Oh, Africa!

Happy Birthday, Dear Katie

2012-02-26T23:45:00.001-08:00

What is the next step for my writing career, after my contract ends next month? I wondered, as I lay in bed wrestling with sleeplessness two weeks ago. Did he ever love me? I asked myself next, indulging sadness about a relationship from the distant past. I had been trying to sleep for the past 1.5 hours, but fear and sorrow played a repetitive loop. Though my body was exhausted, my mind showed no signs of planning to rest.

The phone rang. 10:45. Who would call this late? I recognized the country code: Kenya.

Three years ago, I took my first two-week trip to Kawangware, a slum in Nairobi, to work with primary school children on personal story writing. A year and a half later, I made a return trip for another two weeks, for the same purpose. I have remained in touch with the children's teacher, who asked me a month ago for my cell phone number, saying she wanted to send me a text sometime.

When the phone call came, I temporarily forgot her name, having been pulled from my fog of half-anxiety, half-sleep. Eleanor? No, not Eleanor. Something like it. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Katie!” Suddenly, her name came to me. “Evelyn!” Her lilting laugh felt melodious and light, weighing nothing as it shone through her warm, low voice.

“The children want to sing something to you, Katie.” “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,” bellowed 59 voices, in a Kenyan accent derived from England. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR KATIE … HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!”

“Oh! I love-” I began. They continued, “HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW? HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW? HOW OLD ARE YOU, KATIE? HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW?”

I sat up in bed, shocked. These children are preoccupied with survival. Lacking food in their 10X10-foot, corrugated tin dwellings, most of them eat only the porridge they have for lunch at school - nothing in the morning or evening, or at any time on weekends. But when Evelyn suggested they call me for my birthday, blaring their musical wishes became a priority.

My students live in my heart every day. In the face of their daily suffering, I'm sure my past visits, ongoing support, and letters do little toward making them feel valued. They can't possibly know how deeply they touch me. I see them, or at least I think I do. I am sending them love all the time.

And I thank them for brightening my birthday with their surprise phone call and song. Their call restored my sense that the world is good, and reminded me that a life treading its ordinary, daily path can unexpectedly be infused with meaning.

Congratulations, Republic of South Sudan!

2011-07-08T16:33:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is South Sudan's inaugural Independence Day! Google has already begun the enormously important mapping of this newly liberated nation. Two causes for celebration and joy. And it's already "tomorrow" in South Sudan; they are officially their own republic.

So all is well with this long-troubled region, just this very minute.

Congratulations, Republic of South Sudan.

Pauline Nyiramasuhuko and Son Sentenced to Life for Their Roles in Rwandan Genocide

2011-06-24T14:17:00.000-07:00

Here's some justice that was a long time coming. A woman ordering sex crimes against women is incomprehensible to me, but set against the backdrop of a baffling, rapid-sweep genocide, I guess it makes some kind of backwards sense.

It took 17 years, but here we are.

An Ordinary Man

2011-03-20T22:07:00.000-07:00

I recently read An Ordinary Man, Paul Rusesabagina's autobiography about his experiences hiding 1,268 Rwandans during the 1994 genocide. This book is the most intimate account I've read about the mass slaughter to date, providing me with the slightest comprehension of how it could happen, and in just a matter of months.

"Evil" is a strange word, and I don't espouse it as a concept. The Rwandan genocide demonstrates that human beings can commit vicious atrocities against one another - but, to my mind, "evil" is a convenient label, a quick and superficial explanation for this capacity to harm.

To me, it is no more responsible to write off the terrible things that happen as "evil," than to say in the same context that "everything happens for a reason." Both viewpoints externalize causation for the horrors we witness, rather than acknowledging our potential to contribute to traumatic events.

This way of thinking is dangerous, because without awareness of how we can and do harm our neighbors, we remain susceptible to the kind of brainwashing that led scores of people to kill in 1994.

Or from 1938 to 1945.

Or at any conceivable period in history. Every documented era, from the beginning of time, bears out orchestrated murder on a grand scale.

In this book, Rusesabagina makes sense of the mobbing psychology that allowed Rwanda to turn against itself, causing the murder of 800,000 citizens by former friends and neighbors. He posits that there's little mystery to how this mass destruction could happen, and great danger that it could and will repeat anywhere, to the same degree and by the same persuasive method.

Whether Rusesabagina's actions were ordinary or heroic is an interesting question. I find his modesty, as portrayed in the book, disingenuous and off-putting.

On the other hand, the same principle that labels all of us potential murderers operates to our credit, as prospective heroes. Ordinary people can accomplish extraordinary feats, just as we can engage in unspeakably cruelty. An Ordinary Man adeptly shows why this is true.

Feelings: The Great Unknown

2011-02-10T21:58:00.001-08:00

As I sat across from the two children I sponsor to attend school in Nairobi, trying unsuccessfully to meet their eyes, I wondered what they felt. Their teachers told me the children were excited to see me, and the kids said the same, but I worried that I might be embarrassing them.

The two had been set apart from their classmates on that December 2010 day, so they could eat their lunches with me. Having met them 1.5 years before, and having established and maintained regular letter exchanges with them since then, I was ecstatic to spend time with them again.

I did not need them to feel the same way. They are the children whom I've chosen to support through their schooling, and whom I mentor as well as I can from my San Francisco home, thousands of miles away. Their education, safety, freedom from hunger, self-esteem, and happiness are my primary concerns.

I cannot control any of these fundamentals, but I contribute toward those that I can. I hoped that with this attempted bonding session, I was not alienating them from their peers, many of whom do not have sponsors, and thus they neither attend formal schools nor receive letters from the United States.

I could not interpret their shy smiles and soft tones, as they both looked mostly away from me, and appeared pained to answer my questions. It seemed they felt happy but awkward. Or maybe just happy. Or maybe just awkward.

Between the cultural divide and the emotionally loaded context, I found it impossible to know anything apart from my own feelings: Joy, combined with the misgivings of which I've written here.

I wrote and mailed them each a letter this week. I should receive their return letters in a few weeks - perhaps longer, if they do not reply right away. Two months back into my home routine, and I miss them terribly. I look forward to reading from them.

And maybe, if I'm lucky, their letters will contain clues as to how they feel.

What's Next?

2011-01-25T11:52:00.000-08:00

As I pore over photos from my December Kenya trip, missing the Learning Centre children and staff terribly, I wonder where I'll go next. And when.

For about the past six months, I've wanted to visit Ghana. I have heard so many gasps, sighs, and exclamations of love at the mention of Ghana, I know something special awaits me there. Sierra Leone's rich history intrigues me, and I have to see for myself the destruction and rebuilding about which I've read. I'm curious about Nigeria. I look forward to experiencing all these places, and the people within them, one day.

Yet, entire chambers of my heart are reserved for Kenya. During both trips I've taken to Nairobi, I have felt I was in my second home. I don't find the city so spectacular, but I cherish the warm, bright souls of those who inhabit it. Many in Nairobi were raised in rural areas of Kenya. The sense of community this upbringing engendered in them feels well preserved. When I return to Kenya, I want to visit the rural areas: newness embedded in the familiar.

And then there is South Africa, where the teens whom I taught last summer touched my heart, stretching the limits of its imagination regarding my capacity to share its contents. I was in Cape Town, another city I don't love, but not far from rural areas promising the depth I've seen in people who hail from them.

There are returns to make and new places to explore. But no journey far away can feel whole, before the foundation is settled. This year, my focus is on my home in San Francisco. After a year of international teaching, and intermittent paid work, I look forward to tending my career back into a viable, exciting state. Then, trips to my beloved Africa can be welcome breaks from a life well built.

The End

2010-12-11T18:31:00.000-08:00

Just a half hour ago, our team bid a tearful farewell to the children, teachers, and various staff members of Ray of Hope - but not before spending a lifetime-memorable day with them.

We took the children to an animal orphanage, which is much like a zoo, except all the animals were rescued, rather than purchased to fulfill the vision for an exhibit. We continued on to the park where we took the children last year. This time, we played soccer ("football" in Africa) with the children, rather than "Kill the Lion," which we played last year. The children had a wonderful time, and at one point, I was in a passing circle with my two sponsor children, unable to imagine how I could feel more blessed. It was a challenge to avoid passing the ball only to the two of them, but I think I came out fine.

The seven-year-old boy who taught me Kiswahili words on Wednesday stuck tightly to my side all day today. I found the gesture both touching and heartbreaking; I learned yesterday that, as I'd already suspected by his fixed attention on me all week, he does not have a mother. Not only did this child seek me out all day, but each time I stood beside him and draped my arm around him - my hand landing halfway down his torso - he reached up to clutch it, as if anchoring it, so I would not remove my arm from around his shoulder.

When the field trip bus dropped us off at our guest house a half hour ago, the children filed off the bus and lined up along the side of the road, so they could form a receiving line to hug us goodbye. I thought I'd be able to hug them all without much immediate pain, as I tend to be a delayed process griever. But about two hugs in, I began heaving wrenching sobs into the child in my arms, and then all those who followed. When I embraced Hendricka, Agnetta, Alfred, and Evelyn at the end, I became even more despondent.

The time flew by too fast. Deep attachment in only a week seems unlikely, but the love and joy these kids hold in their little bodies is magical. Plus, I endured this goodbye last year, so I know the worst is not yet over. What lies ahead is a lingering, permeating grief, which won't be marked by the tears I shed today, but with memories of the children and the Ray of Hope staff tapping at my bones in every moment. The people of this little school in Kawangware reside in me, on a cellular level. Goodbye in these circumstances is too confounding to comprehend: I can't leave them ... and yet, I just have.

The Arm of the Law

2010-12-09T19:36:00.000-08:00

I rode a bus into Nairobi this morning, to meet Barasa, whose niece Carol would take us to court. I met Carol, an attorney with the Kenyan Attorney General's office, last year. When Barasa learned I am a lawyer, he kindly offered to introduce us, and for Carol to show me to court, so I could observe a Kenyan court proceeding.

As it turned out, there was not time for the court visit last year, as my Glide team schedule was tight, and I spent enough time away from Ray of Hope work getting downtown to visit Carol's office. This year, it worked.

I arrived downtown at 7:20. Though Carol did not expect me in her office until 8:45, the more seasoned Kenyan bus riders in our Glide team warned that I should take an early bus, just to play the timing safely. I was not to meet Barasa until 8:00, but I was happy to stand at our designated meeting spot for forty minutes, people-watching the downtown professional foot traffic.

I was in this same area last year, when Barasa took me (and Robin, our team nurse, whose hospital visit we made before mine to the AG's office) to Carol's office. In my memory, there was racial diversity downtown, at least between Mzungus ("white people") and Kenyans. Not so, I learned this year. As I observed the bustling masses, I noted that I was the only Mzungu for forty minutes.

Not that it's a big deal here. In my understanding, tribal tensions are far more of a social issue in Kenya than black-white relations. As a Kenyan who had visited the United States once told me, HIV is to Kenya what racism is to the U.S. A native Kenyan who has spent his entire life living here, he confirmed my perception from my one (at the time) trip here, that Mzungus are welcome in Kenya. That's what I felt downtown this morning. I wouldn't say I blended in - people noticed my whiteness - but I was graciously received, in ways I am not in predominantly black neighborhoods back home.

When Barasa stepped off his bus to meet me at 8:00, he asked, "How long have you been waiting?" When I told him it had been forty minutes, his eyes widened, and he replied, "Yah? I hope people have not been staring at you the whole time, saying, 'It is a Mzungu!'" I laughed, and we were off to Carol's office.

We awaited Carol's 9:00 arrival - the meeting time changed last night, in a conversation between Carol and Barasa - and went upstairs to Carol's office. We discussed which court we would visit, and shortly, we were off to the Children's Court, where, in Kenya, all matters regarding children are heard, except those involving child custody and support incident to divorce. That is, whether the matter involves child protection, nonmarital child support, or juvenile delinquency, it is held in this court. As a family law attorney and child advocate, this was naturally where I wanted to go.

We arrived at the Children's Court shortly after 9:00, and waited for the Court to call the calendar. After Carol and I had sat in the gallery and talked for quite a while, she asked an attorney, who was obviously waiting for his appearance, what was happening. He answered that all of today's matters would be heard in chambers (the judge's office, behind closed doors), because only maintenance (non-marital child support) issues would be heard today.

Upon learning this, we walked over to another court, where criminal proceedings are heard before the public. Carol chose this venue because, in Nairobi, many other types of cases are closed to the public. I was happy to witness a criminal proceeding. While it is not my area of practice, it interests me far more than general civil litigation.

We arrived to one courtroom where the Court was on break. Carol popped into the courtroom to ask one of the attorneys how long they would break. He answered that it would be ten minutes. About 25 minutes later, the proceedings resumed. As we walked into the courtroom, I noted a few differences between a Nairobi courtroom and the ones I know in the Bay Area. Here in Nairobi:

1. The judges wear wigs. Not the bouffants seen in history books and on period piece movie sets, but something sitting much closer to the head, with no side action. So, in other words, a curly white mullet.

2. Judges take handwritten, word-for-word notes of the entire proceeding. There are no court reporters. This is, of course, a nightmare for the judges and a dream come true for the attorneys, who need not think quickly on their feet, since the judge is always telling them to slow down.

3. Attorneys wear black robes - even fancier than those our judges wear - when appearing before the judge, whose robe is red.

