For my Mormon Lit class, we had to write a personal essay about an event in our life that seemed to have made an impact on us. I chose to write about an experience I had in Africa. It's very long, so I won't be offended if this post is never viewed :)
I leave the hut, where the medical screenings are being held, for a break from the emotional things of this foreign world. As my foot crosses the barrier between a building brimming with worry to a field full of joy, I step onto the soil of Zambia and take in the view around me. The atmosphere of the scene I am now witnessing is almost a parallel opposite to the one I had just left. Inside that small hut behind me, panicked faces of Julius Village looked on as we tried to offer them some sort of medicine that would halt their pain for but a small moment. But outside in the sunlight, the children of Julius Village, unclothed and shoeless, dance around in joy.
I think back to the houses that I saw as we pulled in this morning. This village is better off than the last, whose houses were completely made of trees and whatever trash they could find. But the homes of Julius Village are made of brick, resorting to trees, leaves, and plants for the roofs. In this central part of the village, there are only two buildings: the deep red hut that is currently being used for medical screenings, and the newly built school, made of brick that is the exact color of the dirt that surrounds it. The school is about the size of two American classrooms. There are three holes in it: one used as the doorway, and two as windows.
The dirt is everywhere and inescapable. I look down at my feet and regret my decision to wear sandals today. I bend down to wipe off my toes, only to have the old dirt replaced almost immediately by new. I think of later tonight and realize that my 2 minute shower will probably have to be spent cleaning nothing else but the dirt from off of my feet.
Bordering the village, I notice miles and miles of grass as tall as me and wildflowers creating a sea of yellow as far as I can see. The sky is a soft, pale blue, and I can’t help but be jealous of the scenery that surrounds these people on a daily basis. The beauty is overwhelming and I stand in awe at the majesty of God’s creations.
Over by the truck, some volunteers shy away, sitting as close to the underside of the truck as possible, trying to hide from the sun’s burning rays. To my left, women are gathered in circles as other volunteers teach them how to do crafts that they can sell to make money for their families. To my right, children are grouped together with more American volunteers, teaching each other games of their native country. One group is teaching the children to play “duck, duck, goose” while a translator relays the message. The other group, again, with the help of a translator, is being taught an African song called “mwamba mwamba.”
The members of a third group, all standing in a circle, are holding the hands of the people next to them. It amazes me how open these children of Zambia are to complete strangers. Back at home, my seventeen year old brother would never let himself be seen holding the hand of some foreign volunteer. Here, in Africa, boys my brother’s age and older welcome the attention of someone they hardly know.
In front of me, translators and fellow volunteers spread themselves out in the center of the village, seeking the shade of the only tree in sight, reading books to any child within their reach. About a dozen kids surround each book, begging the volunteers to “read more” or “again.” These kids, who hardly know any English, can’t wait to sit down and read a book written in a language that is foreign to them. How often do I take the time at home to sit down and read a good book? Do I understand the blessings that I have? There have been so many times that I have complained about a book I was supposed to read. And here, these kids jump at every opportunity to crack any cover. They relish in the knowledge that they can go to school. I look for any opportunity to save it for another day.
Some village women are slaving over a makeshift stove, preparing the oatmeal-like nsheema that we provided them with for lunch today. But how far will it go? How many will go hungry? And then it crosses my mind that in a few hours, the volunteers will have no choice but to retreat to the back of a hut to eat our lunch in secrecy. We are able to give them lunch today, but who knows when these kids will eat again.
In the midst of my thoughts, I scan the village, trying to take in as much of this experience as possible. As I remember the sadness that seems so present in the lives of these people, it’s a wonder that anyone at all can find the strength to smile. I know that there is so much that I can learn from these humble, hardworking people. They work harder than anyone else I’ve ever met, knowing that they won’t get very much for their efforts. Back home, I hesitate to take a job unless it pays at least $7.50 an hour, knowing that there are plenty of opportunities for work. Here, some people only make $3 a day. Suddenly, I catch the eyes of a friendly face, and am taken away from my thoughts and brought back to the reality of this experience.
