Part IV

The time has come to move along
Moving forward is moving on
When Africa starts to sing you her song
You'll never stay away for long
It felt right to stay, but she knew it was wrong
So one day she came, and then she was gone.

Her story begins back at the start
Her journey postponed with a break in the heart
But her life was moving sure and steady
She thought when storms came she'd be ready
But one day she looked up and something was wrong
She lost her self, her strength, her song
She knew not to where, but she was gone.

She had a mission and didn't stop
She knew exactly what she'd have to drop
To make some room for something more
Something with backbone, honesty, core
She booked the flight and plans were drawn
Mustered up courage to be life's pawn
And then, one day, she was gone.

She discovered others and then found herself
Wounded and blind and in bad health
Then she slept in the cradle of humankind
Found inner strength and peace of mind
Drying others' tears stopped her own
Changed the paradigm of all she'd known
Found things she realized she had all along
And then, one day, her pain was gone.

She knew her time had come to leave
Lessons learned and granted reprieve
Packed her bags to carry on
Bid her liberation adieu, so long
Armed with her transformation of brawn
She switched the lights, curtains were drawn
And then, once again...she was gone.

Moving On....

"I'll go kicking and screaming." --AJL

Wow. Has it really been six months?

It all started with Facebook. A picture popped up on my news feed of an old high school friend I hadn't spoken to in years. He was caught in the middle laughter on a bench with five other baby Africans. I was sold, I made the decision right then that I was going to Africa. Six months later I packed up my apartment and said goodbye to the mess that was my life in New York. It's now been six months to the rest of the world, but for me, lifetimes. There are many things that I'm happy to leave in the past, right where they should be kept, and even more that I'm happy to bring into my future. When I compare my state of mind then to my state of mind now, the most significant difference in the way I feel, is strong.

We all came for different reasons. We came from different places in our lives and on the planet. For some, it was a step into the unknown, a leap of faith. For me, it was a yes instead of a no, a plane ticket instead of metro fare. When I left, I wasn't sure why I came, or what I would find, I just knew it was something I hadn't yet realized I needed. I was right. We are all looking for something. For answers to our questions, reasons for our lives, a purpose to carry out each day. Did I find this? I found this in the hands I held and the faces I washed, in the laughter and questions of my classrooms, in the gratitude of the street vendors to receive an extra 40 cents, and in the scraped knees of neighborhood five year olds. I realize now it wasn't about what I would find, but rather what would find me.

I hear sometimes we must travel great distances to find in ourselves what was there all along. By discovering others, I discovered myself. I learned the importance of being a familiar face, to share a meal...or a hand. I learned to love myself through the unconditional love of a stranger, and to appreciate myself for the right reasons. It wasn't always easy, I learned to accept harsh realities every day. I had to think three times about everything I encountered. I discovered my boundaries, and where to draw the line of self-disclosure. I learned that giving more attention to myself is more important than getting it from others. I learned to speak my truth, but know when to keep it to myself. I remembered who I was and above all, to stay true to myself. Africa--she took some of me...and I took some of her.

To my kids: Yes, once more, I promise I will not forget you.

"But she was happy; she knew the time had come to stop."
--Paulo Coehlo, Eleven Minutes

See you all soon.

The Beginning of the End...

I almost made it the entire six months, but alas, my wallet was finally lifted. Stolen by use of diversion, on a matatu en route to a children's orphanage...oh irony. On the upside, this officially makes me a real Nairobian.

It's my last two weeks and I'm coasting. All in all I'm pretty satisfied--three different orphanages, three different schools, empowerment groups, two NGOs, corporate work, an HIV/AIDS womens' group, ZanaA website, and one article on African history. I'm also checking out an NGO called PASSOP (People Against Suffering, Suppression, Oppression and Poverty) as soon as I get into Cape Town. Last weekend I traveled back to Karatina and Nyeri town to bid adieu to all my kids upcountry and of course, Mama. The kids were amazing. The babies had grown so quickly, and some of my kids even started crying when I walked into class. No Mungiki sightings, thankfully, and I finished my 12th book throughout this trip. Read Three Cups of Tea. Seriously, read it.

