children seemed much upset about it, as weeks of dirt caked their bodies, their tattered clothes beyond hope even with good washing. A few minutes later, they forgot that it was someone else’s urine on the ground and sat on it to have space to draw on the rickety benches.
Their vulnerability as street children who seek shelter at HEAL Africa sunk in even further as I heard them tell stories of the drawings they were creating as part of the morning activities. Spears, serpents, stones, houses, beds and other scattered images were imprinted with pastel crayons not only on the simple white paper, but also in my brain. Four year old Shadrak talking about seeing serpents and the eggs they lay everywhere. Mama Ernestine whispered to me that many kids end up on the streets because they are accused of sorcery by someone whose biggest proof is usually a dream they had. Shadrak also explained he drew a cross because of the story he heard that morning of what Jesus did for him. Another five or six year old boy explained to us why he drew a lance piercing his home, leaving its destructive mark all over the page. Again, the Mama explained to me that they often draw of what the war has done to them, what they’ve seen clearly depicted in the many spears, machetes, fire and other figures. However, even as deep sadness was setting in my heart, little Prince (the boy who had the burned stomach I wrote about one of my first weeks here) proudly displayed his picture. Although it also had serpents and eggs, he sprinkled it everywhere with stars and smiled as he pointed them out- another reminder of the hope and constant strength of the people I meet here.
As the children were playing to take a break, I learned that the program did not have enough money until the funds are received at end of May to purchase notebooks and pens to teach reading and writing. This was obvious in the heavily recycled pieces of crayon that were carefully collected at the end of the art session. I asked Mama Ernestine if the kids had families, expecting them all to be orphans. I learned that most of them have at least one parent, but they are all unemployed without much hope of their situation changing. The majority of the kids, as is common here, have been cared for solely by their mothers for many years. Women, older sisters, mothers and grandmothers are truly the ‘Mothers of the Nation.’
My brain reeling, I asked Mama what would happen if we were to work with the mothers to help them learn activities to generate income, connecting them with the teaching and support at HEALing Arts. She was quite excited and we brainstormed for a few minutes, in my mix of Swahili and French. After a while, she looked at me again with the same look she gave me when I asked to see her program on Monday, and challenged me, “This all sounds very good, but we need action, not words.” Agreeing wholeheartedly, I suggested we meet to discuss this further and then meet with a group of the mothers to listen to their perspectives, dreams and ideas for changing their futures.
Not long after, full of excitement and innumerable questions, I ran to Mama Muliri, another HEAL Africa mama, big mama, that emanates power and strength from years of battling for the rights of women. She has helped countless women in eastern Congo who are caretakers of people suffering from HIV, providing skills training in income generating activities as well as counseling. I explained the situation to her, and asked for her help in discussing this program with Mama Ernestine and the mothers of the street children, as I want to make sure any efforts we do are appropriate and on the path towards successfully helping them towards self-sufficiency. I also explained that funds for these grants or loans could possibly come from sponsors in North America who cared about getting at the root of poverty and changing that, and that we already have HEALing Arts’ programs to teach and help the women. Mama Muliri gave me one of her enveloping hugs and kisses and gladly agreed to meet with us and guide us through this exploration process.

Jyi Life and soccer balls that turn Innocents into ‘Playboys’

Innocent is my Congolese rafiki (friend); he is 12, but looks about 9 or 10; his bones protrude sharply through his sister’s hand-me-down clothes, often pink and lilac. He lends a most beautiful and unique, dynamic touch to his band, Jyi Life, when he performs with two of his older brothers. Innocent’s voice is perfectly on pitch, clear and resonant- the kind of voice Catholic priests would have wanted to preserve for life! Innocent also rocks the djembe drum and often assists other groups, rappers and hip hop singers during the weekly Saturday Jam sessions at Yole Africa. His brother Eric, with the stagename Fonkodji (Funk DJ) is without a doubt, the most talented 14 year old DJ I have ever met with a natural gift for music production; he also plays the guitar, piano, sings and dances like no other. He speaks not a word of English and despises mzungu food, however, he discovered Guitar Band on my friend Christine’s Mac laptop and within minutes had not only figured out how to use it, but recorded a song with guitar, drums, piano, and harmonized a few times over. The leader of the trio is the eldest, Prince Agakhan, whose “baptism name” is Christian, but who just like Fonkodji, is only know by his alias. Prince Agakhan’s stoic and chiseled facial features belie the fact that he is a very gentle person. These three guys are great friends of mine, and Innocent and I have a special connection.
Like the time he convinced me ‘we’ needed to buy a soccer ball to play with. He led me to the exact store that had the ball of his dreams, one he had clearly been coveting for quite some time, as he had eyes for no other. He walked me up to the small store on the busy street and, eyes gleaming with excitement, pointed and stated, “That one!” That ball was a size 4, half inflated and covered in what looked to be years of dust (although you never know in Goma!). Dubious, I pointed at one of the size 5 balls, shiny white, new and taut with air, “What about this one?” I asked. He shook his head and his bright teeth shone as he insisted, “No, this is the best ball!” I gave in and reluctantly handed the shop owner $12. Innocent’s excitement was obvious. I struggled sharing that same feeling about a dusty, old ball for that price as the store employee ran next door to borrow their air pump. He handed the ball, now all hard, bouncy and clean to my friend, whose eager arms were already extended to receive it. He announced to me in English, “I am going to be the best Playboy!”
I burst out laughing and repeated after Innocent, “Playboy?” He nodded emphatically once again, smile brimming over. As we trekked back out to the street, I explained to him that the actual word in English for what he wants to become is “player.”