Maureen, a girl I had met only a few short hours before, is hiding behind her grandmother. Her tiny arms are wrapped tightly around the woman’s legs, and I see her head poking out from behind the security of her grandmother. Her eyes lock on mine. In her hands, she holds the bag full of ointments and medicines that had been distributed to her family only moments before in the medical screening. Her beautiful, white smile stands out against the darkness of her smooth skin. This morning, Maureen’s angelic face was the first one that caught my attention.
- - -
When we pulled into Julius Village, backsides aching from bouncing along the so-called road that stretched out behind us, dozens of kids ran up to touch our hands and give us hugs. We were suddenly surrounded by so many faces: faces with huge, brilliant smiles spanning from ear to ear. It was impossible not to smile back at them. Webster, our main man, quickly jumped out of the truck and got the kids interacting in songs and dances. Laugher filled the air and the children clapped to the beat of the tunes they sang. The children’s clothes were dirty and ragged, most of them barely holding together. In every village that we entered, I always wondered how such happiness could be mixed with such sadness. The heartache and heartbreak is not enough to crush the spirits of these tiny children and grown adults who live each day, hoping for a better world. Even with parents, children, and siblings dying on a daily basis, the singing and praising goes on.
In the midst of greens and blues, one color caught my eye. A tiny, bright red dress stood out among a backdrop of brown dirt, yellow wildflowers, and a blue sky. Its owner was the most adorable little girl. She kept to herself, thumb in her mouth, and stood behind the rest of the children. Immediately, I was drawn to her, her bright red dress making her that much more irresistible.
The people welcomed us to their village with song and we, in return, sang one that we knew would bring smiles. Afterwards, we split into groups and I waited for my turn to help in the medical screenings. Standing outside a deep red hut, I spotted her again: the beautiful girl in the tiny red dress.
This time, I approached her, slowly so as not to frighten her. When I tried to ask what her name was, she held out her arms, encouraging me to pick her up. Her weight surprised me. A girl her size should have weighed more but I picked her up without any effort at all. It was then that I remembered the horror of starvation and the toll that it took on the people of Africa. She was lighter than a feather, her dress hanging off of her shoulders, her stomach protruding farther than was normal. Secretions from her runny nose had dried on her face and crust had built up in the corners of both her eyes. A half a dozen flies landed on her face, crawling over her eyes, across her eyelids, around the edges of her mouth, in her ears, on her cheeks and forehead, and even up her nose. She could do nothing to free herself from the insects. No matter what, they always returned.
As I held her in my arms, she spoke to me in a language that I did not understand. Her tiny fingers played with my name tag, and occasionally she would point to my face, smile, and utter one word that I knew well by this point: muzungu, or white person. I held her tight in my arms, wishing that I could take away at least a tiny part of this girl’s trials. When I looked at her face, I found it impossible not to smile.
An elder from the village finally realized the connection that this little girl and I had made. She turned to me and told me that her name was Maureen, a name that I knew I would remember forever. I had known her for less than ten minutes and already, she had changed my world.
- - -
I am grateful to take a break from the medical screenings. There is so much I wish that I could give these people. But I think love is the only thing I can offer. Before my sadness gets the best of me, I see her: Maureen, standing behind her caring grandmother. She waves at me. I bend down on my knees, motion with my hand in an effort to bring her closer to me, and open my arms. She looks up at her grandmother, tugs the side of her grandmother’s dress, forfeits the bag of medical supplies and is on her way to my side.
This is what I hoped for, but didn’t think that she would actually come. Why would a girl so small place such trust in someone that she barely knew? I didn’t think that after our brief encounter that morning that she would even remember who I was, or which one I was for that matter. We all look the same, after all. How could I have made a difference so fast? How could I have made a solid enough impression on this heavenly creature to have her want to come running to me right now?
I see her smiling face coming towards me and a smile of my own escapes. When the distance between us is gone, she jumps into my open arms and squeezes as tight as she can. This is what love feels like, I thought. This is trust. I pick her up and look into her eyes as she starts her babbling once again. How I wish I could understand her, to be able to talk back to her, to learn more about her.