4. Anyone entering or leaving the courtroom while court is in session must bow before the Court. Literally: Stop walking, bow to the judge, and proceed into the courtroom or out the door.

5. Most, or at least many, murder cases originate as land disputes. Land is a hotly, lethally contested commodity in Kenya.

Which brings me to the type of proceeding I saw. This was a murder trial, and the witness questioning that I observed was from the daughter of the woman whom the defendant had killed. She spoke a tribal language, so the court interpreter translated this into English, for the lawyers to understand, as both are from a different tribe than the witness and the interpreter are. The lawyers and judge spoke to one another mostly in English, but occasionally in Swahili.

I was rapt throughout the part of the proceeding I observed, and deeply grateful to Barasa for making this experience happen.

Habari?

2010-12-08T19:58:00.000-08:00

We traipsed through Kawangware’s post-rain mud, which – this being one of Nairobi’s poorest slums – mixes with feces, both human and animal. We were off to visit the homes of a few Ray of Hope children. I was fortunate to enter the homes of my two sponsor children, with whom I have corresponded for the past 1.5 years, since my first and most recent visit here. I felt blessed to share with them the moments where they each showed me their dwellings, to pose for photos with them inside their homes, and to meet one child’s family members, who were inside. (The other child’s mother was out for the day, searching for food that the child and his brother could eat that night.)

I held hands with several children, at various points throughout the walk. For a stretch, I walked with a seven-year-old boy who was all smiles and few words. As we walked by another student-teacher pair, we heard the child teaching the Glide volunteer some Swahili (“Kiswahili,” in Swahili) words. My wide-grinned, silent walking partner turned to me and asked, “Would you like me to teach you some Kiswahili?” My heart melting at both his thoughtfulness and polite manner, I exclaimed, “Yes, please!”

So this child taught me to say, “How are you?” (“Habari?”) and to answer, “Fine” (“Nzuri”). I was exuberant, not so much to learn these two phrases – although that was pretty cool – but at his conscientious and diligent approach to teaching me. This little child, roughly nine years old, would not be content until I pronounced the words just right. He needed to do his job well, and he did.

A few minutes later, this boy turned to me and asked, “Would you like to write a story in English, which I can then translate into Kiswahili for you?”

You can’t know hearts this big in bodies so small, short of coming here and experiencing it for yourself. So, to anyone who is able to visit Kawangware and has considered it, I say, “Karibu” (“Welcome”): You, too, will have a safe place to reside in these precious hearts.

Love One Another

2010-12-07T18:50:00.000-08:00

Today was beautiful. I worked with the children on the books we started with them yesterday, in which they are writing details of their lives that they wish to share, such as the names of their family members and their favorite colors. My favorite part was helping them claim their stories in front of the class, reading their partially completed books aloud. I love to witness them speaking up about who they are and what matters to them.

I wore a shirt today that reads, “Love one another.” In one class today, a student wrote this mantra in his book. It is a wonderful phrase to manifest the way of the culture here, where loving one another appears to come more naturally than any other place I’ve been.

Love

2010-12-06T19:57:00.000-08:00

Our team arrived at Ray of Hope by bus this morning. My anticipatory joy transformed every person, storefront, and animal we passed into the most magnificent I’d ever seen. On this blessed occasion – the reunion with our dear Kenyan friends we first met 1.5 years ago – emotional containment was impossible.

Thankfully, it was also unnecessary, as our Kenyan friends were generous with their own emotional expression.

We assembled in the lobby of the Ray of Hope clinic, and greeted Coco and Rosemary, the lead administrators of the Ray of Hope clinic. Upon seeing their faces, so exuberant and filled with love, I realized that this is really happening: I am back in my Kenyan home.

Given that I spent the majority of my time last summer working in Evelyn and Alfred’s classrooms, and having remained in regular contact with Evelyn (and exchanging “hellos” with Alfred through her) since then, I could not wait another minute to embrace them – to say nothing of the love I knew I would exchange with the kids, if even in a brief moment.

I asked Barasa and Craig if I could duck upstairs to the school, for the hugs that would melt me to the core. Thankfully, the answer was yes.

I ran upstairs, and as I turned toward the teachers’ offices, I bumped into Alfred. We exchanged looks of unbridled joy, reminding me (as if I needed the prompting) why I return. As Alfred and I locked each other in a long hug, I heard Evelyn’s laugh behind us. I parted with Alfred just long enough to run into Evelyn’s arms. Yes, I thought, I am home.

I missed Mark today. He and I bonded last year, laughing and crying together over just about every moment. I brought the kids two photos of me with Mark in them. When the kids saw those photos, they breathed incredulously and whispered, “Maaaaaaaaaaaaark” (pronounced, in their Kenyan accents, “Mahk”).

The power of love. It brought me back to these people who hold such meaning in my heart, and held “Mahk” in my mind today.

Shallow End

2010-12-05T19:43:00.000-08:00

This morning, our first in Nairobi, I rose early. After lying in bed for a short time, then reading in bed for a longer one, I left the room Benita and I share at 7:00 a.m. I ate in the cafeteria of the Methodist Guest House, where we are staying. At 7:30, I walked to the back of the guest house, to read in the warm sun by the pool.

To the smell of chlorine, and the calming sound of the pool’s water jets, I finished reading a novel tracing an interracial relationship in the U.S. The book opens in the mid-60’s and concludes in the mid-90’s. The themes of race relations, family strife, and the mysterious ties that bind the human heart feel particularly fitting to many aspects of my ongoing African journey.

While looking out at the water, otherwise placid but for the even stream the jets pushed out, I noticed a sign embedded in the wall on one side of the pool. It read, “SHALLOW END.”

After digitally capturing the “shallow end” sign, I resolved to dedicate a substantial part of my reflection on this journey to pulling myself out of the shallow, ever-present abyss that has marked my year. While I’ve created enormously meaningful experiences, and worked hard to reclaim the joy that previously operated in me by instinct, I have felt stagnant and unstudiously atheistic this year. Try as I have, I’ve found it an overwhelming task to swim toward the depths that I know my life holds.

So on this Glide/Ray of Hope return to Nairobi, I will scan my daily environments for joy, as our pastor Karen encouraged us all to do, and as she reminded us will be fairly effortless, among our gracious and relentlessly grateful Kenyan family members.

I found the deep end on our matatu ride to Riruta, a progressive United Methodit church with whom we partner, located in Nairobi’s Ngong slum. As our team rode with Barasa, our faithful Ray of Hope liaison, my heart leapt out of my chest several times. I was buoyant with recognition of geographic markers, and the anticipation of seeing our Kenyan friends from last summer.

Anne Baraza and John Makohka, leaders of Riruta Methodist Church, greeted us warmly and well when we arrived. After services, we waited almost an hour for a matatu that would hold our entire group. After several overcrowded vehicles passed us by, Barasa flagged down a gigantic mattress truck, whose ceiling could easily graze the bottom of a low-hanging billboard.

With our trusty leader Karen riding shotgun in the cab of the truck, the rest of us sat in the top-open bed. Had we been allowed to stand and grip the cage-like top part of the walls, it would have felt like the best float in the greatest parade ever – but the driver could have been arrested for carrying us, so we ducked by sitting against the lower part of the walls. There, staring up at billboard bottoms and warm, cloudy skies, I experienced joy again.

Karibu Kenya.

Letter to My Students

2010-08-17T19:48:00.000-07:00

To my dear LEAP students:

This morning, I awoke to my alarm clock. I tiptoed across my bedroom floor to turn it off, careful to sidestep any sleeping bodies. In the seconds between my slumber and wakefulness, I believed you were staying over with me. Lacking enough beds for all of you, I found you on my floor.

Once I made it into my living room, I realized you were not with me. You were not in my home, my city, my state, or my country. You were not on my continent, nor was I still on yours. As your presence slipped away, the kilometers between us stretched out to no end. I stared at my alarm clock, stunned and saddened to lose you.

I can’t express the weight you carry in my heart. But I know you are embedded there, when I wonder what you are writing and how you feel. When I worry for you, or imagine you walking the school hallways, I feel how much you matter. In those moments, your loving spirits break my soul open.

When I think that you all stayed over with me, that somehow, you are here – that is when your impact most flattens me. There, in the fragment of a dream, I find the joy of knowing you, and the pain of losing you.

Thank you for the precious smiles, songs, hugs, words, and unspoken understandings we shared. You are all special to me, and you’ve earned that space in my heart where you dwell … and those spots on my floor where you sleep.

With much love,
Katie

Taking It With Me

2010-08-11T20:54:00.000-07:00

My time in Cape Town is soon to end. Tomorrow, I begin the long journey of two long plane rides home. I have recently missed several days of blog posting, as I've been frenetically paced, trying to bring all my projects to a comfortable pausing point.

I have always intended that I would stretch any work begun here into the long term; at this point, it's just a matter of accepting that I must come in for a landing, so I can fully engage with my South African loved ones in my last few days here.

My heart is packed to capacity, with the exceptional people who have become family in just two months. I know I must leave them, and I am beyond ready to be home. But those I leave behind matter to me, and I am sad to say goodbye.

I will pack up all I've learned and felt, all the smiles and laughter and hugs, all the singing, all the dancing. And just like my unfinished project work, I will take it with me.

Giving Kindness Away

2010-07-28T22:17:00.000-07:00

Today, I took the opportunity to give away kindness, in the form of two necklaces and a postcard. Mandy's mom had mailed me these items before I left for Cape Town, as reminders to keep kindness in circulation.

When I sat on the bus this evening, I felt inspired to give the necklaces to the two young women seated next to me. One happens to be my home stay housemate, and the other is her friend.

One is a LEAP 1 student, Grade 11. She has two younger brothers, she will be sixteen on August 14th, and she aspires to be a pilot. The other is also a LEAP 1 student, Grade 11. She is the middle child in her family, with an older sister and brother, and two younger sisters. She will be nineteen years old next June 8th, and she is working toward a marketing career.

Each was duly moved by Mandy's story. One volunteered to pass on the postcard and the story, so that kindness will always carry on in Mandy's name.

These two young women, so close in age to Mandy's years at the time of her death, carry her legacy around their necks and in their hearts. I know they will guard it well.

Breaking Barriers

2010-07-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

Every evening, five neighborhood boys congregate two houses away from our Montana House home stay. Through inquiry and observation, I have learned that they range in age from three to six years of age, and that the purpose of their nightly meetings is to play Hide and Seek, wrestling, and soccer.

Tonight was soccer night. As I turned onto our block and saw the pitch, I ran down the street to insert myself in their play. Though my every teammate and opponent stood at half my size or smaller, I could not hide my competitive spirit: I made them work hard, and we all loved it.

"You kick pretty good for a girl," one of my pint-sized adversaries informed me after the game. For a moment, I felt sad that sexism had been ingrained in him so young - but I am in another country, where girls in primary school don't play soccer, a decidedly male game. That is the reality here, so I accepted it ... and felt grateful that I'd beaten some highly skilled miniature people in their own front yard. I doubt they'll soon forget the day a "girl" showed them up.

This neighborhood is fun. Supposedly, it's one where colored people live - "colored" being a politically correct, racially categorical term in South Africa, to describe a mixed-race person - but other than Sara, Mona, and my own reflection, I've only seen black people around.

Whatever the demographic, we stick out when we walk home with our black housemates. We were told this was a potentially dangerous situation, but it does not feel that way to me. People just seem sort of curious as we pass - and, much like simultaneously being female and having soccer skills, walking around my neighborhood while white lets me surprise people who expect rigid roles.

But now that I've shattered the glass ceiling on women's soccer in this neighborhood, the stakes are raised. I must prepare to play a mean game of Hide and Seek tomorrow.

LEAP Writers Society Blog

2010-07-24T12:24:00.000-07:00

I have formed and facilitated a writers society at LEAP, and we recently launched a blog.

My students' words can be emotionally hard-hitting and painful to read; these young ones inspire me every day with their relentless truth telling. They are remarkable people, and I am blessed to know them.

Teaching Travails

2010-07-23T22:43:00.000-07:00

Today, I taught my creative writing workshop to the Grade 8 learners at Siyabulela, another Langa primary school.

Township schools are overcrowded and underfunded, and Siyabulela is no exception. When I walked into a Grade 8 classroom of approximately 40 students, I had no idea how I would carry my voice for two hours in that space, let alone how the students would benefit at all from the lecture-type class that this setup would require.

As I performed the mental gymnastics this predicament demanded, the LEAPSA who once student-taught this class, and who accompanied me today, said, "We can open up this partition, so you can teach the entire grade at the same time." He then lifted the classroom divider, to unveil about 40 more Grade 8 students.

Classroom management was a nightmare. Not a disciplinarian by nature, I refused to embody the impatient, excessively authoritarian figure to which many of these children were preemptively reacting. Still, I was hoarse by the time we left, because the acoustics and teacher/student ratio forced me to strain my voice beyond its natural capacity, just to deliver the lesson.

Today, I can't imagine ever becoming a full-time teacher. I am not unbudgeable on this, but it won't be up for discussion for a long time.

The Twin Powers of Truth and Mystery

2010-07-21T16:24:00.000-07:00

Life Orientation ("LO") is a South African mandated class, aimed at social emotional learning, for the well being of South African students. In LO, students circle to discuss the hardships of their lives and their relationships with each other.