Anywhere you are in Kenya...upcountry, the bush, the dirt, city centre...no matter where, if it's a Sunday, you hear the singing. Starting at 7am, you will hear the glorious sound of church music, and it's actually so beautiful. It's the one day where everyone unites, across tribes, across ages, across economic status, everyone is one. I will miss that, terribly...

Part III

I have a sharp mind and a sharp tongue
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion
And it probably has once or twice, I have a notion
And for that I'm sorry.
Some tears actually froze, off the tip of my nose
And became ice. And the ice became daggers
So I keep them staggered
As ammunition.
Better ammunition than an al Qaeda mission
Or the civil mob of al Shabaab insurgents in Somalia
Civil civilians by the millions
Killed. I mean how can you call a war...
Civil. Or
Holy. Take your land
Your religion but then what do you really
Have?
Or what about the war against the people? The silent war
Against the people, who won't keep their mouths shut anymore
Isn't stealing jobs the same as stealing money from pockets
Or launching rockets
To destroy a nation, that might have had a chance
To help itself further advance
Yes Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister
You let your people kill
Your people. Fight
Your battles for you--so you won't have too. Might
You be saying your blood is worth more
Than the blood they spill from each other or
For the people...by the people?
Your greed makes me sick
I spit on the ground take mud and smear it
Across your face you disgust me
A disgrace...to all
You're just as bad as the owners who called their slaves n-ggers
Then blamed it on a race
To the finish line.
And today in this hour we uncover the power
Whose hands spilled the blood, before a hot shower
And tried to bury it
Deeper than the corpse of the people
Who carried it.

See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
Long after the men in the street stop fighting
But my fingers won't.
They decide the length of this ride when
My emotions subside but usually
They don't.
They keep writing. They tell the story that won't
Come out of the mouths of the kids who can't tell me why
They flinch when I brush by
The trouble is now Mwafrican, that means I'm African
Even more than my language or skin that I'm in
Kuja me child and sema your story
She called me I listened I told her my story
Say what you want but Africa knows
More than your words that you speak cause it shows
But she doesn't.
She's tough but she cries. You'll see her real tears in deception
And lies.
In girls on the street, 11 years old
Prostituting themselves just so they can eat
And you let them. Just sit on your throne watch from your seat
Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. President
Dry Africa's tears and she'll dry yours.

See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
I have a sharp mind and sharp tongue
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion.

Hotel Rwanda

There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun...but there is a church in Rwanda that makes you wonder if that same sun ever even existed. It’s not some blockbuster hit with an Academy Award winning actor named Don Cheadle. It’s real, it’s raw, it happened. It has the power to grab your heart, rip it from your chest and tear your preconceived notions into a thousand different pieces.

It’s a beautiful city, Kigali; it’s a beautiful country, Rwanda. The hills are rolling, green and serene, and there is a peace and calm you wouldn’t expect when just a few years prior there was complete anarchy amidst genocide. This months marks the 15th year anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda, and I’m here. I can’t really believe it, to be honest. I watched Hotel Rwanda for the first time about one year ago, and I never would have guessed that I’d bring myself to sit at a table in the Milles Collines, or stand facing thousands of bones in two of the churches that housed some of the largest mass killings of the genocide.

It began with the German, but ultimately the Belgian colonization that divided them in the first place. There were two tribes, Hutu and Tutsi. In most instances, the Tutsis were classified as those having less than ten cows, and Hutus were those with more. It was that simple. And so it came to be that the Tutsis made up the minority, the lower class. The first attempt at genocide was in 1992, and unsuccessful. It was during that time that the Tutsis were compiling the RPF and gaining strength, but the Hutus were always a stronger power, thus civil war. Then one day, 6th April 1994, the President’s plane (he was a Hutu) was shot down (said to be by the RPF), and utter insanity ensued. The order was given to kill all Tutsis; to kill those married to a Tutsi, those with Tutsi children, and those Hutus who were sympathetic to the Tutsis. Friends killing friends, family killing family, it was kill or be killed. The order was given by the government. Government got the common people to commit this genocide for them. Government supplied the weaponry. It lasted for 100 days. Those who fled stayed in the swamps for months. Some died merely because of the living conditions throughout their time of refuge.

