Temporary Home

This is Mayfield Guest House, a missionary retreat center we've been living in for the past few days. The staff is incredible and we love the free wifi. :)

The Slums: Part 2

After lunch, we set off to visit Zana Africa, a ministry that concentrates on empowering and enriching the lives of young women, specifically in Kibera slum.

South of the center of the city, Kibera stretches for miles and swallows up hundreds of thousands of people. I still couldn’t interpret my emotions from the morning, so I was anxious for the afternoon. What if I felt more helpless than before?

We took a matatu (taxi-like, but with many more people and far less rules) to Kibera and somehow, I ended up in the front seat with the driver and a silent passenger. He pulled me into the seat and then reached around me to cram me inside before shutting the door. As we lurched forward, I fought the impulse to dig my nails into the seat. I could do this, I thought to myself. I’m here to have new experiences.

At first Kibera didn’t look like I thought it would. Lively music played, children in tattered but brightly colored uniforms dotted the street, and chickens dodged bikes, motorcycles and a throng of walkers. On the main street in the sunlight, poverty didn’t look that bad. At Zana we were greeted with friendly faces and after a briefing, set off to a primary school near the edge of Kibera where we would help with a computer class and deliver sanitary pads.

To get there, we’d have to walk through the alleys of the slum itself, instead of just the approachable main street border.

In the midst of lively conversation with Laura and Jocelyn, I noticed the shops grow less frequent and the music fade. Then we turned to our left and hurried down an even narrower alley, with sheet metal houses with crude roofs that hung over the path.

At first negotiating the hole-riddled road and jumping over unexpected and dark streams seemed like just a challenge, it didn’t mean anything. But then the smell enveloped us. I involuntarily paused at the edge of a waste-filled ravine, then looked up to see a family staring at me from a crack in their home’s wall. The building was less than 2 feet from a river of sewage.

I shrugged it off and continued, meticulously following our leaders.

I think in this moment I didn’t feel horror because I thought,

“Oh, yes, this is terrible, but it’s ok, they’ll get to go home.”

But it was their home. And it probably would continue to be. There might even be a chance that it would become their children’s, and then their grandchildren’s. They might live in that place forever, never knowing any difference.

The horror began to set in.

It became harder to walk as we went down the slope towards the edge of the slum city. We crossed a plank bridge that I was convinced would collapse and then followed a river near the base of Kibera to St. Michael’s school. The teachers welcomed us inside and gave a few of us a brief tour. As I stepped into a pitch-black hallway, the smell of sweaty bodies made me gasp. To my left a tiny room held at least 25 boys, crammed onto benches behind a few desks and attempting to see the words they wrote through a tiny window near the ceiling. Across the hall even more boys and girls excitedly raised their hands and came out of their seats as they answered questions.

We went upstairs to a class of 30 or so young girls in level 8, which means they were around 14 to 16 years old. We split up into groups to help them with their computer lessons and I attempted to introduce myself to the four faces looking up at me. I spoke loudly and slowly, hoping they would understand. They looked at me quizzically, and then answered in perfect English. I felt foolish, but enjoyed the opportunity to overcome the language barrier.

I crouched on the small bench in front of them and shook the hand of the little girl next to me, wearing a torn blue sweater and faded purple dress.

She told me her name was Molly.

She laughed when I told her my name, but after I assured her that I was serious, she wordlessly scooted closer to me

In turned out that the computer lesson was on social networking, which as a communications major, I know a little something about. J

The computers were running slow (wifi isn’t great in Kibera), but the girls were far more patient than I thought they would be. While we waited we talked about hobbies and siblings. I asked them how old they were and what they wanted to become when they grew up. “A journalist,” Molly confidently told me. The other girls continued the conversation while I just sat and looked at her, at a loss for words.

I listened to the young women around me as they confidently expressed their hopes and dreams. A few wanted to be lawyers, others doctors and teachers. They didn’t say, “someday I hope I’ll be,” instead it was always “I will be.”

In a classroom without windows, in one of the forgotten places, one of the biggest slums in Africa, these girls had hope. They had confidence in themselves and their dreams. They would have to work harder for the lives they wanted than I ever would, and they were far more excited about the possibility than I ever have been.