LEAP's LO program is well touted by its students and the local community, and after attending three LO sessions in LEAP 2 today, I am the program's newest fan.

Due to the sensitivities that confidentiality requires, I won't divulge any content ... but it will suffice to share that, with some prompting from their LO facilitators, these teens carry forth some powerful truth-telling with each other. So much so, in fact, that their candor impelled me to confront a conflict with one of my fellowship colleagues. Now, our friendship is stronger for it.

When the school bus dropped us at our after-school stop, I walked home with one of my housemates, a current LEAP student. She and I joined hands to help each other avoid a rapidly oncoming car, and after the vehicle passed, she showed no signs of letting go.

So, for the ten minutes it took to arrive at our doorstep, we walked hand in hand, swinging our arms backward and forward, exchanging life stories. I felt like a girl of ten again, excited to have made a new friend.

From all I hear and observe, a friendship between a black and white woman in South Africa is a delicate, complicated matter. When these two to hold hands, while several neighbors stand in their front yards and stare, a rare event is taking place.

I don't know what this young woman felt as we walked, but her act of associating so closely with me the whole way home seemed deliberate and significant. At her age, she was born right around the time when apartheid ended - but let me make no mistake that vestiges remain. Her act of reaching out, and my reciprocation, healed something in me ... even as it saddened me that it should mean anything other than two people connecting.

For the second time today, a LEAP student inspired me, teaching me something I can use in my own life. In this case, the reminder is that I don't always know what impact my engaged presence will have on another - but whether or not I ever find that out, I can feel secure in the knowledge that it does.

And that awareness alone propels me forward, as I navigate the various mysteries of South Africa and its brilliant teenage minds.

Township Teaching

2010-07-20T16:20:00.000-07:00

As the LEAP van drove us through the tattered streets of Langa, I prepared to teach my first class of grade eight learners in a township school.

The township schools generally have a poor reputation: varying degrees of teacher competence, or lack thereof; classroom overcrowding; and abysmal classroom management problems.

When I arrived at the school, I learned I would teach in two classrooms at once. As it turned out, one class of learners was diligent and respectful, while the other was wild and barely functional.

Both classrooms had teachers in the room the entire time, and the teacher of the former class seemed reserved but open to my lesson. I knew the latter class had a teacher only because he was the sole person in the room over forty years old. Though I know there are no absolutes in human observation, I had little difficulty attributing his students' misconduct to his insanely laissez faire attitude.

I had spent the morning teaching creative writing to LEAP students, and then running my workshops on using English professionally for the Learning Centre tutors. I am grateful for the extremely varied day, and for the fact that I can expect more such days each remaining weekday I am here.

Blonde in Langa

2010-07-19T15:49:00.000-07:00

As I knelt down to pose for a photo with the young children, they swarmed me, curiously stroking my hair with their little fingers. In the span of a few seconds, my hairstyle evolved from tousled locks to tight ponytail, secured by approximately twenty tiny hands.

Hair is a big deal in Africa. Women spend much of their time thinking about it, working on it, and talking about how they might change it. In my short time in South Africa, I have failed to recognize women I've come to know on more than one occasion, because they have changed their hair.

When I moved into the Montana House, one of the LEAPSAs greeted me by beaming and exclaiming, "You changed your hair!" I had it back in a ponytail - secured by elastic, not children - and to her, the difference was perceptible and worthy of notice.

Today, my impromptu, child-induced ponytail was the result of a Langa visit. Many young children in this township don't leave it, and it's black South Africans who live there. My long, blonde tresses were as foreign to them as I am to this country, and they just had to feel for themselves how my head works.

As they stuck their baby hands in my mane and marveled, I felt unbridled joy at their innocence. If a blonde in Langa could bring them this much wonder and delight, I was happy to oblige.

Mandela!

2010-07-18T11:45:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, Madiba.

What a life well lived, so far. Keep it going.

Ready to Run

2010-07-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

Today entailed more meetings, to determine further how my colleagues Sara, Vernon, and I will fit into LEAP 2's schedule. At the end of another long day, it all worked out beautifully. I now have a teaching schedule that is all filled in!

Sara, Vernon, and I will enter each teaching block together in the LEAP 2 English department, dividing each class into thirds, with the three groups rotating each week so all students work with all three of us. Sara will run a theatre/drama workshop, Vernon will teach the kids to reclaim their voices through speech and song, and I will run creative nonfiction writing exercises with them.

I am also on target to hold my first writing club meeting tomorrow, for all students from LEAP 1 and LEAP 2 who are interested in writing their stories, which I will ultimately publish in some tangible form, to send back to them after I am home.

After a month here, and with one month remaining, I finally feel ready to most effectively execute the work I came to do.

Tripping Over People

2010-07-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

Today was hard. Some LEAP students and LEAPSAs had planned a summit, inviting students from neighboring schools to participate, and only LEAP and Teach with Africa showed up. The organizers had worked hard to plan the day, and they were disappointed to see the lack of response.

I had difficulty with the summit, as I felt the LEAP students and LEAPSAs were not seen or heard, and not only because the turnout was poor. In the late afternoon, we held a circle discussion about teen pregnancy, and in my view, our fellowship team did a lot of damage.

I am continually amazed at how much I learn from the students' and LEAPSAs' body language, when they don't always tell us we are minimizing them, or entirely shutting them down. I have heard that South African culture promotes confrontation, and that LEAP students will thus tell us directly if we offend, but this is not what I observe.

While some South Africans are outspoken - especially when provided a forum for open communication, such as Life Orientation (a South African mandated class targeted at social emotional learning) - the people I've met here have mostly lamented how challenging it is for them to exercise their voices. During the short time I've been here, one young woman has confided in me that she silences herself with our fellowship group in particular.

So we - myself included, no question - make mistakes. And yet, we carry on. In my case, it's because I believe our differences won't destroy us, as long as we remember to work through them and keep asking questions.

For the moment I think I know everything about another culture, I may as well stop coming to Mother Africa for answers.

The Love Clap

2010-07-08T22:11:00.000-07:00

The LEAP Learning Centre, which serves learners in LEAP's partner communities, uses a "love clap" to applaud its students for work well done. The love clap goes: Three claps in front of the right shoulder; three claps in front of the left shoulder; and then wiggling fingers on both hands, extending out from the heart to the applause recipient, while the applauder lovingly breathes, "Looooooove."

The love clap is warm and silly and wonderful, and every time I teach it to current LEAP students, it makes me giggle.

Today, I taught my creative nonfiction workshop to LEAP 2 students. LEAP 2, as one might expect, is the second LEAP school established. It is housed in the same building as LEAP 1, but they are two entirely different schools, with separate faculty and administration staff.

The students were excited to be there. For the first time all week, I taught students who had signed up for my workshop. Others had enrolled earlier in the week, but due to scheduling and attendance issues, I was never matched with those who had registered. Instead, I had taught it to students ordered to be there. Today marked a beautiful shift.

Love claps all around.

Tough Crowd

2010-07-07T20:29:00.000-07:00

Teaching teenagers is tough in any culture. My fourteen students of today were without teacher supervision - and, as if that were not challenge enough, they had not signed up for my workshop.

To make matters even worse, they had arrived to school one hour late, and had ducked into a classroom to hang out together, when an administrator found them and pulled me in to teach them my creative writing workshop.

Needless to say, they were completely uninspired to create, and not one bit thrilled to see me.

I survived, and the seven who returned after the mid-workshop break were enthusiastic. The writing that emerged from the workshop was poignant as usual. I wish these students inherently loved to write, but so few of the ones I've taught so far feel that way.

The idea that anyone would dread writing is as foreign to me as South Africa. I know the key to grabbing my students' interest is to make my love of writing less foreign to them than I am. At the moment, they'd take me over creative writing any day - and today, it was clear they were annoyed to be dealing with both at once.

I continue my study of how I can better reach my students, for the sake of their educations. I want a strong relationship with them so we can learn from each other, but I don't take it personally if they don't like my class, or me. But the days when my class is not appreciated are more draining than those in which the students come alive.

Fingers crossed for a livelier day tomorrow.

First Day of School

2010-07-05T18:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, ninth graders. How they gossip and giggle and fiddle and skitter through class.

This week, I am teaching my creative nonfiction writing workshop to current LEAP students. Today, I was thrilled to meet the children I will teach all summer. I just wasn't expecting them to be so chatty during my seminar this morning.

Last week, I taught the same workshop to the seventh and eighth graders from local townships who are LEAP hopefuls, to a completely different effect. Their tutors had been in the class to help with the conduct issues that never arose, whereas I was on my own today - and, well, behavioral issues made themselves known.

My Glide brother and fellowship colleague Vernon assisted me today, and that helped considerably to bring down the extraneous noise. There was nothing catastrophic to address; the teens wrote their stories as instructed ... they just did so while also catching up on what they'd missed with each other over winter break. (It's winter here.)

I never fully contained the classroom socializing, and I gave my power away several times, by resorting to putting my finger to my lips and begging, "Shhh," with a smile on my face. (I may as well have worn a sandwich board around my neck that read, "I've just lost control over all of you. You own this classroom now, free and clear. Kick me.")

The class worked wonderfully, despite the chatter, because the group's aspiring writers put pen to paper and never stopped writing. Also, several students volunteered to read aloud, and their peers were supportive - and much more attentive with each other than they had been with me. That is all that matters, and it is what made this morning a great success.

But I will spend some time tonight channeling Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds, in preparation for a much more settled classroom tomorrow.

A Life Remembered

2010-07-04T22:26:00.000-07:00

Late last night, one of our faculty in residence members learned that his brother just died. Our fellowship team supported him beautifully throughout the day, and gathered to celebrate his dear brother's life this evening. Candles floated in our backyard pool, as we sang and talked about life and its inevitable end, death.

There was a cloud cover of melancholy over this day, but witnessing our team band together in support was deeply moving.

Prayers and love out to you, our beloved brother.

Workshops - Day 3! It's Raining Surprises ...

2010-07-01T23:57:00.000-07:00

Today, I taught Team Algeria and Team Ghana.

Those little seventh and eighth graders sure are cute. Many of them wrote stunning tributes to their mothers, sisters, grandmothers, fathers, brothers, and uncles. After each student read such a piece aloud, I said, "That is beautiful, and definitely the kind of essay someone should read about her/himself. Do you think you'll read it to her/him?"

Across the board, when the muse was a woman or a girl, the student said she or he would read it to the person. When the student wrote about a male, the student became shy and said she/he would not read it to him. Then I would say, "Oh, OK. Well, do you think you'll leave it lying around someplace where he'll find it and read it on his own?" Every time, the student would smile, nodding enthusiastically.

I can relate. It's hard for me to tell men that I love them. I share my entire range of feelings with the women in my life - but when it comes to any man who has shown up, whether as a friend or more, I hold back.

Men have always been foreign people to me. No matter how much time I spend navigating the earth with them, I still always wonder who they really are and what they think. On the rare occasions when I see a man cry, I stare in disbelief. They do that? I think to myself. In the face of mounting evidence that men are human, I suspend final judgment, as if the verdict has not yet come in.

Which is why I am still in shock about what happened at lunchtime today, twelve hours ago.

One of the LEAP tutors, who had sat through my creative nonfiction writing workshop yesterday afternoon, approached me on the schoolyard bench. A Congolese chemical engineer in his sixties, and also a man, he did not make it onto my radar as one who would appreciate emotive writing.

But, just like with every judgment I’ve made about a human being before, I got it wrong and sold him short. Not only does he like this type of writing, but also, he has engaged in it for thirty years. Yesterday, he walked up to my bench and said, “I wanted to show you the kind of writing I do.”

Then, from his briefcase, he pulled out a poem he had handwritten, which amounted to 40 pages and well over 600 lines: He had numbered them from the beginning, so that anyone editing his work could give him line-by-line feedback, but he’d stopped enumerating somewhere in the 600s.

Written in French, the content of the poem was mostly lost on me – but due to his enthusiasm and the sheer volume of the work, I felt the spirit of it. He told me it is about human rights abuses in the Congo, a topic never far from his heart.

I implored him to scan the poem into a computer, or at least to make a photocopy of it, so that it would not be lost. He said he wants to do that, as he already handwrote a book once, which was stolen in Zimbabwe years ago. I also encouraged him to write shorter poems and essays on a blog. He said he wants to learn how to start a blog, and I said I would launch one for him, and would then email him the site and the login instructions.

I have created the blog, and I tried to email him the link, but it seems he has given me an incorrect email address, as the email bounced back to me. Fortunately, I’ll be seeing him around over the next six weeks. I look forward to reading his posts, assuming he writes any in English – and if so, I will share the link here once he has started.

There is a lesson for me in Africa, about the well-roundedness of men. It is raining the type who have depth and great heart, which is shifting my perspective about the whole gender.

Workshops - Day 2!

2010-06-30T18:18:00.000-07:00

I am in heaven in this place.

Today, I taught Team Nigeria by morning and Team Cameroon in the afternoon.

The Nigeria group was highly chatty, filing into the classroom in a buzz of multiple conversations. The class of about 25 students had only three young men, the rest young women. The three young men sat together at a table separate from the main group. This was the first group of students I’ve had to separate by gender, in such a pronounced fashion.

These children free wrote to the exercises I’d planned, as instructed, but many of them decided they were done before time was up. I spent a lot of time moving from student to student, telling each one who told me she or he was finished, “I want you to push yourself. Tell me more of your story.”

