If a Tree Falls In a Forest and No One Hears It, Does It Still Make A Sound?

Attention was grabbed by the Kony 2012 video. Attention was paid to the fact Joseph Kony is still at large. But did you know that:

“UNHCR has received reports of more violence by the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) in central Africa in recent weeks.

Since our last update on 6 March, there have been 13 new LRA attacks in north-eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). Most occurred in Dungu territory between 6 and 25 March. Two people were killed and 13 abducted, including a child in the town of Aba. The violence has also displaced more than 1,230 people in the Dungu area.

This brings to 33 the total number of LRA attacks in north-eastern DRC so far this year, with more than 4,000 displaced. There have also been reports of attacks by the Ugandan rebel group in Bondo, close to the border with the Central African Republic (CAR).

In CAR itself, attacks attributed to the LRA resumed in January after a lull since April 2011. Eleven LRA attacks have been recorded in the south-eastern part of the country this year. Eight of those took place near the towns of Zemio and Mboki, where UNHCR assists refugees and internally displaced populations.

Four people were killed during the attacks and 31 abducted, according to the CAR defence and security forces.

The security situation in south-eastern CAR remains extremely fragile. One exception is in the city of Obo, where the situation has improved with the presence of U.S. troops deployed last October to bolster efforts by the joint CAR-Ugandan armed forces hunting the LRA and its leadership.”

Has anyone been talking about these attacks? Not really. Everyone is too preoccupied with commenting on how badly Jason Russell is messed up given that he had a psychotic breakdown and even after that video no one cares about these attacks.
Are people in Uganda talking about them? No. Are people in the US talking about them? Well, I’m not in the US, but I have a Google alert set to tell me when stories about the LRA come out in the news. Out of the recent 30 stories, about 5 have been about the attacks. A whole lot more have been about criticism of the Kony 2012 video.
You can argue all you want to that the US is not needed to find Kony, that Africa can take care of itself. But the UNHCR says that the most secure region of the Central African Republic is the city where the US troops are present.
The tree has fallen: the LRA is still active and they are making noise and stepping up their game. But I’m starting to wonder if the world audience has been caught up listening to a very different forest. I think the Kony 2012 video did a great thing by calling attention to what’s happened with the LRA. But I think it’s also time people pay attention to what is still happening.
I had a conversation with a friend from UCU (the university my parents work at) the other day. While I disagree with a lot of the way he viewed the movie (which he now is very aware of) he did say one thing that resonated. Africa is always portrayed as being a war-torn impoverished nation. It is stereotyped as such and is treated with a general pity and misunderstanding. The fact is that there is some truly amazing richness in Uganda… maybe not material wealth but there is a richness and beauty in the culture, the people, the nature. There is such incredible beauty mixed among all of the poverty, that it’s easy to see one and forget the other. The amazingness that is Uganda should never be forgotten.
However, Africa does suffer. There ARE rebel groups that would not be permitted in the US. People DO live in horrendous situations. According to Wikipedia (go ahead, argue about how reliable it is) 5 people were killed in the civil unrest in London last year. How many weeks did we hear about that on the news? 6 people have been killed in recent weeks in central Africa. Has anyone heard about that?
It’s the sheer extent of the suffering, the unbroken tide which is not seen in the West. I visited a homeless shelter with my church youth group in the US a few years ago while they ate breakfast and had their clothes washed. Okay now read that sentence again. A group of youth visited homeless people. They were in a homeless shelter. They ate breakfast. They had their clothes washed.
As much as homeless people in the US are real, and they suffer, I was startled by how clean the people were. Yes, they had some dirt on them. Yes, they looked weather-beaten. But they had food. And they didn’t have to beg for it.
Yes Africa is stereotyped. But YES it is also true that three year old children are malnourished and starving and knocking on our car windows asking for the equivalent of 5 cents because they are so hungry.
I visited a shelter for homeless children here. It was the place where the police sent juvenile delinquents and children they didn’t know what to do with. Clean? Clean?! There was nothing clean about those children. I sat there with one four year old boy whose toes were literally rotting. The flies fed off of them while he bled. When I tried to ask the nurse to look at him, she just looked at me and said “I can’t keep up with all of this. There are kids in a lot worse shape. I can’t afford the time to look at this one boy”.
So, is Africa stereotyped and is it assumed that all Africans are poor? Yes. Are all Africans poor? No. Are there poor Africans? Yes. As Christians, do we have the responsibility to help those who suffer? The Bible tells me so. Argue all you want about foreign aid… at the end of the day in the last month more than 4,000 people have been displaced. Whether YOU hear it or not, I think that still makes a sound

