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!