After the first writing exercise, when the option to read aloud came up, no one volunteered. The writing part of the second exercise was equally painful, with many children telling me they were finished well before the time deadline – but this time, a few students raised their hands to read their stories. They all presented beautifully, and their words were genuine and very touching.

For example, one young woman, whose proverbial teeth I’d had to pull to keep her writing, raised her hand to share after the second writing exercise. She read about her father, who is no longer around, and how much she loved him. From the writing, I assume he has passed away, but she did not specify. He’s just gone from her life, and she misses him terribly – and my heart hurts for her.

The Cameroon group wrote feverishly during the only two exercises I had time to assign. After both, several students read aloud, and many of the readers’ peers gave them insightful and kind feedback.

When one young woman read about her love for her self-sacrificing mother, who had considered suicide but changed her mind, so that her children would not grow up alone, was so beautifully received by her cohorts, I was tempted to cancel my plane ticket back to San Francisco. The power of these children’s love almost stationed me permanently in Cape Town!

Most groups attending these workshops have one tutor – a term that, in South Africa, refers to teachers of an entire group of students who are not their regular students. In each case, the tutor is a hard math or science teacher, with a medical, mathematics, engineering, or science background. The tutors cycle through each of the six workshops we are all teaching, to observe and help with discipline, if needed.

There happen to be three tutors of the Cameroon group, and they are all Congolese scientists. I was intimidated to have three linear thinking minds observing my “write your personal stories from your heart”-themed workshop, but they were incredible! Not only did they encourage the students to present their writing aloud, but also, they fell all over themselves afterward to tell me how much they learned from me!

As one of the three wide-eyed and appreciative tutors worded it, “We are scientists, and we only know how to do one thing: apply science. We are very stressed out, and we are fearful of writing. You have shown us a different side of our students, and now we can practice our own writing, to learn a different side of ourselves.”

Wow. Maybe I won’t need that return airline ticket after all.

I Just Want to Kick a Ball.

2010-06-29T23:22:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to believe the World Cup is happening for the benefit of something greater than our fellowship team’s entertainment. With vuvuzelas blaring inside our living room and all over the city, and with South African-themed jerseys and wigs appearing everywhere we step, it seems like the series is just for us.

Some of our team members attended tonight’s Spain/Portugal game, while others of us stayed back in the living room, watching Paraguay beat Japan 1-0 in a free kick standoff, then seeing Spain win 2-1 against Portugal.

It’s hard to keep missing live games, when they are played right here. There are methods I could still attempt, and high prices I could pay, to secure tickets to an upcoming game – but I’ve had so many near misses, only some of which I’ve chronicled on this blog, that I’m done trying. I love watching from the comfort of our living room, surrounded by my fellowship colleagues – and at this point, that just may have to be enough.

Watching these soccer stars reach for the ultimate trophy, I can’t help but envy their single-minded focus. While I wouldn’t trade my life for any other, the circuitous career path can be tough to navigate.

My master’s degree in Counseling and three years of full-time work in the field, my law degree and eight years of family law practice, and my six years of creative writing have prepared me well for many careers. Yet, as I ponder reinventing my professional self yet again, sometimes I wish I could kick a ball down a field in front of 63,000 people and think, I’ve waited for this moment my entire life, and it has finally arrived.

Right now is one of those times. I’ve waited for no particular thing my entire life.

My next career step, to be taken when this fellowship ends in August, could take any form: ramping my family law practice back up; pursuing another practice area, such as adoption law; working as a lawyer for a nonprofit or NGO in San Francisco; working for an NGO somewhere in Africa; becoming a teacher in San Francisco; becoming a teacher somewhere in Africa; or becoming any other professional, in any other place, not already mentioned here.

All of this makes for an exciting life, and I know how fortunate I am. But as the possibilities stretch endlessly before me, my mind needs rest.

Fortunately, I find the repose I seek in this sacred, two-month fellowship window. I am so blessed to be here.

Workshops!

2010-06-29T17:37:00.000-07:00

Today was exceptional. The fellows began teaching our respective workshops today, to the seventh and eighth graders hoping for high school acceptance at LEAP. They are only here for this week; these are not the current LEAP students whom we will teach full-time, once the school year resumes.

This week, these seventh and eighth graders are divided into groups of 25-30. They are all South African, but their groups are labeled as various African countries represented in the World Cup. The teams are Algeria, Cameroon, Cote d'Ivoire, Ghana, Nigeria, and South Africa. Each of the six fellows teaching will run two workshops per day, as the students rotate through over the next three days.

This morning, I taught the Cote d'Ivoire team. They were quiet, with all of them jumping into the free writing assignments, but none of them volunteering to read their work aloud. At the ten-minute break I gave the students, I walked up to one young woman who had shown great interest in the writing exercises, and asked to read her work - and, upon loving it, requested that she read aloud.

She agreed, and read a piece about being pressured by her friends to steal, and enduring beatings from her mother when she succumbed. I could scarcely imagine having such a complicated life at so young an age, but I suspect that several of her peers were well acquainted with the scenario she shared.

In the afternoon, I taught the workshop to the South African team. The interest in reading aloud was much higher, and the readings were beautiful.

In both groups, I was excited to be exposed to such talented young writers, and sorry that I won't see these particular students again.

Church and Braai

2010-06-27T23:21:00.000-07:00

My fellowship colleagues Vernon, Josh, Francis, and I rose early this morning, to be picked up for church. We were the only fellows who wanted to go, and we all opted for the United Methodist church that one LEAPSA attends, when given the choice between that and another LEAPSA's Catholic one.

The United Methodist Church of Southern Africa has a three-hour service, from 10:00-1:00. We arrived at 8:50, twenty minutes in to the 8:30 service. That service ended at 9:45, just in time for ours to start.

The music was powerful, soulful. Several times, tears streamed down my face. Vernon, who is not only my fellowship colleague, but also my Glide brother, sang and drummed "Total Praise." He represented Glide and Teach with Africa beautifully, and I was so proud.

After church, the other Teach with Africa fellows picked us up in the LEAP van. We went to a Braai in the Gugulethu township.

"Braai" is the Afrikaans term for "roasted meat," and attending a Braai entails listening to loud house music, being surrounded by cigarette smoke and drunk people, and waiting for one's meat order to be barbecued and delivered in large bowls to the table. This all happens under a roof, but the raucous crowd spills outside, plus there are tailgaters down the very long street leading to the restaurant.

It sounds awful, I know ... and it is. But it is South African custom, and the experience begged to be had, so I embraced it. Once I did, I could dance along and take the crowd in stride, knowing I would not return.

Thankfully, the venue owners killed the music when the Germany/England World Cup game started. We had ordered our meat two hours before, and we were still waiting our turn for it to be cooked - so we watched Germany pummel England 4-1, while surrounded by hundreds of drunk and relentless vuvuzela blowers.

This is South Africa, and I love it.

When a House Becomes a Home

2010-06-26T23:05:00.000-07:00

I love our house. It feels so much like home tonight, only a week after our Cape Town arrival.

From our living room couch, we watched Ghana beat the U.S. 2-1 tonight. I've come to love the hum of the vuvuzelas, and the occasional round of shouts and laughs, that permeate our living room. It is impossible to comprehend that, only one week ago, I felt lost and alone in this same living room.

Now, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

My Name is Katie

2010-06-25T22:58:00.000-07:00

We visited Etafeni Day Care Centre today. Etafeni is a Xhosa term that translates to "at the open space," and what an open space it is. The day care facility serves children with HIV/AIDS, while its community programmes support HIV-positive women in selling their handmade beadwork, patchwork, and sewing.

I fell in love with Lelethu, a five-year-old day care client. I met her when I walked by her little table, and she said, "What's your name, sister?" I stopped to meet her wide and bright eyes, and crouched down, before answering, "It's Katie." A three-year-old girl named Olethu began playing with my hair. Then Lelethu tapped her fingertips to her chest and said, "My name is Lelethu." Then she said, "You have to go, 'My name is Katie.'" while she tapped her fingertips to her chest.

I followed Lelethu's lead, and then she sang, "My name is Katie ... Katie ... Katie ... my name is Katie ... what is your name?" We proceeded to point around the table, moving to another person each time we came to the "what is your name" line. Lelethu and Olethu were the most engaged, and I adored every minute with them.

Rebecca Renaud, Mandy Edwards' mom, mailed me two necklaces before I departed, as part of her ongoing mission to extend kindness in her daughter's name. Throughout my fellowship thus far, I have held my heart open, so that I might recognize the right moments in which to give away the necklaces.

I realized that Lelethu might not be the appropriate recipient of a kindness necklace, and the reason saddened me. While Lelethu was wonderfully inclusive and inquisitive, she is too young to understand the meaning of the gesture. If she were not terminally ill, I might have figured out a way to stay in touch with her, or to make sure her day care teacher could explain the kindness revolution to her one day in the future.

Lelethu's future is not very long, and the sadness came when I realized this. I had known this already, since all of Etafeni's clients are HIV-positive, but the necklace made her short life span tangible.

Bless her musical little heart.

Amazing Grace

2010-06-24T23:14:00.000-07:00

One of my assignments here is to obtain LEAP and Teach with Africa profiles – compelling stories about how either the LEAP School or the Teach with Africa fellowship has transformed lives.

After painting tiny faces, I looked into the eyes of some slightly older South Africans at the Langa birthday party: two LEAP students, both Langa residents, who happily told me their stories of triumph over impossible circumstances.

LEAP had no small part to do with these teens' successes. These children are proud LEAP students, and in sharing their accounts with me, they solidified my excitement to teach at LEAP all summer.

Witnessing the surrounding poverty as I interviewed each child, I was amazed at their presence, so graceful and totally lacking in self-pity.

This evening, four of my fellowship colleagues and I headed to the Waterfront Mall, where we thought we’d heard World Cup tickets were being released for tonight’s Cameroon/Netherlands game. As it turned out, tickets were released at Waterfront, which is some place in Cape Town, but not the mall we’ve come to know in the past week.

Fortunately, the Waterfront Mall is near the stadium, so we walked over, the whole way whispering surreptitiously, “Tickets? Anyone selling tickets?” Much to my surprise, we succeeded … sort of. Two drunken Afrikaners had three spare tickets, which they offered for 30 Rand – roughly 40 U.S. Dollars – each.

Kevin and I lost in our lottery drawing, and Monica donated her ticket to Kevin, as she has tickets for three other World Cup games later in the series, he is her Teaching Assistant, and she knew how badly he had wanted to attend a game all week.

I was disappointed not to win the ticket, but glad I had tried. After encountering such heroic outlooks on desperate poverty today, there was no chance I could feel sorry for myself. I embraced the opportunity to get to know Monica better.

We walked back toward the mall to pick up dinner at the food court, taking it outside to watch the Netherlands beat Cameroon 2:1 on a big TV, with lots of fans shouting and vuvuzelas blaring around us.

In moments like today and tonight, I cannot believe my great fortune to be in South Africa, where both reminders and opportunities to be gracious are ever-present.

Misflagging in Langa

2010-06-24T23:13:00.000-07:00

Children lined up tightly in height order before me, some of them holding the child just in front of them by the shoulders. That's South Africa: Children don't seek their own spaces, nor do adults, for that matter. People think nothing of squeezing into bus seats, benches, or in this case, face-painting lines.

My fellowship colleagues and I were at a children's birthday party in Langa, a township in Cape Town where infestation is rampant, and water and electricity are almost nonexistent. Yet there is no shortage of hope, as evidenced by these children's sweet, anticipatory faces, as they waited their respective turns to have a national flag or other symbol painted on their cheeks.

"Bra-SIL!" exclaimed my first customer, a boy of maybe three years old, as he stepped toward me. He had rolled the "r" and used a hard "s," so I knew this little man meant business. Having seen the South African flag everywhere over the past week, I was equipped for the symbol I thought I would be asked to paint on his expectant little cheek. But I had no clue how to draw the Brazilian flag.

"Um, just a minute," I pleaded, even though we'd been told these little ones did not speak English. "Francis!"

My fellowship colleague Francis came to my rescue, explaining to me how a Brazilian flag looks. My colleagues cruised through multiple faces, as I painstakingly perfected each line I drew on this little person. I wanted him to have a flag worthy of his conviction to have me paint it, so I took my time. And again with the next Brazilian flag requested, and the next, and the next, and the next.

Later that night, Francis researched national flags online and said, "Sorry, Katie. The Brazilian flag isn't a yellow triangle with a green circle on the inside bottom left corner, like I told you. It's a green square with a yellow diamond inside, and a blue circle inside that, plus a bunch of stars in the circle, and a white line through that circle."

I felt terrible for having detained so many children for so long, only to paint a ridiculous flag that does not exist on their faces - but, sweet as they are, not one of them corrected me, even though they could see the faux flag on each other, and must have deduced that their own faces bore the same insane image. Thankfully, I got in some good South African flags, Batman masks, and hearts; not everyone fell victim to my lack of flag savvy.

I feel such love for these children, who are thankful even when the wrong flag is painted on their faces. That generously given gratitude makes me feel protective. I want to return to Langa, arms full of Brazilian flags to distribute as gifts. It seems the least I could possibly do for this struggling but joyful community.

But more work to benefit this community remains - so I will trudge forward, doing my best to leave the darling birthday party guests behind me.