Kampala Art ‘Peace Workshop’, April 2008 (Uganda)

We packed all the art supplies- paint, brushes, paper, and more- and trekked to KAYDA, Katwe Youth Development Association. Last night’s rains still moistened the firm, red soil of the back roads that were marked by deep grooves and potholes, greenery surrounding us on all sides. The path was bordered by beautiful homes protected by concrete fences with barbed wire, or a few steps later, by homes made of sticks and mud, with flaps of plastic or fabric as their front doors. The walk unexpectedly took us about 45 minutes, a good 20 more than we had expected.
Our arrival at KAYDA was met by a red, inconveniently parked truck that blocked the narrow entrance, a mere corridor between buildings. We snuck past the vehicle and did our best to evade the deep sewer water that ran down the middle of the path through the housing compound. Sour smells pierced our senses as oozing mud clung to our flip flops, moaning “schlack, schluck” with every step. Bright cloths swung with the slight breeze as they hung to dry.
As soon as the compound dwellers spotted us, little children ran up to us, holding our hands as they stared at us with big, round eyes, some of them eagerly returning our smiles, others cautiously eyeing the foreigners, determining our trustworthiness. Faizo, the man in charge and one of the founders of KAYDA, chastised us for being late. Apparently, he had no time for African time. He then went on to explain to us that because the children were in tests in school, it would be preferable for us to come back at 5 PM instead, in order to get the right mix of children ages 7 to 16. Looking around at the 2 to 6 year olds, we couldn’t help but agree.
Faizo introduced us to KAYDA, explaining that it had been formed 13 years ago in response to the poverty, diseases and war that had left many Ugandan youth and children vulnerable, resulting in problems such as street children, prostitution, drug abuse, and criminal involvement due to idleness. KAYDA’s mission, he said, “is to help youth/children realize their rights, enhance unity and development to alleviate poverty and redundancy among them.” They do this by developing the talents and skills of each child, rehabilitating and resettling street children, supporting efforts at reducing drug and substance abuse, as well as HIV/AIDS and other STDs. Many of their efforts are done through assisting these youth in achieving basic education as well as training them in practical and vocational skills.
As sweat trickled down our backs in the sweltering heat of the room where we would be doing the workshops with the kids, we heard stories about street youth being incorporated back into society. His eyes shone as he told of a young boy who had been lost in the streets and was now going to university, or of another who had started his own business selling phone equipment after he received some practical skills training. He emphasized how important it was for them to become positive community members.
We agreed to return in a couple hours and went in search for a restaurant. We walked up Kabalagala road, the busiest street in this neighborhood of Kampala, as the searing sun beat down on us. The red roads bustled with activity, the crimson dust glistening like a halo in the sun over everything in the air and on the street. An interminable row of furniture stores displayed their living room couches in repetitive themes of gold, scarlet, crèmes and patterned fabrics. The smell of varnish accented the carpenters building chairs and bed frames. It struck me as funny how quickly you get used to beds having tall posts for ease in draping mosquito nets to prevent malaria. Brightly colored buildings and bold billboards framed the uphill walk until we finally found a little restaurant that, although sleepy, appeared open. The disgruntled and somewhat unfriendly server handed us appetizing menus, only to reject all our orders and to inform us that they only had one fish, a little chicken and not enough rice for all of us, so we would have to settle for fries. We ordered accordingly, sipping on refreshing passion fruit juice, thankful for a break from the heat and a place to wash our hands of the red soil clinging to us.
Upon returning to KAYDA, we admired the bright murals painted by the kids on the exterior walls of the room, giving the otherwise stark compound character and color. Only one decoration hung on the inside of the room- a small painting of a blue lake with an island, trees and a house. Children’s attire- anything from shirts and pants to sandals- hung on every available peg around the room.
Ten kids ages 7 to 15 joined us to start the three day workshop. We played simple games that progressively got funnier each day, culminating in ‘Jackie Chan-karate-yell-as-loud-as-you-can’! The daily snacks were African chapattis and sodas. As we set the children to painting, pictures of soccer, Ugandan flags, TVs, fields and schools sprang to life. I was amazed by Juliet, whose dark eyes were intent on mixing the right colors for her painting about friendship and trust. A young girl quickly becoming a woman, Juliet’s perfect smile showed off straight, round, shining, white teeth. Her closely shaven head matched the heads of all the other kids. Throughout the next two days, as we had them develop their ideas for peace and future days, paintings of giving up weapons, helping others out, preserving Uganda’s natural resources and living productive lives showed their dreams for their nation.
Sadly, our trip was cut short due to political instability in Bujumbura. We hope to complete the ‘Peace Workshops’ in this region within the next year, as time, finances and peace allow.