My response to the Kony 2012 video

So most people know that I have done a fair bit of work in Northern Uganda. My heart and passion lie up there, with my friends.

My friends have suffered. They have been invisible.

And now, because of this Kony 2012 video, people are talking about them.

I have tried for the last 3 years to tell people about what Kony has really done. And finally the pictures are being shown. The pictures of the mutilated faces, the actions taken by Kony and his band of child soldiers, are being talked about. There is a lot of criticism about this movie. But all I have to say is:

It’s about time. Thank God people are finally waking up.

The video does a good job of showing the terrible actions by Kony. But what it doesn’t show is how much, even with Kony gone, there is a need for recovery.

Northern Uganda has been destroyed by the war. At the orphanage I visited in Lira (see my post on Beauty and Pain in Northern Uganda) I heard three things.

1: a baby boy was in an Internally Displaced Person’s camp when it was attacked. Among the 300 people who were killed were his parents. He was left as a four month old baby to die. He was rescued, and is now in an orphanage in Lira. It seems like a good end to the story, his life can be said to be a success, but imagine the trauma he will face every single day. He is now 10 years old. Who is there to help him recover?

2: another young girl was tied to a tree during an LRA attack. Her parents were killed in front of her while she screamed “No, leave my mommy alone”. I heard this story from the founder of the orphanage.

3: The founder of this orphanage is an amazing woman, but she does not necessarily know how to help these kids. Something needs to be done for them.

Kony has caused these horrific things. When I spent time at Keyo Secondary School in Gulu one of the girls told me that at the primary school next door the children had been attacked. Many were abducted, and the ones who were too young were locked in a building and burned alive.

I can say that I personally saw the burned out building. I saw it. I heard the stories. I met the children who survived rebel attacks. I talked to people who came from towns where during an attack people’s lips were padlocked shut.

Did you get that?

The LRA burned children alive.

The LRA padlocked people’s lips shut.

The movie says what is necessary: Kony MUST be stopped.

But will bringing “justice” to Kony bring justice to people who have lived through these things? What is going to be done for the survivors? It is time the war stops. But it will be generations before the reverberations of the war have stopped.

Now we must stop Kony. What the movie didn’t say is that in February alone another 3,000 people were displaced in the DRC. It is time for this war to stop.

And finally people are talking. No one talked about it. And now people are talking.

There is a lot of criticism about this movie. People are saying that it’s too polished. Other people are saying that talking isn’t going to change things. But Invisible Children is right. The first thing to do is talk.

So let’s talk.

But let’s also be thinking about what WE CAN DO for the survivors of the war in Northern Uganda. There are long lasting effects of this war. So let’s think about what we can do without waiting for others to act. Let’s discuss not only Kony but the people who have survived this war.

A lot of criticism is coming out about the US involvement with the war. A lot of people are saying that the Ugandan government should sort the problem out themselves. But Kony isn’t in Uganda anymore. Kony is in the DRC, Central African Republic, and South Sudan. All three of these countries are a little preoccupied with other instability. And the Ugandan government isn’t well enough equipped to bring an end to this war. I mean, it’s been going on since 1986. This isn’t an issue of the US being the world’s police man. This is an issue of answering a simple question: is it EVER acceptable to leave people to die and suffer, or do we have the obligation to help where we can?