The Unlikeliest Friendships

2010-06-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

In our small discussion groups this morning, we spoke about culture. We had a sheet of paper in front of us, itemizing several categories wherein culture is reflected, such as politics, heroes, and humor.

When we talked about humor, one of the female LEAPSAs told us about a popular South African comedian. She said he is funny because he lifts the mood about South Africa's serious challenges.

"When I hear his routine, I feel that someone else understands, and that I can laugh at my situation, instead of feeling sad." She added, "Poverty becomes a friend." As this wise young woman spoke, my admiration for her courageous outlook subsumed my pangs of sadness for her poverty.

If she can befriend the ravaging devastation that permeates her life, I can heal the issues of my life that I've held in enmity for years. Those can be my friends, too.

Gumboot and Uno

2010-06-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

Today, I learned gumboot dancing. It was every bit as awesome as one might expect, and now I know a dance routine that calls for rubber boots!

The LEAPSAs divided the Teach with Africa fellows into areas of interest between choir and gumboot dancing, and then they separated to teach the small groups whichever we wanted to learn. I did not hesitate before choosing gumboot dancing; I had been entranced while the young men performed earlier in the week. It was mostly the young LEAPSA men who taught us, and their dedication to our mastery of the dance was touching.

After our morning at LEAP, some of the LEAPSAs came back to the house with us, to watch the U.S. beat Algeria 1-0.

Even better than the World Cup game was the "Donkey" match we played with Uno cards: Each person held four cards, while a fifth card made its way around the table. Upon receiving the fifth card, the task was to discard either that or another card, to maintain a four-card hand. The ultimate goal was to end up with four cards of the same number, and once that goal was achieved, the person holding that hand was to set it quietly on the table. Everyone else was to follow suit, and the last person to place her/his hand on the table received a consecutive letter of the word "donkey." The person to reach "donkey" - the full word - would lose.

This card game was spectacular, and for one reason: The male LEAPSAs continually led songs throughout the game, showcasing their deeply resonant voices. Far surpassing both the vocal and emotional maturity of most U.S. men of their respective ages, the LEAPSA men nearly brought me to tears. As I shed my Uno cards turn by turn, I lifted a silent prayer of gratitude for this profound experience, and for these phenomenal African men.

The LEAPSA women chimed in perfectly for their parts, and by no means would I ever overlook the powerful female contribution. But having heard many accounts of absent African men, I appreciated these young men coming up in their culture, for singing and sharing card games with their African sisters - to say nothing of the space they shared in song, at the same table, with their American sisters and brothers.

Gumboots and Uno songs. This is Africa.

Bafana Bafana!

2010-06-22T22:05:00.000-07:00

Vuvuzelas blared. Scores of people - mostly dressed and painted in red, green, white, blue, and black - roared in celebration. The JumboTron mirrored both crowd and game highlights back to the thousands of us gathered before it. The mood was raucous and joyful, and noise levels could not reach high enough to meet the feeling.

The Teach with Africa fellows and the LEAPSAs attended a fan park in downtown Cape Town this late afternoon. We cheered on Bafana Bafana, the South African soccer team, as they beat out France 2-1. It rocked.

Between the gigantic screen, the colorful crowd, and the wonderfully relentless horns, I kept forgetting we were not at the stadium just a few blocks away. Those in our group who had attended a game said the fan park was even better, because the experience of group euphoria was greater in this standing and moving crowd than in a seated one. I wouldn't know, though I hope to test the comment by attending a live game later in the competition.

Vuvuzela holders made themselves known throughout the game. I found myself disagreeing with those around the world who describe the sound as obnoxious. I have not minded the droning sound on the televised games, and hearing it live was fun, more colorful ... though I was grateful not to be trapped in a stadium seat, but free to move away from the vuvuzela that had blown in my ear every two seconds at the game's beginning.

Leaving the park at the end of the game, we were ebullient. I walked out with the female LEAPSAs among us - eight of the sweetest and giggliest young women I've ever met - and a news reporter stopped us just outside the fan park exit. "What did you think of tonight's score?" she asked, tilting her microphone in my direction. "It was awesome!" I exclaimed, beaming.

I desperately wanted to yell, "Go, Bafana Bafana!" after that, but I had stumbled over the team's name all week, always coming out with something like "Banana Fanna," and alternately, all the other lines from the "Banana Fanna Fo Fanna" song. So I stood there looking at the camera, weighing the emotional costs and benefits of trying for the best, and ultimately decided against embarrassing myself, the LEAPSAs, the entire nation of South Africa, and everyone in the U.S.

So I left it at "It was awesome," and one of the LEAPSA women jumped in behind me. She shouted into the microphone, "I am so proud to be a South African today!" With that, we cheered and walked off camera, exuberant.

When a Man Shows Up

2010-06-22T21:44:00.000-07:00

This morning, we were at LEAP for small group discussions, about educational equality and our family roles. I was in conversation with one female and two male LEAPSAs, and a woman visiting LEAP from Chicago, not affiliated with Teach with Africa.

Each of the three LEAPSAs said they grew up without their fathers, and that their mothers had raised them. Our female LEAPSA shared that she does not know her father. She added that she thinks she saw him on the street once, while visiting her extended family, but she is not sure whether or not it was he.

Later during our talk, in reply to a question about children, this LEAPSA said she wants to have children one day, but no husband. When I asked her why, she said, "I cannot rely on a man. I have always wanted children, but a father has never been part of that picture." I inquired how she would feel, if she were to fall in love with a man on whom she could rely. She said, "It's not possible." This pained me deeply.

I was heartened when one of the male LEAPSAs responded, "I cannot wait to get married and have children." Pointing to the female LEAPSA who had just shared, he added, "This is why she should fall in love with me." The two have known each other for ten years, and they both made it clear that they are only friends, and that he was joking. But, wow - I hope she did not miss his point.

Because if she was paying attention, then she would've had to realize that a man had just shown up for her.

Different Worlds

2010-06-20T22:20:00.000-07:00

What I've heard many times is true: One could see South Africa as a First World country, if she framed her experiences here through that lens.

We went to the mall today. It was a fully stocked complex perched on the waterfront, appearing how Fisherman's Wharf would, if the San Francisco Centre were there. The weather was perfectly sunny and mild. We added minutes to our newly issued South African phones, bought household groceries, and handled other logistics.

To give our shopping trip a South African accent, I bought a vuvuzela. I have not yet mastered the art of making noise from it - I have a newfound respect for how hard those World Cup fans work! - but our housemate Francis has it down. With Cote d'Ivoire down 1-3 against Brazil right now, there has not been much horn blowing in order tonight. But good things happen on occasion, and then we get the stadium experience, right in our living room.

I bought a couple of South African bracelets for Kanara, my four-year-old little mentee. I felt sad thinking of her, and how long it will be until I'll see her again. When I do, she will be the proud new owner of two beaded bracelets that will spiral around her wrist: one cobalt blue, one pink. I also bought her a tiny African doll. I can't wait to give her these gifts and a big hug.

Tomorrow, we will tour a township where several LEAP students live. There, people survive hour by hour, in most cases without electricity or water. I expect that it will be much like the Nairobi slums where I worked last summer, and nothing like Fisherman's Wharf. It should be a heartrending day.

From the seemingly First World to the Third, overnight ... I will be transported again.

Transported

2010-06-19T21:50:00.000-07:00

Transported. From the sofa in my San Francisco living room just two days ago – packed, anticipating this new adventure, and writing my last blog post on U.S. ground for at least two months – to the sofa I share with my new housemates in our Cape Town living room … unpacked, still anticipating this new adventure, and writing my first post on African soil in over a year.

I’ve just reheated my burrito from dinner, and I am sitting on our living room sofa with my housemates, while we watch Cameroon and Denmark vie in the World Cup. Yesterday, we drank wine and watched the U.S. and Slovenia tie, from a pub in Notting Hill, London. I feel so intercontinental.

We broke ground on our experience this afternoon. After settling into the house, we walked the short distance to the LEAP School where we will teach all summer, to greet the community of graduated LEAP students who awaited us. John Gilmour, LEAP’s Founder and Director, was present, as the group sang their welcome to us.

Having slept only four of the 42 hours leading to this introductory moment, I was too exhausted to feel anything. I was vaguely aware that I was blessed to be there; that, over the next two months, I would come to love the people we were just meeting; and that, with the heavily touted, greatly revered John Gilmour seated just a few feet away from me, I had been dropped into a historical moment.

But all I wanted was to sleep – and an hour later, I did, waking after a few hours to be transported again – this time by taxi, to Pancho’s, where I ate the first part of this burrito next to me, the whole time thinking, Wow. I’m in South Africa, eating a burrito.

I have no idea where I am, but it’s home for the next two months. In time, my own mind will deliver me to each place I go. But for now, I just stand where I am told, and let the vehicles carry me to my next destination.

Africa on Balance

2010-06-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

In two days, I will depart my hometown of San Francisco, on a plane headed for Heathrow Airport - next stop: Cape Town!

Two months in Africa, teaching and learning from underserved teens. It sounds like the premise of a very engaging memoir; fortuitously, I am in the process of reworking my first. This experience will undoubtedly make the pages, if not completely supplant the existing first draft.

I am amazed each time I realize that, at this time last year, I had been home only ten days from my two-week trip to Kenya. That was my seminal African service journey, my first visit to any Third World country. It was an awakening.

Before last summer, I had never personally witnessed poverty on the Third World scale: devastating and ravaging, with material abundance sliding down a seemingly bottomless well of need. In some areas, the stopgap that would allow for even material sufficiency, or anything more comfortable than hourly survival, can feel impossible to identify. Even when it can be named, implementation is an entirely separate, exhausting challenge.

I have been to those places in Nairobi. I will be in them again this summer, in Cape Town. I return so I can serve as a veritable well floor in any way I can, but also, because I unearthed inimitable riches in Africa: a gushing wellspring of gratitude and joy, as natural as breathing, from every person I encountered. Salutations of spontaneous song and dance, brightly illuminated eyes, and effortless smiles are freely exchanged.

Paradoxically, this grace permeates the culture, even as fatal illness, bone-deep despair, and atrocious human rights violations abound. Both are true, and I don't claim to understand this profound equanimity. I just know I met spiritual elegance everywhere I went in Kenya, and have heard it leaps across country lines throughout Africa - and I know I need to immerse myself in it, learn from it ... let it transform me.

As this next chapter of my African story writes itself on my life, I will, as always, translate it into the written word as accurately as I can.

Joy. Gratitude. Song. Dance. Community. Oh, Africa!

Three Weeks to Cape Town!

2010-05-27T12:28:00.000-07:00

In exactly three weeks, I will depart with my Teach with Africa fellowship team to Cape Town, South Africa, where we will spend two months teaching township residents at LEAP, a charter high school for underserved, ambitious students.

All past fellows report awe-inspiring accounts of this experience, and my teammates for this summer are so devoted and talented. To say that I am joyful would be the grossest of understatements. My sentiments are in that feeling family, but there are no words capable of capturing their intensity.

As if the opportunity to return to serve in Africa were not blessing enough, I learned this week that I am the recipient of the first annual Mandy Edwards Scholarship. Mandy Edwards was a Maine, U.S.A. resident who dreamed of teaching in Africa one day, before a car accident took her life in 2008. She was 17 years old.

Mandy's mom, Rebecca Renaud, created a tributary scholarship for Teach with Africa in her name. I am so deeply honored to be the first beneficiary of this award. The Mandy Edwards Scholarship Fund has contributed $300 toward my $3,000 fellowship obligation. Rebecca also launched a Kindness Revolution website, from which she sells clothing and other items, bearing reminders of the power of kindness. Sales proceeds on some specified items benefit Teach with Africa.

With many thanks to Teach with Africa leaders Margie Schlenoff, Larry Schlenoff, and Amy Schoew for selecting me, to Rebecca Renaud for providing the opportunity, and to Mandy for inspiring this generous gift, I commit to representing Mandy with the passion and integrity she deserved to share with our African sisters and brothers.

Women's Empowerment in Nairobi

2010-05-06T14:36:00.001-07:00

I cannot get enough of self-empowerment stories, such as this one.

My favorite quote from the article: "We bring to light that frailty is not the thing. It is about you as a person, and the inner belief that you are worth defending - that your spirit tells you that you have a purpose, and that you have to defend that purpose." -Philip Otieno, Executive Director of I'm Worth Defending

Amen.

Movie Recommendation: Brownstones to Red Dirt

2010-04-27T18:04:00.000-07:00

This morning, I attended a screening of Brownstones to Red Dirt, a compelling documentary film spotlighting an inspired international pen pal program. This project pairs children in Brooklyn with children in Sierra Leone, in the same way I am matching Kenyan and U.S. children: through classrooms, orphanages, and 1:1 connections. The filmmakers were at the screening, so I told them about my project and said I would love to collaborate with them. I hope something cool comes of that.

Sierra Leone's Civil War (1991-2002) left many orphaned children as its truest casualties, and now they are forced into child prostitution and other inhumane circumstances, just to survive. Similarly and differently, the poverty and gang violence in Bed-Stuy/Marcy Park, Brooklyn kills its children, both literally and metaphorically, as they are either gunned down or forced into premature adulthood. The correspondence between children of those two worlds is heart rending: Rather than becoming hardened and cynical, these children shine when invited to share their respective lives with each other.