April 15, The day the plane crashed into Goma

Birere is the busiest market in Goma, in a neighborhood surrounded by the city’s poorest slums, a place that some of our friends call home. The craziness of the drive there, the care you take to avoid the deep potholes full of mud and lava rock and vendors of all sorts zipping past you, the steep uphill you climb to find just the right product- they all lend to the overwhelming, polluted and poor environment of this district. Birere is also the market that we frequent regularly to purchase every kind of African fabric for the women who sew at HEAL Africa. Just a few days before the plane crashed, I was there with two coworkers, planes flying low overhead. On April 15, when the passenger plane crashed into the town and market in the afternoon, our staff person, Annifa, had to flee for her life before the plane went up in flames, leaving all things behind. My friend Agakhan stared with open jaw and shocked eyes as his neighborhood went up in flames, now cringing every time he hears the sound of a plane in flight. He is grateful his family is all safe, although many have lost someone they knew.
Goma’s airport has a runway was destroyed in the 2002 volcano and is not quite long enough to provide leeway for planes when they take off. Immediately where it ends is where Birere starts. Every time we are at the market and planes fly overhead, you feel the roar of the plane and ask yourself how this can be safe. And when the plane crashed this last week, leaving chaos as it charged through the town, tearing down stores and burning buildings, around 100 people were seriously injured and some of them did not survive. Because all the locals know HEAL Africa is the best hospital around, and the doctors at the General Hospital were on strike again, victims were rushed over to our hospital. Immediately, our incredible staff took care of the wounded, built temporary shelters for the immediate overflow of patients, sorted between the critical, the urgent and the patients that could wait and set about saving lives. The HEAL Africa staff is so capable and their fast and effective response to this crisis is to be highly commended! Dozens of families cannot express their gratitude enough as they leave the hospital, legs in casts, burns treated, and family members’ lives saved. Even when the medical supplies were depleted within the first few hours after the accident, staff and volunteers went around town to other hospitals collecting what they could of saline solution, tetanus shots and other critical provisions.
Yesterday was a day of mourning and shops all around closed to show their respects for the deceased and wounded. Life now is recuperating in Goma; it must always go on. I am continually amazed at the seemingly never-ending flow of out-of-the-ordinary challenges that Goma is confronted with, and even more in awe of how God continues to put Goma back on its feet, blessing it with a vision for a better, safer and fuller future. In Goma, that is our hope. Every day.

Soldiers and policemen … can we blame them?