As far as I can see, we have an obligation to the children who are still being abducted. We have an obligation to the mothers of these children. We have an obligation to the orphans. We have an obligation, and if the only way to fulfill it is to send in troops from another country then that’s exactly what we should do.

Let’s never lose sight of the fact that we need to help end the war and bring about restoration. Thank you to Invisible Children for bringing such an important issue to people’s sight. And now:

Let’s talk.

Let’s fight.

Let’s act.

Let’s restore.

Should it really be simple?

Here are some of the awesome highlights of m life.

I have stood at the highest point next to Mont Blanc. I have taken a cable car through the alps from France to Italy.

I have stood on the pyramids, and walked through ancient Egyptian temples.

I have sat in the Haga Sophia (or Aya Sofya) and seen some of the oldest mosaics in Turkey.

I have climbed through tropical rainforests (alright fine, so I slid through them).

I have eaten a crepe in a medieval walled city in the French Alps.

I have eaten freshly made Bakhlava after dark in the middle of the Hippodrome of Istanbul on the first night or Rhamadan/Ramazan.

I have sipped my coffee while watching the sunrise over the plains of Karamoja (for you none Ugandans let’s say the planes of Africa J )

Here are some of the realities I’ve dealt with on an every day basis:

I drive past starving children every day.

I can see a slum from my school.

Children who I care about were orphaned by war. They have experienced horrific things. And there’s not much I can do to help.

My friends are all different races. And I never notice it.

My parents just bought my one way ticket back to the US for college. I leave on June 30^th. Here are some overwhelming thoughts about the US:

In the last 8 years (as of April 8^th) I have spent less than 28 weeks in the US.

I do not know what a checkbook is, or if people even still use them.

I have no idea how you use a credit card.

Malls? Are you kidding me? Those are just big overwhelming traps. As far as I can tell. In other words, they scare me half to death.

Why are there so many white people??????

Walmart. Way too many choices. How can you have so many types of jeans?

No, I do not get in state tuition. Anywhere. But yes I do qualify for federal financial aid. Want to try making sense out of that?

Changing rooms. They’re a nice alternative to trying on jeans practically in the street in the middle of Old Kampala. But I’m still not quite sure how they work. And people who help you find your size in a store? What the what?! There are multiple sizes! And colors! And did I mention the people to help you find them?

So I wanted to write this, because a lot of people who knew me before we moved view me as an American, and think that I should have no problem sliding back into American culture. Guess what? It isn’t going to work that way. I’m going through some missionary kid re-entry programs. I was talking to a girl who is visiting as an exchange student at the university the other day who grew up as an MK. It’s true: MK’s speak another language. We deal with things differently… It’s going to take me a while to settle back in. It’s a big, overwhelming change coming up.

Sitting on the Razor Wire

Note: I do not intend for this to make me sound different or better than other people. I apologize if it comes across that way. This is what is on my heart. I am not condemning my school or the people in it. We are westerners, we live a western life. If you find this offensive, please let me know. I’m just sharing what is on my heart.

The sun is starting to set, setting fire to the red dust which floats through the air. My attention is drawn out towards the brown hill that the sun is starting to set behind. My eyes focus on what is between me and the sun aside from the choking red dust which gets in your eyes, ears, and mouth. The slum called Kamwokya lies right outside the razor wire. Shanty buildings shoved together seem to lean on one another, like a whole line of dominoes. Some have tin roofs. Some have wood roofs. Some have concrete walls. Some have wooden slats as walls.

I can see a clearing in the middle of the slum. Children with thin arms and distended bellies yell and run around, kicking up the fine red dust. The rags they wear barely conceal them. There is so much dust in the air, the children’s hair has even taken on a reddish tinge. Green and brown streams of mud and sewage run through the clearing, and I watch as the children splash in it. Everything is dead. Everything is dying.

People return with ten liter jerry cans, one in each hand. They must be returning from fetching water. I can only pray that it’s from a clean water borehole. But it is the dry season. Most of the places these people get water from have dried up. And so the eight year old with bony arms and a sleeping younger sibling on his back returns with a minimal amount of dirty water.