As she continues with her babbling, I can’t help but smile. I take her tiny hand and hold it in mine, paying close attention to the colors of our skin. The contrast between Maureen’s beautiful dark skin and my blinding paleness is shocking. Two completely different races, from two very different worlds, come together for only one day under the hot sun. I live a life that is a polar opposite to that of Maureen’s. I never have to go to bed at night, wondering how I’ll survive the next day. It is almost a given that I will eat three full meals, if not more. These kids have no idea when their next meal will be. But the fact of the matter is I am not so very different from children like Maureen.
We may come from different backgrounds and situations, but our thoughts are very much the same. We share the same discomforts; no one ever gets used to being hot, sweaty, hungry, tired, or dirty, even if they live that life every day. We share the same fears: the fear of being forgotten or unloved, the fear of losing family members and friends, the fear of not knowing what tomorrow will bring. We share the same hopes and dreams; growing up, starting a family, and doing something special are common thoughts for all people, no matter the span of distance or even time. We share the same joys; we find comfort in laughing, singing, dancing, and being with the people that we love.
But most of all, we share the same lifetime. I’m only here for a few short weeks. What can I leave behind that these precious people will never forget? What can I give them that can make a difference in the way that they live? I can provide them with clothes, but I can’t give them food or shelter, two things that stand out as being even more important than clothing. I can’t tell them how much they mean to me, how much I love them, or how much my life has changed because I had the opportunity to meet them; they can’t understand me.
As I listen to Maureen, I think of all the ways that we are separated, language included. Since being in Africa, the language barrier has frustrated me on a daily basis. We are here to help these people, to show them a tiny bit of love that they might not otherwise feel. But how much can I leave behind if I can’t even communicate with them? How can I possibly make a difference with so little time and experience? I wonder if all our help is in vain. Will they remember us when we leave? But then I remember Maureen, and how only a few short hours ago, we were strangers. And now, she’s wrapped in my arms, carefully protected, talking to me as if there is no barrier between us. But I still wish I could tell her everything I’m feeling.
But the language of love is one that needs no translator. And Maureen taught me that.
I leave the hut, where the medical screenings are being held, for a break from the emotional things of this foreign world. As my foot crosses the barrier between a building brimming with worry to a field full of joy, I step onto the soil of Zambia and take in the view around me. The atmosphere of the scene I am now witnessing is almost a parallel opposite to the one I had just left. Inside that small hut behind me, panicked faces of Julius Village looked on as we tried to offer them some sort of medicine that would halt their pain for but a small moment. But outside in the sunlight, the children of Julius Village, unclothed and shoeless, dance around in joy.
I think back to the houses that I saw as we pulled in this morning. This village is better off than the last, whose houses were completely made of trees and whatever trash they could find. But the homes of Julius Village are made of brick, resorting to trees, leaves, and plants for the roofs. In this central part of the village, there are only two buildings: the deep red hut that is currently being used for medical screenings, and the newly built school, made of brick that is the exact color of the dirt that surrounds it. The school is about the size of two American classrooms. There are three holes in it: one used as the doorway, and two as windows.
The dirt is everywhere and inescapable. I look down at my feet and regret my decision to wear sandals today. I bend down to wipe off my toes, only to have the old dirt replaced almost immediately by new. I think of later tonight and realize that my 2 minute shower will probably have to be spent cleaning nothing else but the dirt from off of my feet.
Bordering the village, I notice miles and miles of grass as tall as me and wildflowers creating a sea of yellow as far as I can see. The sky is a soft, pale blue, and I can’t help but be jealous of the scenery that surrounds these people on a daily basis. The beauty is overwhelming and I stand in awe at the majesty of God’s creations.
Over by the truck, some volunteers shy away, sitting as close to the underside of the truck as possible, trying to hide from the sun’s burning rays. To my left, women are gathered in circles as other volunteers teach them how to do crafts that they can sell to make money for their families. To my right, children are grouped together with more American volunteers, teaching each other games of their native country. One group is teaching the children to play “duck, duck, goose” while a translator relays the message. The other group, again, with the help of a translator, is being taught an African song called “mwamba mwamba.”
The members of a third group, all standing in a circle, are holding the hands of the people next to them. It amazes me how open these children of Zambia are to complete strangers. Back at home, my seventeen year old brother would never let himself be seen holding the hand of some foreign volunteer. Here, in Africa, boys my brother’s age and older welcome the attention of someone they hardly know.