It seems that the “peace talks,” which everyone had hoped so highly for in early January and most, if not all parties exited about a month ago, have made no positive difference towards peace. In fact, quite the contrary could be argued.
When you hear of soldiers looting villages, murdering people, committing unthinkable crimes, instinct leans towards condemning them. A few nights ago, as I was continually awakened by the most terrifying thunder and lightning in the craziest storm I’ve experienced here so far, all I could think of was all my poor neighbors- who cannot sleep during storms because of their vulnerability to anyone forcing entry into their home and doing as they want, cries for help gone unheard and washed away by the torrential rains. The poor don’t sleep all night when it rains for fear of this possibility, their defenselessness as exposed as their front doors. I hurt for them and pray for them, thankful for my own safety, yet somewhat guilt-ridden that I have this privilege. I am also angered by those who would prey upon such weakness and poverty. However, while I am by no means condoning their despicable behavior, in the short weeks I have been here, I have been challenged to view reality from a different perspective.
A few weeks ago, we visited the military hospital in Goma in order to have a better idea of the status of the surrounding hospitals in our region. On the steep, bumpy drive there, we passed by a commune made up of sticks, tarps and tin- I was sure it was a refugee camp or the poorest slum in Goma. When I asked our coworker about it, his eyes pierced mine as he answered dryly that this was where the government’s soldiers live. He explained that they are usually never paid or occasionally, about $15 a month. They have no water, little or no food and are able to provide their family with no dignity to speak of. Stunned, and feeling quite naïve, I asked why anyone would remain a soldier in such conditions, or even seek such employment. He matter-of-factly stated that there simply are no other jobs available to them, and in this way, they at least have a weapon to protect themselves and their families with, in addition to the hospital’s services being available to them. Soldier compounds have the highest risk of cholera outbreaks, AIDs and other epidemics. You can hardly tell one abode from the next, and women cannot defend themselves or their children during the times when their husbands are gone. My heart was sorrowful as I contemplated what my life would be like if those were my options- no job and no means of protection, or a bad job with protection- a gun and army façades - and some basic healthcare.
The hospital itself was a few, long buildings, all spread out on a single level like HEAL Africa’s. Our coworker had apparently worked there in the past, as he eased our way through many guards and barriers to talk to the head administrator. After several questions, and some disapproving looks in response to the fact that I did not yet speak Swahili or French well enough to understand what was going on, the chief brushed his hand in a wave, giving us the go-ahead for the tour. Another soldier walked us around, showing us the dark rooms packed with patients, reeking of nothing associated with the word “hope.” We peered into the black hole called the operating room, where he stressed that they had not had electricity for days and it looked unlikely that they would get enough anytime soon. Patients wait for weeks at a time until conditions allow for surgeries to happen; this is the “basic healthcare” soldiers’ families are offered. A new job, anyone?

Correction to last entry

My most sincere apologies. Entry #7 of my last blog, "Goma… will I ever understand?" has an incorrect statement. The correct condition for the "rashes" that I have on my cheek and neck, which were too perfectly circular to be the Nairobi beetle, is actually RINGWORM. Awesome. Thanks, kiddies, I appreciate you sharing that with me!
Oh- the ladies here, who notified me of the exact nature of my “dime-sized” marks, said that when you get ringworm, it means that someone in your family is pregnant. If this is true, somebody please let me know- and next time, if you wouldn’t mind, could do that via a phone call or an email instead? Now if you'll excuse me, back to business: I have some meds to take and an ointment to smear on.

Goma… will I ever understand?

Compiled in March... I'm sure more to come in the future!

1) Women here are proud of any facial hair they may grow… I am fascinated by the curly growth on their chins, cheeks or upper lips. After finally asking, I learned that men here consider facial hair on a woman a sign of fertility. Sigh. I clearly will never be able to give off signs of being fertile in this country!
2) Youth grab their crotch all the time. All the time, I mean, and it’s not just little boys. Especially in public or when performing, especially when they seem to want to show off, portray manliness or confidence. The music scene seems to encourage this display of manhood. Rap away!
3) High heels on uneven, rocky roads. How women do it here, I cannot understand, but I pay them my respects. These mzungu ankles couldn’t handle it for 10 minutes!
4) A friend here, who can actually pull off wearing a black Halloween costume as a regular outfit and make it look stylish! She also sports powerful “signs of fertility”.
5) Why I get to go for a run in the mornings to stay healthy while I run past hundreds of impoverished Congolese who travel long distances to fill up yellow bottles with lake water, just to survive each day, every day, day after day. In the afternoons, after classes are finished, the schoolchildren hike over there again to fetch water for the remainder of the evening. On the other hand, when I get home, I get to admire the tranquility of the lake for its beauty.
6) How one moment you are evading a bunch of goats and motos on the road, and the next moment, a brand new white Land Rover branded with the UN logo and a preposterous flag roars past you, Indian soldiers with their blue turbans riding high.
7) At my one month mark, I was celebrating my great health so far, and was rewarded with an answer- a not-so-fun stomach illness and much nausea. Four days later, not having improved, I finally took meds. I awoke the next morning still ill, also finding my cheek and neck were itching and burning- they had been ravaged (OK, maybe just dime-sized marks) by the “Nairobi fly,” which leaves an angry, red rash on any skin it touches.
8) Wearing a thumb ring in the Congo means that you are available- and looking. After several men and even some women asked me why I was wearing one (“um, cause it’s cool and I like it- why else?”)- and finally getting an explanation from them as to the meaning of it, I sadly had to retire that special ring that adorned my thumb for the past 8 years. I hardly recognized my left hand without it!
9) You may be driving down the right side of the road minding your own business, but whenever there is an excess of cars, motos and bikes all going in wrong directions, and people are pushing a stalled car against traffic in your lane, YOU are clearly the one at fault, to be blamed and to have to back up into the oncoming traffic to make way for their vehicles. Ah, fine, I give in... again!

