A thing called hope...

“Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.”
If you ever question what difference any of it makes, you will most certainly find your answer in the eyes of a child. The children of Uganda have answered some big questions for me. I know that I was meant to come here to listen to their stories, dance to their songs, delight in their smiles, witness their struggles, and shine a light on their hope as well as their need. I am ever amazed at the joy that can found in the most poverty-stricken of places. Many of these children live without running water, electricity, enough food, shoes to wear, clean clothes, access to adequate education or medical care. The list of what they live without goes on and on. Their clothes, their homes, and indeed their lives may seem torn and tattered, yet the most exquisite thread of hope runs through them all.

We do the Hokey Pokey...and that's what it's all about.

On Wednesday, we got our hands (and feet) dirty. We had been walking the walk, but now we were picking up the pace. We rode boda bodas, the ubiquitous motorcycle taxis, out to the Shanti Uganda Birth Center Site. We were quite a sight ourselves---24 mazungas riding on boda bodas that have specifically been told to stay within reasonable speeds (something they are not known for). We slowly snaked our way down the bumpy red clay road like some sort of crazy mizunga shriner parade. Once there, we stomped mud, made adobe bricks, sculpted walls and planned gardens, all under the careful watch of the ever-present village children and the lovely 90-year old woman who visits the site daily to assess progress. This is truly a community effort. The women are grateful for a safe place to birth, the men are grateful for a job, the children are grateful for the entertainment.
We returned to our guest house covered in mud and very relieved to have enough water for a shower and one flush. They turn the water on only sporadically so we had to learn to time our trips to the bathroom accordingly. After cleaning up in the loosest sense of the word, we heading back for a bonfire, dinner and dancing. We drummed, we sang, we even did the hokey pokey. Two cultures brought together by music in service, in gratitude, and in joy. In the end, maybe that is what it's all about...

Night Light

I spent my first night in Kasana having dinner in the home of Bubeera. She is one of the HIV+ women who is working with Shanti Uganda. Her home is a one-room concrete structure. A curtain separates the living area with the sleeping area. Bubeera has 4 children, but only her 10 year old daughter still lives with her. Her 3 sons have gone to live with their grandparents because they will "have better opportunities." Reality rules in Uganda where heartbreak is a daily occurrence. Bubeera has no electricity or running water. She prepared dinner for us on a small charcoal stove outside. We sat on mats upon the concrete floor and ate by the light of her cell phone. I have stopped trying to make sense of it all.
The children in Bubeera's neighborhood, ever-intrigued by the mizungas, spent the entire evening just outside of the fabric curtain that serves as her front door. They giggled and squealed with delight when I took pictures of them. They are so full of light and love.
Bubeera kept thanking me for coming to dinner. I owe her so much more than she owes me. She has allowed me to witness her world and, therefore, expand my own. I have seen strength, resilience, and hope shine brightly in what could seem utter darkness. I hope my own light shines a little brighter for having been touched by hers.

Speechless

The past three days are hard for me to describe. I am still trying to process all that I have seen, touched, and experienced. On Tuesday, we made the one hour trip from Kampala, a bustling city of 1.5 million people, to Kasana, a small village with spotty access to electricity and running water. Some of the funds we raised are going to an organization called Shanti Uganda. They are building a birthing center outside of Kasana, as well as training midwives and providing job skills training for a group of HIV positive women in the area who served as our welcoming committee. We climbed out of our bus and were greeted with dancing, singing, and many heartfelt displays of gratitude. The women taught us how to roll beads out of paper, their main source of income. Then we all practiced yoga and had lunch together. All of these women are HIV positive. Many are also widows or have been left by their husbands. They raise children and grandchildren in extreme poverty. Could I smile in the face of such odds? Could I rise to meet these challenges? I am in utter awe of these women. Truly, I am speechless. Obviously, this makes blogging difficult. I apologize.

Gone with the Ugandan Wind

My bags finally made it here after taking an extended holiday in London. Fresh clothes can do wonders for the soul. I have now stuffed as many if them as I can into Charlie's backpack as we are leaving Kampala for 3 days to go and work at the birthing center in Kasana. I am told I will be attending some births which reminds of the scene in "Gone with the Wind" where Mamie exclaims, "I don't know nothin' bout birthing no babies." Then again, maybe I do. I will dig deep down into my personal bags and try to retrieve those treasured memories. I will take them with me and wear them every second that I am there.

I will not be able to blog while there, but I will return to Kampala in 3 days bursting with things to share I am sure. Please stay tuned. I am grateful to you all for witnessing my journey. Much love, Amanda

It's not the load that breaks you down - its the way you carry it”
Lou Holtz

While visiting the Acholi slum, we helped distribute beans, rice, and flour to several families. I saw how the Acholi women carried the heavy bags atop their heads, usually carrying a baby across their back as well. I passed the baby back to Christine and told her I could carry the food to her home for her. I wanted to lighten her load. It looked easy enough. I put the bag on my head and followed Christine down the red dirt street past mud shack after mud shack. The men snickered behind their beer bottles, the children openly laughed and called out "Mizunga, Mizunga." It means white person, or maybe crazy white person in my case. I tried to smile and act as if it were the most natural thing in the world for me to be strolling through an African slum with a bag of donated food on my head. Suddenly, the bag ripped and I was showered in beans. Christine quickly grabbed the bag from me and tried to stop the loss of legumes. She even grabbed a handful from down the front of my shirt. I raced back to the distribution center for another bag. When I returned she was picking beans up off of the road. She laughed at the beans stuck in my hair. Then she thanked me for the new bag, placed it atop her head and continued on down the road to her small 1 room mud home with her sweet little baby strapped to her back. No, I would never know the way to carry her load.

Found in Translation

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
Maya Angelou

I am a lover of words; they are the threads we weave our stories from. Is it any wonder we call a good tale a yarn? We each have a story that we live day by day, thread by thread. Yesterday, I spent the morning listening to the stories of two Ugandan women from the Northern Acholi tribe. They spoke of the horrors of Joseph Kony's long-running war and how they fled their villages to seek safety in the slums outside of Kampala. They spoke of things lost---neighbors, children, homes, hope. We sat in silence absorbing all the horror and heartbreak that these two women poured out drop by drop, word by word. It was painful to listen to their stories, but I cannot know how painful it has been to live them and bear them inside.
Afterwards, we visited their homes in the Acholi slums. We met more women, we held their children, we visited their homes, we witnessed their world. There were women who wanted to share their stories with me but could not speak English. I tried to let my heart translate what my head could not. I sat on the dirt floor of a 2 room shack where up to 9 people sleep, eat, and live out their stories day by day, frayed thread by frayed thread. I brought food, clothes, toys and medical supplies. It would never be enough. The tapestry of their lives is so torn and tattered, and all I could offer was a small safety pin.
One bright-eyed girl named Sara sat beside me on the floor and tried her best to serve as my translator. When I was about to leave, she got up and spoke quietly with her mother before asking if she could go home to America with me. I had given her a new book with counting games because she likes Math, but I could not give her a new story to live. She gave me some bracelets that her mother had made and one of those beautiful hugs that only a child can give. I received so much more than I gave.
I laid awake last night thinking of all the threads that had been woven into my heart that day. They are a part of my tapestry now too.