When we handed them their packs of sanitary pads you would have though we were giving them candy. After, as I stood in the back, I thought about my needs and what made me excited, where I found joy and gratitude.

The girls told me that if I was going to be in Nairobi for two months, that I had to come back and see them. “We will see you again, they told me.” I said I would do my best, but that I couldn’t promise anything.

We made our way back through Kibera, through darker stretches that made my skin crawl. While the girls’ hope had enlivened me, the magnitude of their situation became even more real.

The fact that I had faces to attach to the problems in Kibera ensured that I couldn’t ignore my feelings. I couldn’t pretend like I could handle it, that it didn’t affect me. I couldn’t block it out.

While I was deep in thought, we continued on our walk back to Zana’s office. At a particularly close and difficult part of the road, I saw a woman washing her family’s clothes on the stones outside her home. She wrung water out of a worn shirt and stopped to look at me. A dead animal carcass and a pit of mud sat next to her.

For the first time, I felt like I understood a little. I was still an intruder, but I was an intruder into the homes and neighborhoods I was standing in, not just into heaps of wreckage and filth.

Like the woman washing clothes and the little girls studying to be doctors, teachers, and journalists, the people who live in Kibera are living life in the best way they knew how. They were still families who love each other, people who have dreams, and parents who care what their children wear and eat.

I still haven’t processed what I saw that day. And I might not ever come to terms with the emotions that I felt. But I finally saw the people in Kibera simply as people. People with dignity and personalities, not just subjects to be scrutinized and pitied.

In the grand scheme of this summer, I think that’s what I’m here to learn.

The Slums: Part 1

I didn’t write anything last night because I couldn’t. I had the opportunity, but not the words. In order to help ourselves recover from jet lag faster, we packed our day full of visits to our various host ministries, including Tumaini Clinic in Korogocho slum, Tunari International, and Zana Africa. I was excited but nervous, although I knew the day would be amazing.

I just wasn’t prepared.

I can’t really explain to you how being in two of Nairobi’s biggest slums made me feel. I can’t communicate the smells, or describe the color of the sludge that ran down the crevices of the narrow streets.

I can’t even show you photos, because I didn’t take any. Not yet. I think I still need to wrap my mind around what a slum is, what it means.

When we first drove into Korogocho, I wasn’t aware what was happening. One minute we were on a pretty normal road, and then we started to see piles of garbage dotted with birds picking out what they wanted. Then instead of birds there were dogs, and finally, people. All digging through the trash together, all fighting to survive.

I didn’t notice it at the time, but there were vultures circling overhead.

As we drove in our hired car, the streets grew more and more narrow. Our driver told us that the main road was built a few years ago as the beginning of a rehabilitation project for the area. But, while the road attempted to lead the residents of the slum to new and better places, instead the shacks just moved in closer and the road became a marketplace/main street of sorts, swallowed up by the slum. The type of place with a mix of beggars and shops, ditches and stray dogs, where an American girl is entirely without the option of being discreet.

We found the Tunari clinic down a fairly wide side road, one of the nicer areas, we were told. Although permanent structures are not allowed in the slum, the clinic was built 2002 to help the local population. Its high ceilings, strong walls and welcoming windows are a stark contrast to the neighboring buildings. The clinic offers testing and vaccinations, in addition to common, family practice sort of medicine. It’s main operation, however, is a neonatal facility. The clinic is run by an Australian doctor, whose plan is for the clinic to be entirely self-sufficient, run without outside aid from either local or national supporters. This model is rare for such a ministry, but so far it seems to work.

We toured the facility (no babies were being born at the time, unfortunately), and then had Chai with the staff. They talked about how much of a blessing the clinic was to the area and how it had grown from a single dank and dark room to a thriving ministry. While the clinic had many challenges, all of the staff members said that their success was simply existing and helping in any small way, instead of providing the most excellent medical care in Nairobi. That goal was second; it always came after bringing stability and helping the community to thrive.

During a break in the conversation, a few of us peered out the window to look at the rest of the slum as it sprawled into the hazy distance. I looked, but didn’t take it all in. In my mind I wasn’t looking at houses, schools, and businesses. I didn’t even know what I was looking at. Nothing in my experience could help me define what I saw. Barry pointed out black smoke in the distance ... the mark of the city dump as its refuse leaked into the rest of temporary city.