Congo Initiative, Beni

We boarded the minute Cetraka aircraft towards Beni. The mismatched 70s fabrics upholstering the compact seats and the stacks of luggage piled high everywhere gave off the aura of an old Mexican passenger bus rather than a machine that could take flight. An ancient, partly see-through curtain, matching one of the many patterns in the interior, was the only separation between the Russian pilot and the passengers.
Harper and I went to Beni, north of Goma, to visit an organization called Congo Initiative and the bilingual university they have opened there, UCBC. I had recently learned that a college friend, Justin Hubbard had been working for Congo Initiative since October- fancy that, from the University of Minnesota in the Midwest, Harper, Justin and I now all live and work in Eastern Congo. Somehow, though, it all makes sense; good people come from the Midwest, right?
The crimson clay and dirt cake everything in Beni, a remarkably different sight than the dark Goma lava rock. The winding, powdered red roads, bordered by stick-and-mud huts with straw-thatched roofs scream of a much more rural Africa than the border town I live in. Beni has been much affected by the war, especially since this summer, and industries have been limited due to the ever-deteriorating infrastructure of the national transportation. So many times Harper and I dream of the innumerable products DR Congo could export internationally for a dramatic and sustainable boost to each local economy- palm oil, artisan handicrafts, wood carvings, maize, peanuts, potatoes, fruits, beans, etc. Invariably, the stark reality halts our wild dreams: until an effective infrastructure for transportation is developed in Congo, and corruption is decreased, the overwhelming riches this country owns will remain limited and local. Harper often argues that if huge aid organizations like USAID want to make a difference, this type of large-picture project is what they should invest in, instead of slicing up small disbursements to multiple organizations. Infrastructural change would benefit every organization, as well as all the citizens affected by improved transportation time as well as cost-effectiveness for trade.
Enough of my soap box on this for now. I was talking about Beni. It was so fun to visit there, see a different side of DR Congo, to meet David and Kasoera Kasali (CI founders) and to hang out with the staff there, to hear of Congo Initiative’s plans and goals. Meeting the university students was also extremely fun, as they are friendly and quite eager to practice English. The second day we were there, I was to join the students for their daily soccer games. Slightly appalled at myself that I had not thought ahead better when I packed (I never do!), I donned my only work-out clothes for the trip: pink capris and a hot-pink Heart of the Beast Theatre T-Shirt. Way to make being a mzungu shine like a lone star in the middle of the night! Not only were Justin and I the only white people on the field, I was the only woman, and I proudly bore that reality with my pink outfit … the students and people couldn’t get enough of the mzungu girl that could play soccer!
The following day, Heather, with Congo Initiative, and I headed to Goma so that she could see our income generation programs with Healing Arts. She plans to open a holistic family center, in which training of the sort we do (sewing, cooking, soap making) will be offered there. We waited HOURS in the dusty, tin-room airport until our plane left around 3 PM. All I have to say is that WAITING is one of the most common themes threaded through all moments of living in the Congo. Time is a different concept- even in that I have to learn how to tell time in Swahili (exactly the opposite of ours- 6 AM is called 12:00, 4:00 PM is called 10:00, etc) or in Congolese French (military time=I have to add or subtract everytime I want to tell the time until I have it down!).

March 8, a Saturday (Women’s Day)