Ntarama and Nyamata are the locations of the two churches where thousands of people were trapped and killed by the masses. Merely being inside takes one’s breath away. I came face to face with all the clothing left behind by the dead, strewn on the rafters and hung on the walls. There were skulls of children, men, and women. The smallest skulls were the hardest to bear. There is an eerie, cold, secluded feeling to it...forgotten almost, yet frozen in time. I could close my eyes and see the chaos, the destruction, hear the screams, taste the fear. There were school books, shoes, and shards of metal once used to kill the victims. In the front right corner there were shelves of plates, cups, and bowls found among the kitchen remains. In the front left corner was a chest full of school books. Some were in tact; some were splattered with brownish-red and burnt in half. As one of the guides picked up a book and flipped through it, we came across a date that read December, 1993. This was the math book of a child in 7th grade, and it became all too real. In the back of the church, rows and rows of skulls and bones were lined up and stacked on shelves on top of one another. Some of the skulls were crushed, and you could tell the way in which they died. Some had names written on them, those that had been identified. One of the skulls had a sharp shard of metal cleanly pierced through it and into the eye. This brutality is sickening.

The Rwandan President has recently warned Kenya: “Do you see what happened here, you should learn from us, you are going along this same path with your political violence!”

It was the second church that was the hardest. It was called Nyamata. Both of the boys acting as guides, 21 and 24 years respectively, were in the church when the Hutu army came to attack. They sought refuge there because back in 1992, the church was a safe haven, and they thought it would again be a false alarm. This time they weren’t so lucky. The boys were 6 and 9 years old at the time, yet they are still so raw with their recollections. The genocide began on a Tuesday, and the killers came on the second day. 10,000 Tutsis were killed within those walls. The first boy saw his mother killed with a panga (sword) and her limbs cut from her body. He showed us the underground catacombs where coffins held 30 bodies each. The other shelves held thousands upon thousands of bones, stacks and stacks of the nameless. The only way a new body is identified is if the killer comes forward to admit to the family the precise location in which he killed their beloved. He must ask for forgiveness. Piles of clothes were scattered, practically covering the floor. At the front was the altar, the once beige-colored cloth draped over the top was now stained with dark brown dried blood. A few identity cards were lying on top. And in the back were hundreds of bags. Carrier bags, shopping bags, they were filled with newly uncovered bones, mostly unidentified.

The second boy held his story within the weight of his eyes, the thick glassy shield over his irises, too numb for memories. They were bloodshot red, and most of his story was translated, the little English he could speak. He said he cries a lot, it’s difficult for him. He said it’s hard to tell, you can look at a person who dresses nicely, who walks and talks like a regular person, but they are dead inside...He said it was hard for him to tell such a personal account because it haunts him daily. I could have listened to him forever, I couldn’t speak because I wanted to absorb every syllable he spoke. I felt so incredibly fortunate to have had the honor to listen to a survivor of such a horrific and wrongful tragedy. I hung on every word, it was the most intense recollection I’d heard. He was trusting us with his life story. How could he confide in us, strangers, wazungu he barely knew? I was blown away at his courage and strength. He said there was guilt, the Why me? Why was I the one to survive? Out of 10,000 people killed in that church, he was one of only seven to survive. Seven. The church was so large, and the roof was littered with bullet holes from the grenade explosions. They threw a grenade in to kill as many as possible at first, then came in with spears and pangas. The killings were brutal. He told us the killers came thrrough the front and broke into the smaller room first, where his brother was hiding. They cut off his brother’s head. As they did the same to the others in the first room, they threw the heads into the crowd and made the Tutsis play with them like footballs. They cut off arms and legs and threw them into the crowd as well. They took the pregnant women, laid them on the altar and cut their stomachs open. They killed the unborn babies and threw them into the center of the church. This boy was hiding behind a cement statue. He took the blood from others around him and covered his face in it, to make it look like he was already dead...at nine years old. He was hiding at the bottom of a slant in the church, and because of all the cut bodies, the blood was draining down onto him. It got into his ears, his mouth, and he couldn’t make a sound or move. He asked us to imagine the smells he endured lying still amidst the dead bodies for two full days. He knew he had to get out because the Hutus would soon come back sneezing powder. They’d throw the powder over the bodies to identify and kill those that were still alive. He finally escaped and hid for the next three months. He said the sounds never leave him.

