Update on Leah...

Hi Everyone:

I just got off the phone with Leah. She sounds simply overwhelmed and exhausted. She's at a hospital in Kabale, where she is receiving IV fluids and medication. She said she hasn't had a seizure in a couple of hours and the vomiting has subsided. Although no official diagnosis has been made, she said the doctors are rather positive that she has cerebral malaria. She will most likely be at the hospital for several days. Please pray for continued rest, that she would get the essential regime of antibiotics and other medications that are necessary to treat this type of malaria. Even though our conversation was short she's incredibly thankful for the overwhelmingly amount of love/support/outreach everyone has made. As more news funnels in, I will let you know of anything I hear.

Love,

Caylin

Hello everyone:

I just wanted to write a quick on Leah. I received a text from Becca at noon today to let me know that Leah had a couple of seizures this morning and they were taking her to the hospital. I was able to call Leah's phone and talk with Becca shortly. Becca said she the doctors think it's malaria. And if that is the case, it is at a pretty advanced stage. Please take a moment to pray for Leah. Specifically, please pray for:

* Protection for her and Becca as they sit in the hospital during the night

* That God would take away any of the pain and aches that the seizure may be giving her

* That the nurses/doctors would be able to get IV access and keep Leah hydrated as well as give her antibiotics to kill whatever infection caused this.

I promise to keep everyone updated as soon as I hear any information from Becca or from Leah.

In Him,

Caylin

In the mornings I spend time reading my developmental textbooks (thanks mom!). It is as though I am reading them through fresh eyes. Each concept is challenged, each theory measured against what I see here. It is clear that my books have a western bias. Life in a rural Ugandan village is so unlike “life” as explained in these lifespan textbooks.

According to one text, “when young adults die, it usually is not expected” and that “a mature, adult like conception of death includes an understanding that death is final and irreversible”.
Here, death is common place. I feel as though it is the expected norm rather than an unexpected event. Children at a young age know death intimately. It seems as though it is accepted, as matter of fact. Here no one is special for having lost one or both parents; here it is almost strange having a living mom or dad.

Let me tell you the stories of five boys I know. These five boys are not unique; their stories could be the story of almost any other student here. Like the majority of the student body, and the majority of this village, these five boys have lost family members to AIDS.
Boy “I” last born, having 3 older siblings, loses his mom on Friday evening. By Sunday morning his dad has died, “a natural death” I am told. Only here, “a natural death” means HIV/AIDS. Within the year his older brother leaves home looking for work. His oldest sister marries two years later, and then dies in child birth. The one remaining sister goes to boarding school; he at nine years old is left in the family home alone.

Boy “I” has three cousins, “G”, “B”, and “J”. The boys’ father discovers he has “the virus” and throws himself in the lake, leaving them complete orphans as their mom had already died a “natural death”. It took three days to find his body.

These four young boys, I, G, B and J have an aunt. She is a single lady who is already caring for two orphaned nieces. She decided to take G, B, and J into her home and the community builds a house for I, on his land, closer to where the aunt lives. This way she can keep an eye on him too.
Our four boys have now grown; I and B are in secondary school. J is in primary school; G dropped out of secondary school after S4 (like tenth grade) and ran away to the capital city last year. How do you think these children view death?

I live in a village of orphaned children. I work in a school where hope is hard to find. The “adults” of today were the first of this parentless generation. There seems to be a complete lack of internal motivation. Responsibility is rarely claimed. Has life crushed their spirits so completely that they are now unable to work towards a better future?

Boy “M” is born to parents who are feuding with their respective siblings. His family moves to a different district, far away. While there, both mom and dad die. Boy M and his younger sister are now alone in a foreign place, with no family or friends to care for them. Somehow they make it back to this village. Boy M begins selling alcohol / teaches himself to fix radios. He doesn’t go to school. A ‘project worker’ finds him and his sister and brings them to both maternal and paternal sides of their family, seeking reconciliation and support. In front of M, both sides of the family denounce him and his sister. They want nothing to do with the offspring of the siblings they were feuding with. The project worker enrolls them in school, even though they don’t have sponsors. Boy M has a hard time adjusting; school and rules are hard for a boy who survived on his own for so long.