In front of me, translators and fellow volunteers spread themselves out in the center of the village, seeking the shade of the only tree in sight, reading books to any child within their reach. About a dozen kids surround each book, begging the volunteers to “read more” or “again.” These kids, who hardly know any English, can’t wait to sit down and read a book written in a language that is foreign to them. How often do I take the time at home to sit down and read a good book? Do I understand the blessings that I have? There have been so many times that I have complained about a book I was supposed to read. And here, these kids jump at every opportunity to crack any cover. They relish in the knowledge that they can go to school. I look for any opportunity to save it for another day.
Some village women are slaving over a makeshift stove, preparing the oatmeal-like nsheema that we provided them with for lunch today. But how far will it go? How many will go hungry? And then it crosses my mind that in a few hours, the volunteers will have no choice but to retreat to the back of a hut to eat our lunch in secrecy. We are able to give them lunch today, but who knows when these kids will eat again.
In the midst of my thoughts, I scan the village, trying to take in as much of this experience as possible. As I remember the sadness that seems so present in the lives of these people, it’s a wonder that anyone at all can find the strength to smile. I know that there is so much that I can learn from these humble, hardworking people. They work harder than anyone else I’ve ever met, knowing that they won’t get very much for their efforts. Back home, I hesitate to take a job unless it pays at least $7.50 an hour, knowing that there are plenty of opportunities for work. Here, some people only make $3 a day. Suddenly, I catch the eyes of a friendly face, and am taken away from my thoughts and brought back to the reality of this experience.
Maureen, a girl I had met only a few short hours before, is hiding behind her grandmother. Her tiny arms are wrapped tightly around the woman’s legs, and I see her head poking out from behind the security of her grandmother. Her eyes lock on mine. In her hands, she holds the bag full of ointments and medicines that had been distributed to her family only moments before in the medical screening. Her beautiful, white smile stands out against the darkness of her smooth skin. This morning, Maureen’s angelic face was the first one that caught my attention.
- - -
When we pulled into Julius Village, backsides aching from bouncing along the so-called road that stretched out behind us, dozens of kids ran up to touch our hands and give us hugs. We were suddenly surrounded by so many faces: faces with huge, brilliant smiles spanning from ear to ear. It was impossible not to smile back at them. Webster, our main man, quickly jumped out of the truck and got the kids interacting in songs and dances. Laugher filled the air and the children clapped to the beat of the tunes they sang. The children’s clothes were dirty and ragged, most of them barely holding together. In every village that we entered, I always wondered how such happiness could be mixed with such sadness. The heartache and heartbreak is not enough to crush the spirits of these tiny children and grown adults who live each day, hoping for a better world. Even with parents, children, and siblings dying on a daily basis, the singing and praising goes on.
In the midst of greens and blues, one color caught my eye. A tiny, bright red dress stood out among a backdrop of brown dirt, yellow wildflowers, and a blue sky. Its owner was the most adorable little girl. She kept to herself, thumb in her mouth, and stood behind the rest of the children. Immediately, I was drawn to her, her bright red dress making her that much more irresistible.
The people welcomed us to their village with song and we, in return, sang one that we knew would bring smiles. Afterwards, we split into groups and I waited for my turn to help in the medical screenings. Standing outside a deep red hut, I spotted her again: the beautiful girl in the tiny red dress.
This time, I approached her, slowly so as not to frighten her. When I tried to ask what her name was, she held out her arms, encouraging me to pick her up. Her weight surprised me. A girl her size should have weighed more but I picked her up without any effort at all. It was then that I remembered the horror of starvation and the toll that it took on the people of Africa. She was lighter than a feather, her dress hanging off of her shoulders, her stomach protruding farther than was normal. Secretions from her runny nose had dried on her face and crust had built up in the corners of both her eyes. A half a dozen flies landed on her face, crawling over her eyes, across her eyelids, around the edges of her mouth, in her ears, on her cheeks and forehead, and even up her nose. She could do nothing to free herself from the insects. No matter what, they always returned.