Although this was a slightly more special day than usual due to the theme, most days seem to run similar to last Saturday for me, since I still do not know what a typical day is like!
To begin, I accompanied Harper to visit a widow’s cooperative group started by the mother of 13 children, a widow herself. This amazing woman invites you fully into her home and warmth with one hug and three kisses on the cheeks. She is the kind of grandmother who would always have your favorite kind of brownies fresh out of the oven for you every time you visited! You could come crying to her about a bad day and she would comfort you, give you a glass of cool water and tell you to shape up and face life, because “c’est la vie!” She explained to me that she started this group a little over a year ago because all the widows were praying at church every day, but she realized that they could actually do something more to care for themselves as well. Now she has developed a growing group of jovial women who continually develop their skills in making baskets, bags and a variety of other items. Despite the reality of their poverty and their daily struggle for survival, I was refreshed and felt honored to have met women of such strength, stamina and cheerful dispositions.
After the rocky walk back in an area of town where mzungus seem to never be seen walking, and receiving relentless stares and many smiles, we headed out to participate in the “International Women’s Day” march, which is important in the Congo, for speaking out for women’s rights and protection from violence. About 10 or 12 of us piled into a couple SUVs to make the usual 10 minute drive to the HEAL Africa hospital to march from there. I have already gotten a license (all you need is a 1”x 1” picture, $15 and no proof of an ability to drive) and have been driving here since my first week. I drove our little Susuki, which has the driver’s wheel on the right side, and followed Harper’s improvised lead through town. Since the march had already begun and overtaken the narrow, pot-holed roads, we were continually forced off the street into the pedestrian areas. Evading motos, children, women, chickens, goats and trees, we honked our way painstakingly at about .1 miles per hour. All the women were in solidarity groups, dressed to their best with matching outfits, their hair done beautifully, make up shining and their best heels clicking away. I would break my ankle in a moment if I were to wear high heels for 10 minutes here, let alone on a march! However, they emanated joy, pride and strength as they marched. Some men even joined the women on this march for their rights. The throngs only grew by the moment, even as it began to storm. We cheered them on from our windows, rain pouring in, as they proudly raised their banners and marched on, in opposite direction as our Susuki. Many times I was forced off the road, painfully bottoming out the SUV on the curb stops, all of us hoping nothing the car really needed had gotten banged up under us! About two hours later, we arrived at the hospital, the torrential rains soaking every possible thing within their reach. We missed actually participating in the march, but at least we cheered the entire thing wholeheartedly, clapping loudly for the HEAL Africa women as they passed us by!
Once the rain ceased, we took the Upper Room group to see where the volcano erupted in 2002. This volcano destroyed the entire city of Goma at the time, wiping out the original HEAL Africa hospital. Upon arriving, we were harassed by innumerable children asking us for “biscuits” (when is the last time you ever carried biscuits with you, anyway?), trying to open our purses and grabbing us. I put forth my best efforts at befriending them, joking around, all of us attempting to be kind. When we finally hurried back to our cars, they chased us, pressing against us, relentlessly demanding food or money from us. I still tried to be friendly, only to be pinched multiple times through my driver’s window as I attempted to drive off. Not my happiest moment!
The day not yielding even a bit, we drove through town, unapologetic eyes staring from everywhere. Every time I stopped, people crowded my window, reaching in to push buttons, move my turning signal or to grab my arms. The sun beating down on us (A/C does not exist here), we were obligated to put up our windows, as no friendly gestures (and believe me, I tried my best to woo them!) could convince them that their incessant invasions were not welcome. We finally arrived at home hot, sweaty, exhausted, and I won’t lie- I still had my feelings hurt that children had actually pinched me! Thinking we could finally jump into Kivu Lake for a cool, relaxing swim, we found all the HEAL Africa women, in their matching blue-and-hot-pink outfits, happily celebrating women’s day in our yard. We tossed out our plan and merrily joined them in the heat of the day.
After this, I drove some of us to Yole Africa, a local arts organization that develops musical, video and dance talent in Congolese youth. On Saturdays, they have “Jam Session,” which is a loosely structured time for musical artists to practice performing. There is a good amount of talent here, with many rappers, singers and guitar players. My favorite is a talented trio of brothers, aged 19, 15 and 10, who form a band named G Life. They create their own music and lyrics. The 10 year old boy, Innocent, wins every crowd over, not just with his stunning voice and gifted djembe skills, but also as one of the MCs for the jam session, moving the crowd to follow his cheers for each upcoming band.
We finally returned to eat dinner back at the house, which is called Maji Matulivu (Still Waters). A cold beer never tasted so good, and Turbo King (delicious lager) was just the answer! A few more hours and the day would be over.

Beatboxin' it at AMAVESA!