In my text book it discusses Kubler-Ross’s Stages of Dying. What “stage” did G, B, and J’s dad reach when he decided to leave his three boys and throw himself in the lake? I would argue that there are no stages here. Here there seems to be no denial. Death is real. Why bargain when it is inevitable? Is it possible to become more depressed than you already are? Acceptance seems to come quickly and with finality.

Children are forced into a “mature and adult like conception of death” as the reality of their lives proves the finality and irreversibility of those they love being gone. Here in this village alone, an entire generation is growing up. They are facing the challenges of life with no direction or guidance. Few have good, positive, supportive “home” environments. Poverty tints the welcome they may or may not receive by the few living relatives they may have.
Have I mentioned how living here is like living in the past? I was being quite literal when I used the words “feuding” and “denouncing”. Someone who has been denounced, or who is the child of the denounced person seems to be invisible. I am blown away as I discover that boy x is the younger brother of y, but they can be in the same room without ever speaking because x has been denounced. Feuding includes witchcraft/curses, sacrifice of animals for rituals, poisonings, and thievery.

My heart aches for this parentless generation. Where are the Fathers, teaching these young men to become strong men of integrity and teaching the girls they are worth love? Where are the mothers loving and nurturing the children as they grow? Who disciplines and guides them? Who tucks them in at night? I look into the eyes of “old” children. These children know death. They know loss. They know hunger. Some seem to have lost all spirit; they seem completely broken and without life. Others somehow are still “alive” despite their circumstances. Yet still others have a spark, just waiting to come to life. Pray for these children; this parentless generation facing the harsh world.

These are All Ugandans

Rains have washed away the road to kishanje that we usually would take to reach Kabale. Consequently we must now take the longer route through the back roads of Rwanda and Uganda. We left our house this morning at 6:15 to hitch a ride to town in the JAM truck and arrived in Kabale by 11 am. A long ride. Anyway, I just had to share this with you guys. Essentially, there is this strip of "no mans land" at the official border of UG and RW. Here transport trucks, civilian vehicles, UN, Red Cross, and everyone else converge to either enter UG or enter RW. As we are driving across we get waved over by an official. Our headmaster was a bit concerned cause they have never been stopped before. The officer comes over and questions Edward, our driver; who are you, where are you coming from, what are you transporting, who are you transporting. Here comes the guilty confession... neither Bekah nor I have our passports with us.

We are told to wait. Moments later this super official comes over (dressed in a snazzy uniform and hat) and looks at the first official and says : "What are you doing? These are all Ugandans" and he tells Edward to go. So we drove across...

YAHOO! yes, as a matter of fact, we are all ugandans.

The Band Aid Dilemma

I know so little and I feel so foolish most days. I become frustrated as I fail to understand the whys and wherefores behind the circumstances I encounter. I feel stupid as I think about what little I have to offer. Too often I allow fear to keep me from speaking kindly, being excited, or even being willing to try new things. I wonder if my ideas and theories have any value, or if they are merely the thoughts of an ignorant girl who dwells in the idealized recesses of her own imaginary world. I hold onto hurts and take offence quickly. I doubt the trustworthiness of almost all I encounter. I allow my perfectionist nature to take control as I refuse to speak unless I KNOW the right word to use. I become angry quickly when I feel harassed, threatened, or unsure. I get tired of using small words and improper English to make myself understood, when people then doubt my intelligence because I don’t sound professional. I want to quit and just say “enough is enough” when people let me down or fail to live up to the standards I expect from them. I feel sad when I think about only being seen as “mzungu” a faceless, nameless, fairy godmother who is expected to have loads of cash to give freely.

I don’t have the answers I need. Each day I feel challenged by inadequacy and overwhelmed by the needs I see before me. My heart aches to ease the pain I see in the eyes of the children I pass. My head aches as I realize my own selfishness and I chastise myself for thinking that a hug can make the day bearable for some of those children.