The movie is poignant, entertaining, and validating for anyone doing this work. I walked out of it feeling encouraged about the endless possibilities, for children to make friends across the world. I identified an overarching theme - finding power in witnessing the triumphs and struggles of another - that breaks through the common thread of poverty, violence, and isolation in these two communities.

I encourage any interested person to join Brownstones' mailing list (instructions on the website, linked above), to find out when it will screen where you live.

Katie's Next Service Venture: South Africa!

2010-04-06T20:32:00.000-07:00

Hello, family and friends!

I am writing with exciting news and request your support: I recently accepted a partially subsidized, summer fellowship with Teach with Africa (“TWA” – www.teachwithafrica.org), a phenomenal organization that sends social entrepreneurs from the United States to work with teachers for two months in South Africa, at the LEAP Schools in Johannesburg and Cape Town. The fellowship teams consist of teachers, psychologists, MBAs, and various other professionals, selected for both our professional skills, and our capacity to integrate those of our South African sisters and brothers into our full-time careers.

The LEAP Schools reach underprivileged high school students in South Africa, many of whom are AIDS orphans. LEAP teachers encourage their students to create bright futures, regardless of their past or present circumstances. The schools hold extended hours, focusing the majority of their instruction time on math and science, to create positive outcomes: The pass rate for the matriculation exam – required in South Africa to graduate high school – was 100% among LEAP students last year.

This year, TWA will also place some summer fellows with partnering organizations in underserved San Francisco communities. These fellows will provide volunteer teaching, tutoring, and academic enrichment to children enrolled in these education-based programs. Between now and my team’s mid-June departure for South Africa, I will volunteer as the Program Manager for the San Francisco fellowship.

I have also accepted volunteer writing assignments, intended to publicize TWA’s inspired work. TWA will submit my articles for publication in various newspapers and magazines, which we hope will elicit even more support than we have been so fortunate to receive.

This fellowship offer arose from my other work in Africa, in that a friend who understands my commitment to Africa introduced me to TWA, which resulted in this wonderful opportunity. However, my TWA fellowship is not connected to my work as a Glide/Ray of Hope team member, nor is it affiliated with Dear Friend, my program matching Kenyan and U.S. children as pen pals through Amsha Africa. If you donate toward those efforts or have in the past, thank you very much. I continue to work on those projects, and I am so thankful for your encouragement.

I am raising funds to support this next service venture, which will not only be a profound experience for the LEAP students and me, but which is a momentous step forward in pursuit of my vision: to deepen my roots in Africa, contributing to the futures of as many children as I can, as I infuse the prevailing African values of grace and community into my life in San Francisco. I thank you for being a support in my life, and I ask that you donate what you can, to help send me to serve the LEAP students in South Africa.

I will gratefully accept any dollar amount, and all donations are tax-deductible. My financial obligation toward my fellowship program fees is $3,000. I will apply any surplus toward my summer expenses in San Francisco, which I could not otherwise fully cover while being away for two months.

You may donate directly on TWA’s website (www.teachwithafrica.org), and please follow up with an email to Executive Director Amy Schoew (amy@teachwithafrica.org), so she will know to allocate your donation to my fellowship. If you prefer to mail a check, please write it to Teach with Africa – with my name in the memo line – and mail it to: Teach with Africa, 809 Marina Blvd., SF, CA 94123.

As always, thank you for being a witness to my life’s passion and a blessing to me.

With gratitude,
Katie Burke

Plie! Allegre! Pas de bourree!

2010-04-03T12:07:00.000-07:00

This is just wonderful. Augmenting children's joy by encouraging their creative expression - what could be better? Michael Wamaya deserves a standing ovation, as do these little dancers.

Brava and bravo!

In Kenya, Abuse Against HIV-Positive Women Prevalent

2010-03-02T15:25:00.000-08:00

This Daily Nation article estimates that half of Kenyan women with HIV were abused in 2009, based on a recent self-reporting study.

The study finds that rape and sexual exploitation are prevalent in Nyanza, Coast, Western, and Nairobi, the provinces in which researchers carried out the study. As might be expected, female, HIV-positive orphans are at the highest risk of forced marriage, in addition to other forms of abuse.

It is striking that a place of such natural beauty, spiritual generosity, and cultural strength holds this dark reality. There is so much life in Kenya ... and yet, as these jarring statistics show, the lives of many Kenyan women are compromised. Somehow, both truths exist.

Life in Nairobi's Slums

2010-02-22T17:10:00.000-08:00

This Daily Nation article provides an illuminating and sobering glimpse at life in Nairobi's slums. Particularly haunting was the quote that it is "not uncommon for a lively child in her class to go home with a drunk father, only to return home the next morning 'like a torn and tormented ghost, who never smiles in the same way again.'"

Yet, as residents or even one-time visitors can attest, depravity is not the only face of the slums. I frequently speak of the palpable joy that effuses from the people who suffer as this article describes. The Nairobi slum dwellers I know are heroic, forever shining their bright spirits. Notwithstanding the atrocities of their daily lives, their cultural gratitude is immense.

Before I traveled to the Kawangware slum of Nairobi, I had never seen such spiritual wealth - even in my own country, the United States of America, where we have many collective blessings to celebrate.

Spiritual riches aside, those in the slums need help. I continually ask myself, "What more can I do to keep their felicity bulbs burning?"

Amsha Africa Foundation/Pen Pal Program

2010-01-19T15:46:00.000-08:00

Jambo (Swahili translation: "Hello")!

I am excited to announce the launch of Dear Friend, a program I have designed to pair Kenyan and U.S. children with long-term pen pals. I have recently accepted a board seat as Director of Special Programs for Amsha Africa (Swahili translation: "Wake Up, Africa"), and I will execute Dear Friend in this capacity.

I am posting to gather the names of children in each country who wish to be matched with a child in the other one, and also to raise funds for the program.

Introduction to Amsha Africa Foundation

Amsha Africa Foundation ("AAF") is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization that enhances the living standards in Kenyan slums, by supplying these communities with food, medical aid, hygiene kits, and mosquito nets; by providing microfinance programs, literacy and enrichment, housing, sanitation aid, and agricultural education; and by rebuilding schools and giving them desks, computers, uniforms, and school supplies.

Introduction to Dear Friend

The goal of Dear Friend is to sustain long-term, 1:1 relationships between as many pair of U.S. and Kenyan children as possible, and to help all participating children achieve literacy goals, heighten their cultural awareness, and feel the joy of knowing another child across the world cares for them. This project will preserve the art of letter writing for our generation's children, teaching them to communicate well through the written word.

Any child in either country, between ages five and sixteen, is eligible. Once matched with a child of similar age and same gender in the other country, each child will begin the pen pal exchange. Dear Friend will provide all necessary writing supplies and postage to the parents, teachers, orphanage staff members, and other supervising adults of the enrolled children. All mailings will be directed to the address the supervising adults provide at registration; these addresses will either be schools, orphanages, or parents' homes.

Dear Friend will also provide support, ensuring that all children receive letters from their pen pals on a regular basis. (Letters between Kenya and the U.S. typically take two weeks to travel, and we expect that children on each side will reply to letters within a few days to two weeks of receipt.)

Tony Abuta (AAF's Executive Director) and I have begun to accumulate a list of children in both countries who want pen pals. I expect that by mid-February, I will have created hundreds of pairings, and that the letter exchanges will have begun. Tony and I plan to return to Kenya in May or June. My primary objective for this trip is to meet with headmasters and headmistresses at partnering schools, staff members at pre-selected orphanages, and parents within the community, to increase awareness of Dear Friend and expand my list of Kenyan pen pals.

Between now and this summer, I will spend several hours per week launching, maintaining, and expanding Dear Friend. My work will entail visiting, calling, and emailing Bay Area schools to identify U.S. pen pals; placing calls and writing emails to U.S. parents for the same purpose; and communicating with various AAF staff members, regarding their work securing profiles on the Kenyan children already enrolled.

Successful Pilot Project

In December 2009, I sent an email to several friends and colleagues who are parents, requesting an immediate response. Tony was soon to leave for the poverty-ravaged slums of Kenya, to deliver on various AAF projects. My goal was to send with him as many holiday cards as I could, made by U.S. children for the Kenyan orphans whom he would visit on his trip. Within days, my contacts had forwarded my email to their friends and colleagues, among them several teachers pledging that their students would create the requested holiday cards as a class project.

Under a deadline of only a few days from the request date, over 100 children created holiday cards under parental and teacher supervision, which I forwarded to Tony. Before Tony left for Kenya, he scanned each card and posted the collection on AAF's Facebook page. Upon his return, he reported that the orphans had screamed, jumping up and down, upon receiving the cards; they were overcome with joy to know that children across the world were thinking of them over the holidays.

If you are on Facebook and have not yet joined the AAF group, please do. There, you will find the scanned holiday cards, as well as photos and video of other successful AAF projects.

Request for Donations

Dear Friend will rely on donor generosity to operate, and will gratefully accept your financial support, whether or not you enroll a child in the program. Donation is not a prerequisite to enrollment; participation is free. However, personal donations are critical to Dear Friend's success: Dear Friend will not receive support from AAF's general funds. Also, grant money for international service work is scarce, and can take several months to secure even when granted.

My initial fundraising goal is $5,000, secured through personal donations by March 15, 2010. Your donation is tax-deductible, and AAF will apply 100% of your gift directly to Dear Friend. (If you donate online, Network for Good will deduct 4.9% of your donation as a processing fee, but AAF will apply the entire 95.1% that we receive directly to Dear Friend. If you donate by check, we will apply 100% of your gift directly to Dear Friend.) Tony and I will personally oversee all recording and spending of Dear Friend donations.

Use of Funds Raised

I will not pay myself or anyone else working on this project, nor will donations be used to pay for my lodging or food in Kenya, or for any preparation or personal supplies for the trip. I am volunteering my time and expertise, and I will personally fund all expenditures listed above. Donated funds will be used only to purchase writing supplies and postage for the program, and my airfare for the trip.

I expect to bank in Dear Friend's account at least $1,000-2,000 of the $5,000 raised, so that I can respond to future requests for supplies as immediately as I receive them and Tony and I approve them. However, I hope to raise my $5,000 target by March, as I will need to spend most of my time in the first few months on program operations, grant research, and grant applications, before resuming my efforts to secure further personal donations.

Thank You and Instructions for Your Participation and Support

I extend my heartfelt thanks for supporting me in facilitating relationships between Kenyan and U.S. children. Whether you enroll children or provide financial support, or both, the lives you touch will be forever changed for the better. To enroll a child, send me an email at katie.burke@amshaafrica.org, with the child's name, gender, and age. I will personally reply, and we will move forward with the matching process.

To make a financial gift, please visit the AAF website, at www.amshaafrica.org, and click on the link to Network for Good. Designate Dear Friend where indicated, so that we know to apply your donation to this project in particular, and not to AAF in general. If you prefer to pay by check, click on the site's "contact us" link, and find the address where you can mail your check. Write the check out to Amsha Africa Foundation, specifying "Dear Friend" in the memo line.

I wish you all great joy in 2010, and I thank you again for joining me in this vision.

Many thanks,
Katie Burke

80 Love Missives

2009-12-17T22:26:00.000-08:00

Today, I shipped 80 cards, made by U.S. children for Kenyan orphans, to Texas, where Tony from Amsha Africa will receive them. He will carry them to Kenya, where he will personally give them to children at orphanages he identified when I launched the project.

Many thanks to all of you whose children participated. The cards were beautiful. I wish I could hide in Tony's suitcase, to witness the children's certain joy, upon receiving these love missives from their sisters and brothers here.

Need Holiday Cards for Kenyan Children by 12/16!

2009-12-09T23:14:00.001-08:00

I am running an exciting project, the first step of which is time-sensitive. I want to send at least sixty holiday cards to orphans in Kenyan slums, made by children in the U.S. To do so, I must have the cards in hand by Wednesday, December 16th, at the latest!

Please take a few minutes to read this post, and please be the person who says yes! Then, forward it to anyone you know who might want to participate!

If you have children, teach/work with children, or have child relatives or neighbors (age range 3-12), please take a half-hour or less to make a holiday card with them, and send it to me right away! I recently partnered with an organization called Amsha Africa (Swahili translation: "Wake Up, Africa"), which implements sanitation projects, provides agricultural aid, and establishes school sponsorships in slums throughout Africa.

I asked Amsha Africa if I could launch a pen pal program, matching children in the U.S. with children in Africa, with only letters (i.e., no money or other aid) exchanged. They have agreed! I will travel back to Nairobi with the group in May, and between now and then, I will roll out my pen pal program working with Amsha Africa, various Bay Area schools, and any of my friends' children who are interested.

But, for now, no pen pal matching - just a card from a child here to a group of orphans there. Here is the request: A card made out of something simple, like construction paper and markers, that reads, "Dear children of Kenya, Merry Christmas!" ... and then, the imaginations can run wild. Ideally, the cards would include the names, ages, and home cities and states of the children who made them, plus anything they want to share about themselves. No last names or return addresses, as this will be a one-directional gift.

If you wish to participate, please mail the cards to me by Wednesday, December 16th, at: Katie Burke, 236 West Portal Ave., # 238, San Francisco, CA 94127.

This project is not in any way affiliated with Glide. I note this because I'm also a member of Glide's team working in Africa. As an institution, Glide must be methodical in forging partnerships with any organization. Acting as a free agent, I have license to make spontaneous decisions like this - but in so doing, I am not acting as a representative of Glide.