We drove to visit AMAVESA, the agricultural program with the women from HEAL Africa. The Upper Room has helped pay for the mills for the women to process the grains to make nutritional porridge for the kids (grains are a mix of soy, maize, sorgum and wheat). The long road left nothing to be desired in regards to movement- every rock was acutely felt as our flesh jumped with the jeep’s every move.
As the jeep jumbled to a halt, we saw a long walk ahead of us, a path made up purely of lava rock of every size. The sharp stones comprised the entire landscape. You see, the area of town where AMAVESA is was directly in the path of the volcanic explosion of 2002 in Goma that covered and destroyed the entire city, which has been haphazardly rebuilt upon 6-8 feet of porous lava rock. The villagers use the rock from the ground to build walls that attempt to separate and mark their minute property lines, as well as using the rock for their houses. I could not help but wonder what they slept on, since most could not even afford decent sandals to walk with on the sharp stones.
Delicately, we maneuvered our way down the path, careful to keep our flip flops on our feet (apparently Havaianas are made for Brazilian beaches, not lava rock) and our toes away from crashing against the sharp edges. Eyes followed our every move, little children yelling, “Jambo! Mzungu!” We smiled back, “Jambo sana!” as we fixed our eyes on the walk before us. We arrived at a little plot of land that had a couple of women sifting grain by hand on the ground. We received a tour of the 5 by 8 room that contains the flour mill the Upper Room church sponsored, watching the people explain how it functioned, proud that they had such an important piece of equipment for processing the fruit of their hard labor.
Children pressed us from every angle, eager to see what the mzungus were doing. I asked them their name, and quickly befriended 10 year old Francois, who was clearly the leader of the pack. Unable to communicate further, but smiling and laughing goofily at each other, Francois surprised us by beatboxing for us. Smiling back at him, Steve rose up to the challenge and busted out a little rhythm of his own. The children giggled hysterically, as Francois dared him further by beating musically with his throat. We were having a “beatbox off”! As the talent continued increasing with every turn, we all laughed delightedly. Cackling, but fed up with the challenge and ready to show Steve down, Francois whispered with his buddies and turned to stare at us intensely. He serenely shoved his T-shirt deep into his dirty shorts and staring at us intensely, the white around his eyes shining like new rims on a tire, he began shifting his weight back and forth rhythmically. Suddenly, his pelvis was thrusting front and back at the same time that his shoulders shook and his head moved back and forth. And from deep within him, he sang a melody, metrically marked by his beatboxing. We all watched stunned, clapping happily at the talent this little boy had. My friend Mike got it all on video, so someday I’ll be able to show you little Francois’s moves and his crazy eyes!

Protests and Church

Today we had to take the road less traveled to work. Meaning, the narrow roads of poured lava, in between houses, in back neighborhoods and evading bicycles and motos. The university students were protesting against the police yet again. I learned that a few weeks ago, they had performed a major manifestation against the police because they had killed one of the students. Since interactions like these can suddenly take a turn for the worse, people are cautious amidst the crowded traffic as they elbow their way to work. The Congolese policemen stood in rigid rows, holding large, clear bullet-proof shields and full gear, including helmets, their unsmiling countenances searching the faces of the crowds in front of them.
However, as much as there might occasionally be tense situations in Goma, the people here radiate and enjoy life. For example, I thought I would share my experience of attending a local church this last Sunday:

This morning we were graced to be invited to a local Pentecostal church. The seven of us filed into the dark room that oozed with cow dung and sweat. We were kindly escorted to padded chairs at the very front of the church, to be unapologetically stared at for the next three hours, by all the church members who sat in severe wooden benches. I guess Pastor Samuel kept the worship celebration limited to only three hours for us, since he understands that Americans are not used to long services!
The people sang their hearts out, pounding loudly on anything that could make a beat, as the music leaders danced away. After about 8 songs, they invited all the members to stand and dance to the songs. The drumming got louder and louder as they shut all the doors and windows to contain the sound, suffocating the little air that remained in the room. Forty people danced and pranced, their full bodies swaying and turning with the music. The room was sweltering of sweat, heat and commotion- full of joy and happiness. Those of us at the front shifted back and forth slightly uncomfortably as we clapped, not sure if we should join them in the dancing, and really wishing that we could be slightly less in the spotlight to enjoy the music better.
Once the music was finished, Pastor Samuel invited us each to go up and introduce ourselves in the microphone, announcing to us that one of us would be teaching the congregation for at least 10 minutes. Thankfully, Gennae bit the bullet for us and spoke about how God promises that there will one day be a heaven and a new earth, where there will be no dying and where everyone will live healthy lives with plenty to eat and with security. She explained how everyone that follows Jesus is responsible for bringing that to this earth as much as possible even today. The people clapped as they yelled the Halleluiahs and Amens.
After a visiting pastor spoke for another 45 minutes, we were invited to partake in a communion of chapatti bread and strawberry Kool-Aid in decades-old shot glasses. We filed along with the rest of the Congolese, washing our hands in the communal bucket before eating and drinking.
I looked down at my watch, silently wondering if we were actually going to reach 200 minutes of church services in one morning! However, their hospitality and warmth and joy radiated as we all stood and shook each other’s hands, saying, “I love you!” (minakupenda) to every person around us. And you could feel the love!