I struggle with the “band aid” dilemma, let me share this with you, and perhaps an answer may be found.

-A “project child” comes to me after school one day and asks me to take a message to one of the project workers in Mbarara. He doesn’t have notebooks for school. Usually they are provided to the “project children” before school starts, but due to lack of funding, they weren’t available this term. He wants me to ask the worker if she can maybe send two, just to help him out. I talk with her in Mbarara, there is no money for books. I want to buy notebooks for him. I want to buy notebooks for all the project kids who are working hard in school but need books for writing notes in. (by the way, at the school there are no text books for the students, each class is a lecture, they write notes, revise, do homework, then take exams). Bekah is concerned that by giving them books we are reinforcing the idea that all mzungus have endless money and that we won’t be seen as teachers / aunts, but rather as rich outsiders who can provide all their needs. Maybe she is right. Maybe the book is just a band aid for the larger need. I don’t know.

-There are so many street kids here in Mbarara and Kabale. Many have run away from abusive living situations. Most of them could technically go back home. These young boys, aged 6-20, live in a gang of sorts, with captains and underlings…. Many smoke marijuana, sniff glue, pick pocket, and steal food. Our brother Patrick started a community based organization called Shepherds Center, devoted to reaching out to the street kids here in Kabale. Bekah, and now I, have gotten to know most of them. I don’t know their stories, I don’t know their pasts, and I don’t know why they chose to leave and chose a life on the street. I do know they are young. They are hungry, they are trying to survive. Last night it was storming, rainy and cold. I wanted to buy bananas and buns for the boys. Bekah said that sometimes it has to get worse before it gets better, that maybe the younger ones will figure out life on the street isn’t grand and they will go home. How can they figure that out if you are always buying them bananas and buns? Are bananas and buns mere band aids? I realize it doesn’t solve anything by feeding them on cold nights, but my heart aches to do so. I want to tell them, “I see you, you are valuable, you are a person, and I believe you have a future” I want to learn their names, encourage them to go to school, challenge them when I see them smoking or making poor choices. What is the proper course of action? I live in a village far away. I don’t see these kids on a regular basis, I don’t have the opportunity to sit down one on one with them. Is it my place to even care? Is it my place to want to help them? Does occasionally buying bananas or buns for hungry boys reinforce the “mzungu stereotype” or do they see the love of Jesus in me?

I struggle with knowing the proper course of action on a daily basis. A mom and her three young children live thirty feet from the secondary school. They have absolutely nothing. The oldest girl is about 8 and loves school, but mom has no money for food, let alone school fees. They are assured one meal a day- lunch – as one of my students fills her lunch plate, and then passes it off to the daughter. It took me a week of observation to figure it out. My student does this quietly and as of now, I am keeping her secret. Her teacher mentioned to me though that while she is a good student, after lunch she has trouble staying alert in class. I know it is because she hasn’t eaten in 8 hours. If the administration knew what my student was doing, she would be reprimanded. I want to respect her decision to skip a meal and help this family, so I am keeping my eye on her to make sure she doesn’t get sick from not getting nourished. But what do I do? At least twice a week I go sit with the family, and talk with the 8 year old, working on her English (her favorite subject), counting, and spelling. But does that really change anything? I just don’t know.

-The kids I work with come from painful pasts. I hear their stories, I listen to their memories, I see the scars, I see the long term effects of malnutrition in their stunted growth and poor teeth. Is being here for one year merely a band aid? Is offering them a hug merely a band aid for the gaping wounds they hold inside? I want to shield them from current abuse and hardships, give them time to heal, give them time to become strong before sending them back out into this harsh life they are faced with. But is that the best thing for them? I want to teach them coping mechanisms, but I wish there wasn’t a need for them. I want to lash out at the people who tell them they are worthless and just trash because they don’t have parents. But I fear that being “momma bear” doesn’t really solve anything. They need to be strong. How do I show these children, on an individual basis, that they are worthy of love, they are valuable, and they can choose to forgive those who abuse them? Is it possible to counter years of abuse, neglect, and hardships with a few months of being around to give them the occasional hug and “atta kid!”? Is this merely a band aid?