We took a walk with the Australian doctor, Joe, who took us down the main street. As we walked, nearly every child we saw yelled “Hi! How are you?” at once, proud of their English. Our appearance and their cries left little possibility that we wouldn’t be noticed. The staff told us that we could take our cameras if we wished, but none of us did. As I talked to our guide, John I felt shame as we walked and partially kept my head down.

I’m not sure why I did it. I think I tried to convince myself that it was because I didn’t want the people to feel like they were in a zoo. I wanted to show them that I wasn’t there to gawk at them openmouthed, but instead to give them dignity. And maybe that was part of it.

But I also couldn’t face myself. Every step I took around rotting garbage, every time a beggar placed their hands out and I refused, each pair of eyes I felt staring at me made me feel entitled and proud. It made me feel like an imposter who said they loved the world, but had done nothing to truly help it. I was ashamed of the fact that I wanted to escape the smells and the hands and most of all the children’s eyes. I wanted to gather them all into my arms and run away at the same time.

Was this the attitude of someone who wanted to change the world?

We returned to the clinic and crammed ourselves into the car that would take us to Mayfield guest house (where we’ve been staying since we arrived). I sat in silence while everyone else talked and processed what they’d seen.

As we drove away I still felt like hiding. Hiding from the problems that were there, hiding from the guilt I had, but mostly hiding from the fact that I consciously wasn’t letting myself emotionally process what I’d seen. That I stupidly pretended like I was “tough enough” to handle it while my friends heart’s broke around me.

I tried to journal when we got back and came up with a stilted paragraph. Then nothing.

I just sat staring at the page, feeling overwhelmed. Not angry or upset, just lost.

---

My People.

Over the course of two months, you really get to know someone. The good and bad, tired and coffeeless sides all come out, whether you’d like them to or not.

Last Monday I drove to Indianapolis to meet my fellow interns and World Next Door’s year long fellow for the first time. We had all talked through Skype, but had never met face to face. Meeting my summer family was what I was most excited for as we started training ... and I wasn’t disappointed.

The people I have the joy to spend time with are better than I thought they would be. We’re all incredibly different ... different senses of humor, talents, and interests, but we just click.

I’m completely unashamed to tell you that I stole the idea for this blog post from my lovely new friend Jocelyn, so I’ll start by introducing her.

You like Jocelyn the instant you meet her. Her laugh is contagious and she’s never afraid to surprise you with a comment or unexpected dance move, not to mention her mastery of mystical unicorn language. Her story with Jesus is incredible and I admire her faith nearly as much as I do her wavy red hair (which, unlike me, she comes by naturally). She just graduated from Concordia University in California, although she comes from Maryland.

Another west coaster, Laura, brings wisdom and incredible talents to our group.

We’re learning she’s most productive in the morning. In other words, by 7:00ish, Laura may have gone for a run, finished some kind of craft project and potentially have even done some hemming or flower weaving (yes, all of these things occurred).

You might not expect it, but Laura also loves Salsa dancing and languages ... which might be the reason for the numerous admirers she attracts. Currently she’s traveling with a ukulele, the playing of which we’ve discovered will cause people to give us free things ... and we couldn’t be more thrilled.

When it comes to experience and patience, you can’t get better than Steven. As the yearlong fellow with World Next Door, Steven is dedicated to doing life his own way.

He’s comfortable in nearly every situation, from hiking up a ridge with two full-size North Face camping backpacks to negotiating the complexity of a Nikon (not to mention a team full of energetic women). Still, I think he’s most at home with his flock of nieces and nephews, who hang on his every word and action.

Bridgette and I have twin tastes in music, but I adore her for so many other reasons.

Jesus has done amazing things in her life and I have a feeling that the story of her experiences this summer will be especially powerful in my own life. Fluent in Italian and a passionate cyclist, Bridgette is entirely genuine and honest no matter the situation ... something invaluable in a friend.

And then there’s the Boss. Barry’s passion for his work is magnetic and entirely heartfelt. What he does as the founder and director of World Next Door comes from the wrecking he experienced in his own life when faced with the reality of the injustices in the world. Each of us is here because we’re drawn to the way God’s working in his life and want to be a part of it.

