The view from here

I want to share this note with you from a friend I recently met in Kampala. Nicole is working with Come, Let's Dance - an organization I've mentioned a few times before. They are my family when I visit in Kampala, often offering a place to stay & a lot of great fellowship.

This note touches on deep issues of what its like from this side, and I resonate a lot with Nicole's thoughts of despair and hope.

"Last Friday, I sat in an African clinic crying with Charlie, a six-year-old little boy who had malaria. As the doctor injected the iv, Charlie kicked, squirmed and tried to bite the doctor, and an aid had to hold him down because I wasn’t strong enough. Charlie screamed out “Mama” repeatedly, and I helplessly watched absorbing his wails for a non-existent mother. I tried comforting him as best I could kissing his forehead as if me being there made up for a mother that isn’t.

The next day, we went out to the village, where the Come Let’s Dance farm is, to do a medical outreach. Some of the teams that are here have pre-med students, and one guy John is a firefighter with some paramedic experience. They handled the big stuff while others played with kids, and others took care of the less serious ailments. For me, it meant that I ended up flossing kids’ teeth for a few hours. Teeth that had never been brushed let alone flossed, and were black and soft with decay. I was the cause of several bleeding gums, and a lot of tears from fearful kids. Since I was the only person dealing with teeth word got out, and so many people came to me and pointed out their toothaches, and severely cavitied mouths, pleading for me to do something. I can’t pull teeth, or fix cavities, or make the pain go away. I just had to say “sorry” in my makeshift Luganda accent and send them away. I never knew how much it hurt to look a destitute person, with no hope, in the eye and say “there’s nothing I can do.”

On Wednesday, our house got robbed in the middle of the day. In broad daylight, people sawed off the bars to our windows, climbed in, wrecked our house, and got away with laptops, phones, ipods, cameras, cash, and a passport. The only thing that got stolen of mine was my American phone, but Susan and the others staying with me weren’t so lucky. It was devastating to walk up our hill to the police station, looking at everyone that probably saw the thieves escape, and knowing that even though we’re here trying to help, we are all still targets.

This and so much more are the backbone of our days, and weeks, and when people at home ask, “how is Africa?” I think about the non-existent mothers, and the there-is-nothing-I-can-do's and the fact that at the end of the day I still come from a very different world. I’ve been thinking about how these experiences and the life I live out here are beginning to become numb and normal, but I got a wake up call this last week.

I’ve always been romantic, and ideal… when I first stepped off the plane in Africa last January I legitimately thought I was going to save the continent. I have now realized my naivety, and have grown aware and accustomed to my hopeless and discouraging cynicisms, not brushing them off, like I used to but instead welcoming them as my rite of passage into adulthood. Discovering that the world isn’t ponies and rainbows, and that a humanitarian revolution isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I have begun to be lured by the darkness of a cynical view of life, considering myself more mature for seeing pessimism instead of optimism, responsibly understanding that negativity comes along with growing up.

Jeremy was reading a book called Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell, and he finished as we were having breakfast the other morning, and slammed it down on the table with a huge smile and said “wow, that was like the best book I’ve ever read… can I please read you guys part of the epilogue?” Susan and I agreed, and the part that hit me the most was as follows:

“I have lots of reasons for bailing on the whole thing… I have a choice. To become bitter, cynical, jaded, and hard. Anybody can do that. A lot have… there is a lot to be repulsed by… Or… I can choose to reclaim my innocence… we can insist that hope is real, and that a group of people… really can change the world. We can reclaim our idealism and our belief, and our confidence in the big ideas that stir us deep in our bones.”

I was slapped in the face by my darkened view of what it means to be a leader, and becoming a grown up. “Anybody can do that” the words continue to echo in my ears and through my thoughts and I have begun to understand the challenge that I now face. I don’t ever want to return to naivety and ignorance, but I want to see uncluttered reality embracing the horror and the wonder just the same, and decide to love it, because it’s life.

Two nights ago we all gathered for a group goodbye party at the kids’ house, because all the summer volunteers leave this week. We spent all day playing games, throwing kids up in the air, and holding them until they fell asleep. We had a huge dinner with all the Ugandan leaders, kids, and volunteers, and set up speakers and had a huge dance party in the lawn by candlelight. As I soaked up the wealth of new dance moves, (sure to make their way on to Red Robin mainline when I get back) all the devastation of the past two weeks seemed to slip into the shadow of the candlelight we were dancing in, because that night sums up why we’re doing what we’re doing. It’s about sharing a meal, building relationships, holding hands, laughing, smiling, dancing… it’s about community, and making enough room in the dancing circle for everyone that wants to join.

I don’t think I can save Africa anymore, I don’t think one day there will be no more orphans, I don’t think that one day we’ll stop being robbed… But I think sharing a plate of food with my Ugandan friend Ann, spinning Charlie around until I’m too dizzy to stand, and dancing until it hurts makes it beautiful anyway.

Loving, living, dancing,
Nicole"