I should Blog about this

Throughout each day I see and experience things that cause me to say “I should blog about this” but by the time I finally get a chance to write things down (let alone type / blog them) the moment has passed and I find myself at a loss for words. I wish I could somehow capture the scenes, the smells, the music, and the circumstances in a way that would do them justice.
Kampala was rough. It was overwhelming, and it stretched me. BUT I have to tell you about three meetings we had. I will let you decide what these meetings were: divine appointments, chance events, random acts of kindness, or maybe even angels sent to help two girls through this chaotic visa process.

Meeting ONE: Arrived at the work/immigration headquarters with no clue as to where to begin. Uncle D was with Bekah and I and was just as lost as we were. He decided to walk into the first office we saw- and walked right into a man who he had grown up with. After introductions this man took us to the appropriate offices, got the forms we needed, and gave us his number to call him if we had any questions. He does not work in the immigration offices, he works across town and had decided suddenly to go check on things there (he is pretty high up in the government). Then, due to the rain, he drove us through security, around to where we had parked our car. Generally getting those forms is a process, but he waived the process and got us started. He reviewed the documents we had, told us about the requirements (that are not listed on the website or in the official handout) and advised us on who to address each document to.

Meeting TWO: from the first meeting we learned that we needed background checks for the application. I already wrote about the fiasco at the Embassy, but what I didn’t tell you was about the gentleman we met there. As Bekah, Mr A and I were standing outside of the Embassy, trying to figure out what to do, a man said “Whats getting done” and I replied “nothing, nothing is getting done”. He came over and chatted with us and then proceeded to advise us on the various ways we could get background checks while staying abroad. He was from America and teaches agriculture ministry just east of Kampala. We left feeling more informed and better prepared for the remainder of the visa process.

Meeting THREE: while in Kampala Bekah and I had to go print various documents to submit in the visa application. Kampala is HUGE and there are SO MANY people there. We walked around town for hours getting the things we needed and then had to make our way home. Hopping on public transport we decided to take the advice of one of the taxi drivers and get off at Kisaasi Rd rather than go all the way to Ntinda from where we would normally cross. Bekah and I were tired, turned around, and ready to be home. We found no transport at Kisaasi Rd and began walking. Walking walking walking. Bekah was trying to wave down each passing taxi (which were all full as it was the end of the work day) and I was trudging slowly ahead. A young man came up behind me and said “you are going to Kisaasi” to which I replied “where are you going?” He told me that he was just “moving” meaning wandering aimlessly cause there is nothing else to do really. Totally skeptical and feeling generally distrustful of all humanity at that point, I told him we were just moving and were fine thank you. “you are going to Kisaasi, let me move with you and show you the way” was his response. “no, No thank you” I replied, and Bekah agreed. So we kept walking. We walked to the “highway”…. And weren’t sure which way to go. He crossed over again to us and said “you are going to Kisaasi, let me give you a push and show you where. You wont get a taxi here, only a boda, let me move with you and show you.” Bekah and I looked at him and she said “Why do you want to help us, why do you want to move with us” and he asked “why do you fear me? Let me help you.” So we followed him. He directed us to the road we needed to take and advised us to grab a boda. We began walking in the advised direction and looked back, he was gone, but shortly after a boda came. We got home safely.

Pretty random huh? Pretty cool too.