But don’t be fooled ... as serious as he is about his work, he also makes time for his adorable nieces, a freakishly successful Halo gaming career, an impromptu study of quantum physics, and a budding fascination with the combination of Mumford and Sons and the Mandolin.

So that’s us. And I love every second of it.

Now when I tell you stories, you can feel like you know and love the people I’m talking about like I do

This summer we’ll be doing incredible things together and apart and we’re all going to come back such different people, but I can’t think of a better group to live this part of my life with.

In Preparation

First day as a WND intern! For the next few days we're in Indianapolis talking about our direction for the summer and getting to know each other through a number of activities, including an adventure/camping excursion in the wilderness of Indiana. This morning our leader gave us tiny moleskine journals with the following poem, one of his favorites. He said he feels it will define what we'll be doing this summer.

"I see you

Walking, talking,

breathing softly, healingly,

on the sorrow of the poor, the weak,

going from hut to hut

in the life-destroying darkness,

torch in hand,

giving the sorrow

that drains the blood

like a contagious disease

a new meaning"

-Daya Pawar

It's chilling to me that in the next few days, the images and battle in this poem will be reality. That instead of being simply a work of literature (from a slightly fascinating author, I might add: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dagdu_Maruti_Pawar), this will be my world for the next few months.

As we continue to prepare, I'm not sure that I'll ever be ready to take on the darkness so directly. Not only will I experience it, but I'll go looking for it. Seeking it out to bring light and then writing about it so that all of you can help fight against it too.

It's a terrifying opportunity ... but also a tremendous ministry.

Beyond Measure

How It's Possible to Be Reluctant But Blessed.

I strive to be someone driven by passion and curiosity. I work hard and push myself, often simply to see how long it will be before I crack. It’s more for the sake of loving a challenge than masochism, I promise. My dreams and plans for the future are no exception, particularly this summer.

But, despite my confidence in myself and God’s plan for me, each aspect of the internship with World Next Door has been a challenge. When I applied, I struggled with the fact that I might not be good enough. That I still had so much to learn and that God’s plan for me might be very different than the one that I had for myself. I worked on my application for at least four months, writing and re-writing my essays, and above all, desperately praying for direction. To my disappointment, I never got a clear answer from God. There was no encouragement or apparent yes, but there also wasn’t a resounding no.

So I applied. And then I waited. Meanwhile, my overactive brain played out every potential situation. I imagined the internship committee laughing at my submissions before tossing them aside. I jealously envisioned those I deemed “less qualified” being selected instead, while I was left to find another internship opportunity.

Don’t worry, I repented later.

I prayed a lot during my waiting period. Admittedly, the actual amount of time I had to wait was much shorter than it seemed. Nevertheless, between miniature freak-outs and general spastic-ness, I muttered a lot of prayers. I have to say that most of them were far more selfish than they should have been. The prayers involved an excessive used of the word “I” and few actually focused on would be best for World Next Door and the partner ministries. Instead, it was all about me.

I had the right desires and direction, but the wrong attitude.

When I received an email saying that I had been selected for an interview, I breathed a sight of relief ... for about two minutes. Then an entirely new batch of worries surfaced. Would I fail after having made it so far? After all, I was younger than many of the other applicants and consequently felt like I had something to prove. I tried to play it off like I knew God had my best interests at heart, but inside I was already planning on how I could make myself look better and secure the position.

On the day of the interview, the weather in Indiana was more wretched than usual. Below zero temperatures and an impending ice storm probably should have kept me at home, but I stubbornly got in my car and drove to Noblesville. As I walked toward Grace Community Church for the interview, I tried to stop my hands from shaking ... and failed miserably.

Walking in the doors, I prayed the first entirely sincere and humbled prayer about the opportunity I had thus far: “ Dear God, please don’t let me act like an idiot.”

To the best of my knowledge, I didn’t. I was still nervous, and I don’t know that I had the right answers to all of the questions, but I finally relaxed. The interview was fun and the group of us spent most of the time laughing and getting off topic, which I took as a good sign. We went over our allotted time and I left feeling content. Not confident or cocky, but content.