They kept asking us if we had to go, if they were taking up too much of our time. It killed me to hear him say that...My time? Nothing could possibly be worth more of my time. The boys pled with us to take pictures, to go back and show everyone what we saw, to tell their story. They asked us to do it so that no one could pretend the genocide didn’t happen, so that it will never be forgotten. To keep the dead alive, respected, and remembered. So this is for you, my friends. This is your story.

Harambee

As the sun went down today, I re-lived my years of adolescents on Oro Avenue, when I'd try to stay out as late as possible playing outside in the summer nights before the sun sank and I was called in for dinner. I played out in the street of our estate, attempting the long-jump in a game called, "three sticks." All the neighborhood kids joined us (age 5 to 23) and I was the only white person, though no one seemed to notice. We laughed and continued to play the game until it got dark.

I notice something beautiful about Africa. No one worries about they way they look on the outside, and because this applies to everyone, the type of person you are on the inside is always what's noticed, what's important. That's an obvious problem with the States...and especially in New York. I realize now how jaded I was...many people there are so consumed with working on how they look on the outside, they stop working on how they look on the inside. It's sad really...but now that I realize this, it's so much easier to steer clear of those influences.

I came inside after the game and met cousin Sanau (Carol) in the kitchen. Rice, we cook rice. Every...single...night. But on the bright side, I'm getting really good at it. And...healthy. It's a good way to bond, the cooking I mean...and we all take turns doing something. And there's dancing. There's always dancing. Obviously I'm hooked...I've learned new dance moves like the Gully Creeper, the Kuku, the Helecopter and the Mosquito. Yes, it's true. It's a huge event...sometimes random friends show up, it's such a community, an amazing way of life, where people take the time every day to actually enjoy and appreciate one another's company. This way of life, everyone helping everyone, is the Kenyan motto: Harambee. Harambee is community living...everyone doing their part to help. It's hard to think about not having this be a part of my life...so I'm bringing it back. As soon as I get an apartment.

Nile River Rafting

I didn't know when I was on that excruciatingly dreadful bus ride to Uganda, that I would find soon find myself face to face with the most powerful rapids along the Great White Nile, otherwise known as: death. Water isn't my biggest fear, but I think drowning would be a horrible way to go, especially while volunteering in Africa. However, once the idea got into my head, I thought about what a great story it would make, and decided there was no possible way I could leave without doing it.

Our guide's name was Prince Charles. I should have known then what I was in for. Oh Prince. He was so intimidating that he made you think that if you didn't listen to him carefully, you'd drown. It started easy enough, but after only 30 seconds of practice when Prince decided we were ready to go, I got a little nervous. Rapids range from grade 1 to grade 6, but rafts aren't permitted to go through a grade 6. Certain death. We were to take on four ‘grade 5’ rapids, and even more ‘grade 4’ and ‘grade 3.’ The thing about these rapids is you don't have time to really prepare yourself for what's about to happen, and it’s scarier than you can ever imagine. You hear them, the song of death, for about 3 full minutes before you begin the decent, but you can’t actually see the rapids until you’re right on top of them. Surprise attack. No matter how many times you’ve taken a rapid, no matter the size, the same intense feeling of anxiety, washes over you. And that, my friends, is because you never forget the first time you get thrown over. Trapped under water, no idea when you’ll surface…it’s the scariest feeling in the world. You have to count, to keep calm. You count because Prince tells us you’ll never be under for longer than seven seconds. Seven seconds is an eternity when the Nile is on top of you. But no matter how much it scares you, you get addicted. Well, I did at least. Not too surprising considering I seek adrenaline rushes as a hobby. It was incredible, and I have not one picture. Lucky I don’t...my camera probably would have ended up at the bottom of the Nile, up in Egypt.

But I think I was right, it did make a pretty great story.

The Dirty Truth

17 June 2009
I really want to remember this moment forever so I’m just going to say it...I haven’t showered for a full ten days.

Moment of silence.