The touch of a hand

“Pole.” That means I’m sorry. I will try to always remember that!
A couple days ago, I attempted to practice the new phrases I learned in my Swahili lessons. I played a bit with a little girl whom I have befriended, the daughter of a woman at HEAL Africa who is a seamstress with Healing Arts. A little boy ran up to us, smiling widely with his slightly rotting teeth, an adorable little boy with tight curls and a joyful radiance. I asked the girl, “kaka yako?” (is he your brother?), to which she nodded emphatically. I smiled at the boy and tickled him playfully. My hand froze as my fingers made contact with his belly. Whatever was underneath his tattered shirt was not regular flesh. At the same time, the little boy’s huge teddy-bear eyes widened as he jumped back, away from me. I was horrified as I realized that he had severe burns all the way from his chest to below his stomach. His recently scabbed flesh was intermingled with the gauze that was now a part of his torso. My stomach sunk with horror and guilt. Not knowing how to express my regret that I had caused him pain, I expressed it as best I could with my alarmed eyes. His countenance relaxed when he realized I did it unintentionally. I looked down and smiled tentatively at him, which he returned, even as he slid in behind his older sister. We made friends again through smiles and with distance, but my heart sickens every time I see him, every time I walk through the lava-rock grounds of the compound.

Je suis arrivee a Goma!

Today is my first day ‘on the job.’ Not quite sure what that means, I trail behind Harper, whose friendly laugh greets everyone, overflowing with fluent Swahili. I must learn Swahili asap! She introduces me as Cristina, ‘yes, yet another Cristina, Christina, Christine and Kristin.” The Congolese must think all Americans have the same name- since currently or in the last 2 months there have been about 5! My favorite so far is not actually an American; Dr. Christina is from Holland, highly gifted in surgical procedures other doctors cannot succeed in. When she stays at HEAL Africa, she performs about 5 fistula repair surgeries a day, whereas the hospital usually performs that amount in an entire week! She is funny, easy to talk with and very humble.
The day I arrived in Goma (Saturday), we crossed the Rwandan border by foot, and then hopped into cars toward the HEAL Africa hospital. As I was receiving a tour, who walks by me but a young lady, the very one featured in the LUMO documentary! I meet eyes with her and smile, but avoid singling her out by yelling out her name in recognition.
The house where I now live is beautiful; there are always a ton of guests, volunteers and workers living there. I share a room with Harper, which has already been a blast for talking at night and catching up. It’s just great to hang out with her again, only now we are living in the Congo! Our room overlooks Lake Kivu, so we are lulled to sleep with the lapping waves and woken pleasantly in the morning by the busy birds chirping amongst the garden. I love the lady of the night, a flower that exudes its fragrance when evening sets! Smells of all sorts assail your senses wherever you are in Goma, so my nasal fixation delights in escapes like these.

February 21, 2008
My first realization that I was finally truly on my way to Africa happened with the first steps I took into the Dutch aircraft towards Amsterdam. My hypersensitive nose twitched at the smell of sardines as I juggled my carry-on luggage and favorite pillow down the long row of compact seats. I stumbled upon the source: a burly man in full traditional African garb, complete with a black and red speckled turban. His work-roughened hands cracked pieces of dried fish from a ziplock bag on his lap into his mouth, to the dubious look of the mid-twenties, adventure-eager American next to him. I eased on past them, wondering what awaited me at seat 43J. My companion for the next seven and a half hour flight stood to allow me in, wafting of Acqua de Gio cologne, to the relaxation of my senses. His perfectly slicked back hair moved not a millimeter from the partitions provided by his comb the entire 8 hour flight, complimented by a dark red shirt and a black vest. A previous military serviceman during the first Gulf War, his current job at Best Buy doing security investigations made him quite a pleasant person to coexist with as we soared over the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the wintry night. Oh, it’s true that I have left the snow in Minnesota behind for at least 10 months!

'Silent Emergency'

Eastern Congo (North Kivu region) in the news:

Anderson Cooper (CBS / 60 Minutes) reports on violence against women:
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/01/11/60minutes/main3701249.shtml

Why has there been war in Congo for 16 years & why approximately 45,000 people die every day? (hint: resources & exploitation) The Mediastorm report is amazing:
"The Rape of a Nation" http://www.mediastorm.org/0022.htm (11 minutes)

Read the facts in the UN Security Council report on the Illegal Exploitation of the Resources of Congo: http://www.un.org/News/Press/docs/2001/sc7057.doc.htm

Ann Curry (Today Show) reports on HEAL Africa: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/23143082#23148340 (2 minutes)

Ann Curry (Today Show) reports on Congo: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/23143082#23143082 (2 minutes)

Ann Curry reports on both suffering and hope in the Congo:
http://allday.msnbc.msn.com/archive/2008/02/13/663262.aspx

Slideshow on HEAL Africa and Goma:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23155008/displaymode/1107/s/2/