I remember thinking, “Well, I’ve tried the best I can. It’s not up to me anymore.”

As if it ever was.

Despite this less than profound statement, I was still on edge for the next few days. I checked my phone and emails obsessively and I’m sure made the people I care about miserable. I had one of my least favorite classes at the exact time I was supposed to get a call about the internship. When I saw that I had missed a call, halfway through the class, I literally had to force myself not to run out of the room. As the professor was dismissing us, I pushed past my classmates and left all of my belongings in the classroom.

Because you’re reading this post, you probably know that the phone call would tell me that I’d gotten the position.

My friends and I squealed for a good five minutes once I hung up. For once my happiness was enough. No worries or doubts, just joy.

That was almost three months ago. Since then, I’ve had to work through fundraising and convincing various members of my family that I will, in fact, not be eaten by a wildebeest while living in Nairobi.

I’ve made dozens of calls humbly asking for prayer and support and cried many times thinking that there was no way that the funds would ever come in. But somehow, they have and continue to arrive.

I have bruises down my arm from enduring the appropriate shots to travel and have a prescription for malaria medicine that I pray works. I even have my suitcase sitting out in my room, where it mocks me as I continue to neglect the packing process.

Every time I go out to eat, run to Walgreens, get coffee with a friend, or sit at Church, I have opportunities to talk about what I’ll have the chance to do. Apparently, choosing to intern for a non-profit in the city and slums of Nairobi automatically makes you a great candidate for a conversation, even if you’re a complete stranger. Suddenly, I have an amazing opportunity to talk about the issues and places that tug at my heart the most.

Throughout this process, God has blessed more than I ever though possible. While I may have had many selfish moments, he’s continually been faithful. I don’t deserve the opportunities, but he seems to think my meager gifts have worth.

And still, I question.

Currently, most of these questions are connected with ability, not opportunity. God has prepared the way for me; all I have to do it take it. I leave in just under two weeks, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m not good enough. That somehow choosing me was a mistake and surely World Next Door’s board will realize their grievous error. They’ll put me on the first plane home once they figure out I can’t write and I’ll sheepishly call my mother from the airport to bum a ride home.

I’m telling you this not for sympathy, but for the sake of transparency. I’m not anyone special. I fail and I have insecurities. Sure, I can type and press a shutter release, but that doesn’t make me a great writer or photographer. All I have that makes me special is the call God has placed on my life.

And really, I can’t take credit for that.

Over the next few months you’ll see me continue to struggle. I’ll experience culture shock, desperation at the sight of extreme poverty, and joy as I encounter God’s work in unexpected places. I’ll do my best to continue to be honest and self-aware so that my experience won’t be wasted.

As I get on the plane June 1^st, there might be a small part of me (and chances are I’ll never admit it) that very much wants to remain on the ground. To stay safe and comfortable instead of being challenged. I won’t listen to it, but it will be there. It will be there along with my doubts, my insecurities, and my barely-realized hopes. It will be a whirlwind experience, in the best and worst ways.

Bring on the uncertainty.

What I'm Reading

Currently I'm reading "Dreams in a Time of War" to get ready for my summer in Kenya. I love memoirs, so this book is right up my alley.

It's refreshing to read an account of Kenyan culture that is simple and straightforward, told from the eyes of a child. Granted, a very observant and poignant child, but still. So far, the book tells the story of a young boy who promises his mother he will do his best in school no matter what and the dreams and consequences that follow.

I found a review by Marie Arana from The Washington Post that I think sums up the essence of the book and its message.

"But for all these references to the mounting chaos, Nugugi's memoir is not about the world adults had made. "Dreams in a time of War" hews to the promise the boy made to his mother. Young Ngugi carries on his studies, despite all possible adversity. He marches off to school, takes joy in his ability to read, memorizes poetry, sits at the front of every classroom. The picture of Kenya that he presents, in other words, is admirably free of cant or sentimentality, and yet it is enough to make you weep. Here is a child, against the backdrop of a terrible war -- traveling a bloodied land with pen and paper -- thinking a dream can forge a better world."

Although the author and I may not share a similar background, we do share a similar purpose ... to see the state of the world, and document hope where we find it.

The full review can be found by clicking on this link: Dreams in a Time of War