I feel cut off from the rest of the world here. I rarely hear UG news, let alone world news, but thanks to being in “town” lately I have heard a bit about the earthquakes and other disasters happening worldwide. Have the recent mudslides in UG been in the news? The rains here have been heavy (after a long dry spell) and detrimental. Entire fields of crops are washed away, houses fall down (as they are made of mud) and road slides are killing many. Here in Kabale district (where I live) the rains washed away crops and washed away our outhouse (on a positive note, the spiders are probably dead; on a negative note… well… going to the bathroom will be less private). There are three trucks that come to our village daily (or try to at least) they are huge cargo trucks. The driver and three passengers sit in the front bench seat and sacks of potatoes or other produce is stacked in the bed, then people stand on top and ride to and from town. Due to the heavy rains, one of the trucks “fell” as a result of a mudslide, rolling down the mountain. One of my students, Brian, suffered a broken leg, other villagers broke various bones, and we heard today the driver is still in the hospital. Pray for Brian please. He is such a neat guy. Tomorrow Bekah and I will hike back home (still not trusting the roads/trucks) and we will see him.

Yesterday we rode the bus from Mbarara to Kabale. Public transport in UG is something else, let me tell you. Let me try to explain it (words don’t do it justice). I hop on a boda wearing my backpack. The driver takes me through town, weaving in and out of traffic, following the size rule – bigger vehicles go first, smaller vehicles fit in wherever they can. We enter the bus park. Just before entering the boda is swarmed by men grabbing the handles trying to turn the boda in the direction of “their bus”. When we stop I jump off and hold on to everything I am carrying as I am tugged and pulled in various directions by guys trying to sell seats for their bus. It is loud. It is chaotic. Have I mentioned that I don’t like being shouted at, grabbed, or commanded around? I pay my boda driver and look around for Bekah, hoping she has fared better than I have. We orient ourselves, try to filter out the straight up lies from the helpful advice being shouted at us and find the bus we want to board. Throughout all of this hawkers are trying desperately to convince us that we need everything they are selling and are adamant that we buy something from them. We get on the bus, and sit tight for the ride. Between Mbarara and Kabale we know we will stop twice for “short calls” on the side of the road. The bus captain pulls over and most get off to empty their bladders. Ntungamo is where we stop for onions. No, not kidding, the bus always stops in Ntungamo so passengers and the bus captain can stock up on onions. Hawkers run up to the bus with “meat on a stick” called muchomo (which is supposedly meat… but no one really knows what animal they are eating), bananas, “pancakes” made from cassava, “rolexes” – sketchy eggs / flour / tomato combo somehow fried together and rolled up and delicious, roasted corn, and of course, onions. You can also get water, juice, or plastic bags with yogurt in them.

The roads are being worked on here in UG. Oddly, I was sad yesterday as I was thinking about what that would mean for all those who make their livelihood selling food/drinks to bus passengers. When the roads are smooth and trips take less time, who wants to stop for a banana? I wonder how the economy of cities and little pull off areas will be affected by the new roads.

I would like to add a disclaimer: Bekah and I RARELY have to fight the chaos at the bus parks alone. Generally we have an ARMY of guys with us, changing the scene thusly: we arrive at the bus park in the ABIDE van. Wellen waits with us girls as the ABIDE guys jump out to check out the buses. On any given time there will be 2-5 busses heading to the place we want to go, the bus that is full leaves first. You don’t get on an empty bus cause you will sit there till it is full. Once the boys find a bus they think is suitable for us girls, two sit in the seats, others see to the loading of our bags and then we are escorted onto the bus. If we want any food it they get it and they see we are seated comfortably, staying with us till the bus pulls out of the park. Pretty lush.

Went to Rwanda today. Like how nonchalant that sounded? Haha… life here is so different. Due to the long processing time for the missionary/work visa Bekah and I had to cross a border and get a new UG visa. Left Kabale to head to the border, walked across, and walked 2 km into the country – just to see what we could see. It is beautiful there. We decided to see if Rukiga was understood there, it is, and we greeted those we passed. Had a neat conversation with a couple of drivers for a UN convoy heading to a disaster area with showers and sleeping quarters for the soldiers who are helping out. They offered to give us water or take us to the capital city since they were passing that way. Told us to be safe. It was sweet. Crossed back over to UG and continued our errands upon reaching Kabale again.

GOOD NEWS: I have a PO box now in Kabale: Leah Roberts PO Box 211 Kabale, Uganda, East Africa. Feel free to send me letters! They are my favorite!