Thank you so much! Now, think of parents or teachers you know, and forward this email to them!

With love and gratitude,
Katie

The Week When It All Came Together

2009-12-05T16:51:00.000-08:00

What a wonderful week for news about programs serving the world.

On December 1st, I discovered a video about Amsha Africa, a nonprofit organization serving Kawangware. After navigating the organization's website, I was inspired to email and offer my participation. I received an email back the same day from Tony Abuta, Amsha Africa's founder, accepting my help and saying we should talk.

Later that day, I read an article in O Magazine about Global Colors, an organization that encourages and practices "guerilla aid," a term used by its founder, Barton Brooks, to describe a particular style of volunteerism: "Simply go somewhere and do something, while teaching others to do the same." The arresting video featuring his donation of cows to a Maasai community in 2006, to reciprocate their beautiful gesture to us after the September 11th attacks, had me in tears. I emailed Barton with my interest in his work, and he replied the next day.

On December 3rd, I attended a fundraiser for the Create Peace Project, an innovative nonprofit organization founded by Ross Holzman. The mission is self-explanatory, and the method is to leave self-addressed postcards everywhere participants go. These postcards bear messages of peace and love, the idea being that a person receiving a postcard will express her or his image of peace, through coloring pictures on the postcard, and then mail it in.

Ross has collected several postcards, some of which appear on the Create Peace Project website. I spoke with Ross at the fundraiser, and we are soon to meet 1:1, to talk further about how we can work together to serve children in Africa.

There, I also spoke with Nicole, an artist who tipped me off to The Foundation Center, a San Francisco resource for nonprofit professionals. Apparently, people travel from around the country just to use it for fundraising information, and it is right in my backyard.

Today, I spoke by phone with Tony Abuta. I asked if I could launch a pen pal program under Amsha Africa, matching children in the U.S. with children in Africa, with only letters (i.e., no money or other aid) exchanged. He agreed! He and I will roll out that program between now and May, when I will travel back to Kawangware with his group.

I can hardly believe my great fortune. I would write that I'm not ready for this week to end, but I cannot wait to find out what lies ahead.

Santa Claus Is Coming to Town (by Mail)

2009-11-29T15:28:00.000-08:00

"Are they excited that it's Christmas?" the Glide children asked me today, referring to the Ray of Hope children in Nairobi, as they made holiday cards for them out of construction paper and markers.

"I'm sure they are," I replied.

"Why? Because they're getting toys?" asked a nine-year-old girl in the group.

"No. They're not going to get any toys," I responded.

Several of the children halted their projects and looked up at me. In almost perfect unison, they asked, "Why?"

"Well, because they don't have any money," I said. With no simpler way to break it down, I felt sadness pangs, knowing it really comes down to just that. Of course, poverty in Third World countries is a complicated matter, which money alone does not solve. But when given and received responsibly, it helps far more often than it harms. It's just not given that way enough of the time.

"But what about Santa?" an astute five-year-old girl chimed in.

"Oh, that's right!" I hastily answered, hoping my preceding reply had not permanently damaged the circling children's worldviews.

Just then, a six-year-old girl sitting next to me, who had been studiously drawing her holiday card pictures throughout this discussion, looked up at me. She appeared to pity my ignorance. "They won't get toys because they don't have money? That doesn't make any sense," she chided, before turning her head away and continuing her work.

"Yeah. I forgot about Santa," I lamented. I rolled my eyes at my lapse of either memory or judgment, depending on the observer. I exchanged eye-twinkling smiles with the only other adult in the room, a 24-year-old woman who was helping me keep the children on task.

Our children's genuine curiosity about their Kenyan sisters and brothers warmed my heart. Once they finished their cards, I would mail them to the Ray of Hope founder in Oregon. She would forward them to a group headed to Nairobi soon, who would personally deliver them.

After the children left, I proofread their cards. Out of over sixty cards created, I determined that only a few could not go. Of those few, all but one missed the cut due to incompleteness or a negative message. The one that stood alone, in the "beautiful, but can't send" pile, seized my warmed-up heart. It read: "Dear Ray of Hope kids, Merry Christmas! Santa will come and bring you toys."

If not this pure empathy and connection, I can't imagine what the holiday season is all about.

Asante Sana ("Thank You So Much"), Afya Kenya!

2009-11-25T09:31:00.000-08:00

Just in time for Thanksgiving, the Afya Kenya Foundation - a Kenyan nonprofit organization providing free medical education, intervention, and counseling to Kenyan communities in need - has accepted my request for deworming services for the Children of Africa Hope Center. From my visit to the center this summer, I know the children there suffer from worms in their systems, which they continually spread to one another because they can't afford treatment.

I learned about Afya Kenya a month ago, when I read an article stating that they were providing deworming services for children in schools in the Nairobi slums. I contacted them immediately and received an instant reply, requesting further information about Children of Africa. Since then, I have traded emails with John Makokha, senior pastor at Riruta, the church that created Children of Africa.

A little over a week ago, John asked me to provide the information Afya Kenya had requested. Last night, Oduwo Noah Akala, Chairman of Afya Kenya, emailed to inform me that the foundation has granted the request.

"Afya" is a Swahili term, the English translation of which is "health" and "strength." At my Thanksgiving table this year, I will share my gratitude for Afya Kenya's contribution toward a healthier, stronger Kenya.

Pen Pals

2009-09-27T21:34:00.001-07:00

Evelyn emailed me on Friday, to let me know she received the letters I sent to Celestine and Lawrence. Evelyn told me they were very happy to receive their letters, and that she took photos of each of them holding her/his letter. She will attach the photos to the return letters that each of them writes me.

On Friday, a lifelong dream of mine came true. When I was a child myself, I watched the Christian Children's Fund ("CCF") ads, and I was touched by the images of children with poverty-ravaged lives. I envisioned having a pen pal relationship with a child whom I would support, and it was the human connection of that epistolary relationship that inspired me the most.

In retrospect, the CCF ads feel creepy and exploitative, but in my childhood viewing, all I knew was that I wanted to help a child in desperate circumstances. That dream did not leave me over time, but I never knew how to realize it, not having a relationship with any of the agencies claiming they would use my money to directly benefit my sponsor children.

Celestine and Lawrence weren't yet born when I watched those ads, but God had them in mind for me. I am fortunate to have met and worked with them, to personally know these shining lights who brought me joy this summer. I am blessed to support their educations and build a mentoring relationship with each of them, if both or either of them chooses to engage on that level. I can't wait to know them better over time, and I will do all I can to encourage and inspire them to realize their dreams.

For now, I await my return letters, excited to read from their souls.

Defying the Odds

2009-09-07T22:42:00.000-07:00

I saw their "homes" - well, not theirs in particular, but those of a few classmates at Ray of Hope, their unaccredited school. All the dwellings I saw in Kawangware look the same to me - corrugated tin, dark inside, highly unstable, and not at all insulated.

Without electricity, food, or water at home, I wonder how the children I met this summer subsist. Thankfully, Ray of Hope feeds them lunch every day, but nights and weekends must stretch on endlessly and painfully. Survival aside, I cannot fathom how the children sing and dance and smile with so much spirit. In many ways, they are the lucky ones, their joy so full, and their gratitude so effortless, despite their dismal circumstances.

I have signed up to sponsor two of these angels: a seven-year-old girl, Celestine, and an eight-year-old boy, Lawrence. It will be, by far, the most meaningful commitment I have ever undertaken.

The agreement is that I will financially support both of them through eighth grade, but I'm not stopping there. I have wanted to sponsor African children since I was a child myself, and being privileged to personally know the ones I will support, I won't feel fulfilled just writing a check for the next six or so years. I will visit them every year, actively exchange letters in the interim, and financially support them through high school at least.

Two weeks ago, one of the two Ray of Hope teachers, Evelyn, emailed to tell me that Celestine and Lawrence both aced their national exams! Thanks to their brilliant work, the tireless efforts of their teachers Evelyn and Alfred, and my financial assistance, they will both attend an accredited school next year.

I am very excited for these little ones, and I can't wait to write them and tell them so.

Mzungu!

2009-06-29T23:06:00.000-07:00

"Mzungu! Mzungu!" the children on the side of the road shouted, as they pointed at us, their eyes full of light. With stray goats and chickens taking over their space on the vast expanse of the dirt, they expressed only joy, beaming the truest smiles I'd ever seen.

Evelyn, our friend from the Ray of Hope, clued us in to all the Swahili we would need to understand and respond to these sweet children. "'Mzungu' means 'white person,'" she said. "African children love white people. You are seen as rare, special ... magical, to them. They think you don't speak any Swahili. So the next time they point at you and yell, 'Mzungu!,' I want you to yell back, 'Mwafrika!' It means 'African.' They will love it, and you will make them laugh."

Off we went down the dirt road, littered with animals and shanties and garbage. Children hung onto older siblings, roofs, sheep horns - they held tight to anything that might provide security for the moment. Though there was no running water anywhere, and very little electricity, I heard spirited, happy voices, singing a cappella to a rhythmic, fast-paced beat.

I danced, and then I heard from a young mouth, "Mzungu dancing!" The little African girl in the tattered blue dress, who was pointing at me, repeated, "Mzungu dancing!" I smiled, continued shaking my hips, pointed right back, and shouted, "Mwafrika singing!" The singer's eyes grew wide, and she covered her mouth with her hands and giggled.

In that moment, I understood how amazing children are. After just a week of working in Kawangware, Nairobi's second largest slum, and the most neglected one, I knew that the odds of the singing child's life not being tragic were slim ... next to impossible. But she was singing when I got to her, and laughing when I left, the circumstances of her hard life punctuated by the stray cow approaching her from the field behind. Sewage streamed in the open all around her, but she saw that mzungu dancing, and she celebrated me.

I don't know what kind of life she will have - she, one of a one-million-person population in just her slum alone, where there is not enough food, water, or shelter for all to share - and yet, they share.

To Kill a Lion

2009-06-03T22:26:00.000-07:00

We are on retreat at a beautiful lodge, with several small Maasai villages surrounding us – the nearest, from what I understand, being about 20 miles away. Out in the open air, I feel so far away from the densely packed slums we’ve left behind. I am grateful to be resting, even as more sadness sets in: I won’t see the Learning Centre children or Ray of Hope staff until my next trip to Nairobi.

Tonight, a group of Maasai tribesmen performed one of their traditional dances, as entertainment for guests of the lodge. The men were cloaked in beautiful red shukas (their tribal cloth garments), and they were so fabulously bejeweled in their adornments, I actually wondered before they danced if they were true Maasai warriors or the faux variety, reserved for lodge guests who wouldn’t know the difference.

They were real. The guttural tones, accompanied by well-timed, high-pitched shrieks, all set to intentionally paced head movements and line walking along an apparently predestined line, sent chills through me. I felt the warrior energy, and I lost myself in the moment, so much so that I actually felt terrified when the line headed in my direction.

The dance we saw was the one best known by Westerners, featuring several vertical jumps. Afterward, the leader told the audience that the jumps signify the number of girlfriends one has, with higher jumps indicating more relationships. (Maasai communities are traditionally polygamous.) He also mentioned that a Maasai warrior wishing to marry must first kill a lion.

This all sounded fantastical to me, not in the sense that such rituals weren’t recorded in my social studies books, but only in that I had not heard news of any lion slayings in quite some time. I assumed the leader was reporting on tradition, rather than on current events. I approached him after his remarks and asked.

Turns out, I was wrong again: Traditionally and still, killing a lion is required before a Maasai man can marry. In more recent years, the government has restricted the Maasai, in terms of the number of lions they may kill in a given time period. Accordingly, marriage-bound Maasai men are now joined with their peers in age sets. As long as the group successfully kills a lion, each member may marry.

The leader showed me the knife that he and other tribesmen use for the slaying. The very short blade suggests that lion encounters must be handled toe-to-toe ... assuming one is lucky enough that those are the only two body parts involved.

I had never met anyone who has killed a lion before tonight. I have to say, I’m impressed. I am not a fan of animal hunting generally, but when taken on as a prerequisite to achieving a cultural milestone, it sounds – well, warrior-like. And that’s fascinating to me.

I’m going to make a project of learning much more about this compelling tribe.

Children of Africa Hope Center

2009-06-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

We returned to Riruta United Methodist today, which transforms on weekdays to the Children of Africa Hope Center: an unaccredited school and former orphanage that educates and feeds approximately 250 children, who would not otherwise eat or learn. Their admirable vision is to ultimately serve 5,000 children.

After spending the morning at the Hope Center today, I see that it is far from its goal, though not for lack of passion. John and Anne are doing incredible work against the odds, feeding children every day on very little, and educating them well, despite severe classroom overcrowding. (Several children have to sit on the floor, and those fortunate enough to have desks are squeezed in with as many other bodies as will fit on a bench, without anyone falling off.)

After we served the children their morning porridge, we played with them in the front yard, which has no swing-sets or climbing equipment. They do not have soccer balls, basketballs, baseballs and bats, or even adequate space to play any sport. There is room enough for all of them to be out there, and that in of itself seems a rare blessing for a school in the slums. But the rent is astronomical, and the school does not generate any income from students whose guardians cannot afford to pay fees.