As I held her in my arms, she spoke to me in a language that I did not understand. Her tiny fingers played with my name tag, and occasionally she would point to my face, smile, and utter one word that I knew well by this point: muzungu, or white person. I held her tight in my arms, wishing that I could take away at least a tiny part of this girl’s trials. When I looked at her face, I found it impossible not to smile.
An elder from the village finally realized the connection that this little girl and I had made. She turned to me and told me that her name was Maureen, a name that I knew I would remember forever. I had known her for less than ten minutes and already, she had changed my world.
- - -
I am grateful to take a break from the medical screenings. There is so much I wish that I could give these people. But I think love is the only thing I can offer. Before my sadness gets the best of me, I see her: Maureen, standing behind her caring grandmother. She waves at me. I bend down on my knees, motion with my hand in an effort to bring her closer to me, and open my arms. She looks up at her grandmother, tugs the side of her grandmother’s dress, forfeits the bag of medical supplies and is on her way to my side.
This is what I hoped for, but didn’t think that she would actually come. Why would a girl so small place such trust in someone that she barely knew? I didn’t think that after our brief encounter that morning that she would even remember who I was, or which one I was for that matter. We all look the same, after all. How could I have made a difference so fast? How could I have made a solid enough impression on this heavenly creature to have her want to come running to me right now?
I see her smiling face coming towards me and a smile of my own escapes. When the distance between us is gone, she jumps into my open arms and squeezes as tight as she can. This is what love feels like, I thought. This is trust. I pick her up and look into her eyes as she starts her babbling once again. How I wish I could understand her, to be able to talk back to her, to learn more about her.
As she continues with her babbling, I can’t help but smile. I take her tiny hand and hold it in mine, paying close attention to the colors of our skin. The contrast between Maureen’s beautiful dark skin and my blinding paleness is shocking. Two completely different races, from two very different worlds, come together for only one day under the hot sun. I live a life that is a polar opposite to that of Maureen’s. I never have to go to bed at night, wondering how I’ll survive the next day. It is almost a given that I will eat three full meals, if not more. These kids have no idea when their next meal will be. But the fact of the matter is I am not so very different from children like Maureen.
We may come from different backgrounds and situations, but our thoughts are very much the same. We share the same discomforts; no one ever gets used to being hot, sweaty, hungry, tired, or dirty, even if they live that life every day. We share the same fears: the fear of being forgotten or unloved, the fear of losing family members and friends, the fear of not knowing what tomorrow will bring. We share the same hopes and dreams; growing up, starting a family, and doing something special are common thoughts for all people, no matter the span of distance or even time. We share the same joys; we find comfort in laughing, singing, dancing, and being with the people that we love.
But most of all, we share the same lifetime. I’m only here for a few short weeks. What can I leave behind that these precious people will never forget? What can I give them that can make a difference in the way that they live? I can provide them with clothes, but I can’t give them food or shelter, two things that stand out as being even more important than clothing. I can’t tell them how much they mean to me, how much I love them, or how much my life has changed because I had the opportunity to meet them; they can’t understand me.
As I listen to Maureen, I think of all the ways that we are separated, language included. Since being in Africa, the language barrier has frustrated me on a daily basis. We are here to help these people, to show them a tiny bit of love that they might not otherwise feel. But how much can I leave behind if I can’t even communicate with them? How can I possibly make a difference with so little time and experience? I wonder if all our help is in vain. Will they remember us when we leave? But then I remember Maureen, and how only a few short hours ago, we were strangers. And now, she’s wrapped in my arms, carefully protected, talking to me as if there is no barrier between us. But I still wish I could tell her everything I’m feeling.
But the language of love is one that needs no translator. And Maureen taught me that.
Kara! So I was on Rachel Stolworthy's blog and she had you listed as one of her friends. I couldn't help but come and read! You thought no one would read this post, but I certainly did. Kara you are a great writer. I hate to say I was surprised by how well you can write. Thanks for being you and for taking time to make the world a little better. Whether it's by going to Africa where you can't communicate with the people, or simply writing your feelings on a blog to remind others about how much they have, you ARE making the world a little better. I promise.
ReplyDelete$7.50 an hour?
ReplyDeleteMwamba!
Mwamba!