On the playground, the children swarmed me. I felt as though I were surrounded by the paparazzi, except that my captors only wanted to love me. The stampede knocked down Maureen, a small, mild-mannered girl, probably two years old. I picked her up and carried her around with me for the rest of the recess period, as the crowd showed no signs of letting up, and she appeared too sweet and tiny to stand up for herself. Her schoolmates laughed when I put my sunglasses on her, as they covered half of her face.

Maureen and I made a game of my efforts to break free. Every time we ran from the mob, impelling them to chase us, she giggled, my sunglasses holding fast to her beautiful face. All she wanted to do was stare and smile at me. I took every opportunity to stare and smile back at this little, human doll, as she warmed my heart with the love beams she directed at me.

After recess, our team sat out on the playground, as each classroom of children assembled before us and sang for us in turn. The songs were inspired, and I was touched by the effort that the teachers and school leaders had obviously spent in teaching them to the children.

I left feeling simultaneously hopeful and overwhelmed with despair. It is a loaded emotion I’ve come to know well this past week.

Riruta

2009-05-31T20:35:00.000-07:00

Today, we celebrated at Riruta United Methodist Church, located in Ngong, a neighboring slum to Kawangware. Reverend John and his wife Anne – who is also the Executive Director of the Riruta United Methodist Women Community Based Organization – are on the progressive edge, with their inspirational work championing the rights of LGBTQI people in Kenya.

LGBTQI advocacy can be a challenge to undertake anywhere, but I’ve learned that the stakes are higher in Kenya than anyplace I’ve seen, making this social justice work very dangerous. John, Anne, and their leadership team have been marginalized from other faith-based communities for the work that they do.

I was pleased to find that women’s lay ministry leadership is strong in this church. Winnie Ishmael is the first female Lay Leader in any church in Africa, and she leads this one.

During the service, the children’s choir sang “Marching in the Light of God,” and I wished the Glide Ensemble were there to see it; this is my favorite song that the “GTC” (Glide Teen Choir) sings.

Tomorrow, we will return to Riruta, to see it transformed into an unaccredited school for several children in the Ngong slum who do not have parents, or who are severely neglected by the parents they do have. It was once an orphanage, but John and Anne were unable to continue paying the rent for the boarding space. In response to this loss, various families in Ngong have taken in the children who have no place to live, often resulting in several people sharing space in those same 10' X 10' tin shacks that we found in Kawangware.

What a place, where people with many basic material needs so effortlessly reach out to help one another.

Saying Goodbye

2009-05-30T20:25:00.000-07:00

Today, we said goodbye to the Learning Centre children and the Ray of Hope staff, but not before taking the children to the Nairobi National Museum in the morning and to a local park in the afternoon.

Working with children has always been a calling for me; as far back as my own childhood years, I remember telling people that I wanted to help children in need. Our week at the Learning Centre solidified this resolve, though I’m not sure it needed any more cementing.

The Nairobi National Museum is beautiful – spacious, with beautifully designed exhibits and a well-told history of Kenya. As we walked into an exhibit of large-as-life wild animal replicas, one of the Learning Centre girls, about eight years old, clung to my side. She steered me as close to the exhibit as she was willing to go, guiding me away from the large, predatory animals displayed out in the open, and toward the smaller ones encased in glass.

I was relieved to witness her childlike innocence, to know that her daily exposure to live cows, goats, and infestation in her living space – to say nothing of the crime and substance abuse that plagues the slum in which she lives – haven’t hardened her, such that she would scoff at an exhibit of fake animals. Her fear enhanced my hope that all is not lost for her, even though she faces insufferable conditions every day.

After only a week of time spent with the Learning Centre children and the Ray of Hope staff, the seemingly inordinate grief accompanying our goodbyes was real. I knew what I was losing, and though my commitment to the Ray of Hope will have me returning to Nairobi more than once, this awareness did little to ease the pain of letting go.

Tomorrow, we will visit a church in a neighboring slum, returning the next day to visit the same building, which will be transformed into a school. As I say goodbye to Kawangware, I welcome the opportunity to serve another community in need.

Near-Death Experiences, and Then Dancing.

2009-05-29T23:51:00.000-07:00

I spent most of today with Baraza – Ray of Hope’s Coordinator – and my teammate Robin. We took five million buses and matatus to travel fifty feet … or so it felt. I didn’t mind at all, as I was excited to see the big city of Nairobi, having spent the previous seven days in Kawangware, the slum I’ve come to love, but not the only part of Nairobi I had come to experience. Today, Robin and I got to see so much more.

We laughed after every near-death experience we had, and I never missed an opportunity to point out where the lawsuits would be if we were in the States: deep, wide holes in the middle of the street, one of which almost claimed Robin’s life (or, at least, limb) when we backed up to avoid oncoming matatus, trucks, and man-powered carts filled with water collected from the nearest fill-up station. She missed the random hole-in-the-street by a quarter-inch, as we couldn’t look behind us while backing up, what with all the vehicles – makeshift or otherwise – to dodge.

Robin, a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist, met with a nurse at Pumwani Hospital, a well-esteemed maternity hospital in Nairobi, to discuss the hospital’s neonatal resuscitation methods. She and Baraza asked the local nurse questions, and then the nurse gave all three of us a brief tour of the communal delivery rooms, as well as a baby warmer with a newborn on it.

Robin slipped me a little medical knowledge on the side, as we continued to the Office of the Attorney General of Kenya, where I was scheduled to meet with Baraza’s niece, Carol, a staff lawyer in the Office. She and I compared U.S. and Kenyan laws and procedures, and I slipped Robin a little legal knowledge on the side, as Carol and her friend drove us to meet with our team and the entire Ray of Hope staff for dinner.

The Ray of Hope staff had planned the dinner to celebrate a few things: It was a birthday party for Florence, the Ray of Hope Director; our team had worked hard at Ray of Hope all week; and the family size of everyone seated at the table had exponentially increased with the partnership of our respective groups. The love in the room was immense, as if we had all been together for years.

After dinner, half the total group went out dancing, and we had a wonderful time. I contracted a little whiplash when the matatu driver took on a speed bump at five million miles per hour on the way home, forcing those of us in the backseat to bonk our heads on the ceiling full force … but hey – I didn’t step in any holes-in-the-street, so I’m not complaining.

I am very happy here.

The Power of the Purse

2009-05-28T19:45:00.000-07:00

This morning, several women who utilize the Ray of Hope’s feeding program and/or HIV support group sang, danced, and performed theatre for us. Elation abounded during the song, as our Glide team members were each called forth to join hands and dance with various women.

Here, I’m not a “white girl” in the sense that I am in my home of San Francisco, where friends are often shocked that I can dance with soul. In Kawangware, as far as I’ve seen, dancing and screaming and clapping are ways of daily life. Passersby seem to think nothing of a crowd gathered in loud song and dance. Why would they, when that’s just what people do?

In Kawangware, I’m a “white girl,” all right … or, more accurately, a “mzungu, ” the Swahili term for “white person.” It is a word I’ve come to know well, as I hear it repeatedly each time I walk through the Kawangware roads, just before throngs of children run out to see the spectacle that is my white skin and blonde hair, and adults stare and wave. The children almost always say, “How are you?” instead of “hello,” and the adults say “hello” and sometimes follow it with, “Asante” – the Swahili word for “thank you.”

After today’s song, dance, and community theatre production (the women in the HIV support group performed a play to educate the audience about how HIV is spread), each of my Glide team members and I spoke to the women gathered in front of us. We all expressed some variation on the theme that we are blessed to be here with them, celebrating life, and that we love them and feel loved by them as well.

While speaking, I had held a camera in my hand, as my backpack was tucked away upstairs. A beautiful woman from the crowd approached me and placed a strapped, black canvas bag around my neck. She has no money and no food, yet she gave me her bag, and I didn’t know why – but I thanked her anyway, as I knew it was one of very few possessions she had.

When I turned around, my teammate and friend Robin said, “Oh, it’s because you’re the only woman on our team not holding a purse.” Upon realizing Robin was right, I quickly placed my camera in my new purse, my heart unable to bear the woman’s outrageously kind gesture. I’m not a Bible person, but I do know the one about the woman with only a few pennies, who gave all she had, which also featured a man with lots of gold (or something … I’m improvising!), who gave nothing. I wouldn’t go so far as to compare myself to the gold man, but I will say that my life would be far richer than it is now, if I could only figure out how to bottle this woman’s grace and lock it in the black canvas bag.

When I told my teammate and friend Mark the story of the bag, he said, “Oh my god. Did you see what the purse says?” He pointed to a small leather rectangle sewn into the front of the bag. In the rectangle were the words, “Sport good health.” My modification on the above-referenced Bible story goes, “A woman in an HIV support group in an African slum, with no money, no work, and no food to eat outside of a medical clinic’s feeding program, shared one of her last possessions with a physically healthy American lawyer.”

Arrangements may need to be made for this mzungu to move to Nairobi.

Gratitude for the Uninhabitable

2009-05-27T20:13:00.001-07:00

Today, I ventured into the heart of the Kawangware slum, with two of my Glide teammates and one of our Ray of Hope colleagues, Hendricka. Hendricka is the Community Health Worker for the Ray of Hope, and every morning, she does what we spent three hours doing this morning: conducting home visits to the Ray of Hope Medical Clinic patients, to assess their health and encourage them to continue with their medical regimens.

Following Hendricka, I dodged sewage streams while tiptoeing through what I can only hope was mud, noting the doorsteps that stretched on endlessly, each home separated by only a thin sheet of corrugated tin. As I turned a sharp corner between alleys, to find a stray cow walking toward me from five feet away, I landed squarely outside of my element. I began steeling myself for what I knew would be a heart rending series of home visits.

On this trek, I encountered attack goats; shared narrow alleys with wayward chickens; watched a cat crawl in and out of a woman’s home through gaps between her tin roof and tin walls; witnessed flies landing repeatedly on almost every child and adult I saw; noticed ants marching across the cement floors of people fortunate enough to have a cement barrier between their feet and the earthen mud; and hearing the pitter patter of rat feet on the roofs above us while sitting in various Kawangware homes – dark, smelly rooms the size of a 10' X 10' storage unit, with no electricity or water.

No one should have to live in these uninhabitable conditions. Based on what I saw, and the many stories of crime I have heard, I feel that having a “home” here is far more threatening to health, safety, and happiness than being homeless in the United States.

And yet, I see profound joy and gratitude in the spirits of every person I’ve seen who lives here.

All It Takes

2009-05-26T19:42:00.000-07:00

I spent all day today with the children in the Ray of Hope Learning Centre: 59 of them, sharing two classrooms that are both tiny by U.S. standards. The youngest child is five years old; the oldest is 11. All of their heads are shaved, as many of the children come to the Learning Centre with ringworm. The Ray of Hope staff treats them when they come in, and then keeps their heads shaved and treated, so that if they contract any such condition again out in the dirt roads of Kawangware, the won't bring it in.

The children have blue uniform shorts and sweaters. The girls in each classroom wear yellow shirts, and the boys wear red ones. I appreciate that the staff distinguishes the boys and girls this way, or else I would have had a lot of trouble identifying them by gender, before I got to know them. In fact, I asked my fellow volunteers last night, “Why do they only teach boys?”

I began the day in the younger children’s classroom. They screamed, cheered, and clapped, yelling, “Hello, Katie!” when I entered. They were all smiles, boundlessly excited that a strange-looking guest was spending time with them. (The children here are fascinated – transfixed, really – with my light skin and blonde hair.) I entered and left the room several times throughout the morning, but on one occasion when I walked in, the children started screaming, cheering, and clapping again.

For a few seconds, I could not figure out why they were so ecstatic, since they’d seen me several times already. Then I realized the reason: it was the construction paper in my arms. That's all it takes to light their eyes and bring magic to their day. Their boisterous response to seeing this basic art supply made me simultaneously joyful and sad.

In both classrooms, I witnessed pure love in the hearts of every child. I don’t know how much of their authentic gratitude I can hold without my heart shattering into pieces.

Karibu Kawangware, Katie.

2009-05-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my heart was too full – and my jet lag too pronounced – for me to gather my thoughts into any discernible writings. As my Glide/Ray of Hope team raced down the unpaved, littered dirt road in our Matatu – a bus that features loud music, audacious near-collisions with passing vehicles, and men hanging off the side to spot prospective new ride sales – I grasped the reality that I’d already learned second-hand: that Kawangware is Nairobi’s second most neglected slum.

Masses of people lined the stretch of this road, many bare-footed, and none were offered shade unless they tucked themselves underneath shanties – structures that look like boxes and offer little more shelter. They shared the choppy dirt expanse with goats and piles of garbage. I saw no running water, though still water hung in the air on the sides of the roads, providing nothing but stench, mud, and likely, the occasional mosquito.

While in Kawangware yesterday, we visited a two-hour service at Kawangware Methodist Church in Kenya. I am robbing the experience of its profundity and power by summarizing it here, but I must move on to today’s events. In very short, I was moved beyond description by the soulful, spirited music and abiding faith of this congregation. As a Glide Ensemble member, I took particular interest in the choir. I marveled at the fundamental similarities and many differences between this choir and my own. I felt very much at home, and also worlds away.

Today, we met the children whom we will serve this week. They are amazing, wonderful people. Though most of them have lost parents to abandonment, HIV/AIDS, or other social and medical afflictions, they persevere - radiating joy through their smiles, songs, and endless dances. The children of Kawangware know how to live. They know how to love.