There is no cheap produce available. It has not rained in a month and a half, and there are no vegetables in the market. 3 tomatoes cost 1,000 shillings, or 50 cents. That may not seem like much, but the parents who now come to collect their children from the communal play sewage area probably only make about 2,000 to 5,000 shillings a day.

My eyes are drawn directly down again. I see the healthy green vines growing over the bars, barely concealing the razor wire which keeps the slum away from us. This disturbs me. Do they not understand? How can we be separate from Kamwokya? I turn and look behind me. The buildings which cost millions of dollars to construct so that wealthy ex-patriots can spend sickening amounts of money attending loom over the slum. They cast a dark shadow over the houses. I look at my friends, and I know I need to return and help them set up for this dance. The school has paid 400,000 shillings on a DJ for a few hours tonight. We have sodas sitting buried in ice, and our crisis is whether or not we should spend another 35,000 shillings getting ice brought on the back of a boda boda so that our sodas will be colder.

I look at my friends. I look at the slum. I look at the razor wire. I look at my skin. I am white, which means that I am on the inside of the razor wire. I am guilty, I am one of the ex-patriots whose family pays so that I can have a quality education. Should I feel guilty? Should I wish that I was on the other side of the razor wire? I cannot do that. I need to get a good education so that I can come back some day, maybe 10, 20, or 50 years later. And when I come I will return with wire cutters and tear down the stupid razor wire. I will bring enough clean water for the entire slum. I will pick up all of the children outside the razor wire and bring them inside, and feed them a solid meal.

Ok. I started daydreaming about my return. But one day I will return, and things will be different. Things have to change, right?

Faith, Knowing, and Humanity

I have to take a course in school called Theory of Knowledge. We look at different ways of knowing things. It’s pretty much philosophy. We were given essay topic options, and one of them was “faith as a way of knowing”. I don’t want to write something to fill in all the necessary criteria, but I do want to write this.

What do I know about humanity? I know that it is cruel. In Uganda, one of the ways people get revenge is to pour acid on another person, torturing that person. There was an article in the newspaper today about robbers who have taken to beating their victims, then covering them in gasoline and lighting them on fire. What I know about humanity is that it is unjust.

I have no faith left in humanity. How can rebels turn children into soldiers and force them to kill their parents?

Humanity is cruel. Children endure things that they never, never, never should have to even think about. You want me to have faith in humanity? Sorry it isn’t going to happen. Humanity is superficial and commercial and selfish, and downright evil and cruel. We scar each other, sometimes for no reason at all. You want me to have faith in humanity? Fine. I have faith that humans will hurt one another if left to their own devices. My faith in humanity means that I know that humans will act in ways which will hurt others. My lack of faith in the goodness of humanity means that I know we will hurt each other. All evidence suggests this.

Well, almost all evidence. There is one key factor missing so far.

Have you ever noticed that what makes a difference in what we know of humanity is the faith that we are capable of having? Even at her darkest, most depressed times Mother Theresa had faith that God would love the children she loved. And He did. And she kept going.

One of the things that is interesting about living in Africa is the obviously joyful spirit of those who suffer yet have faith. The woman, Mrs. Tamali, that runs the orphanage in Lira that captured my heart and passion, has suffered untold things. Her husband was killed during the tumultuous time of Idi Amin. Her house was taken. Her life was taken. She lived in Northern Uganda throughout the horrific war. She saw the people she loved packed like animals into refugee camps. She saw life taken.

But her faith was never taken.

Mrs. Tamali wrote letters every day for 19 years to people in the government demanding that her house, captured by Idi Amin’s soldiers, be returned to her. She waited with faith that someday someone would hear her cries for what God had provided to be returned to her. Finally, her faith led to legislation that all homes taken by Idi Amin’s troops in Lira be returned to the families.

Mrs. Tamali’s faith had shown its results. But was that good enough? No. She wrote more letters, asking for her house to be repaired, until finally troops were sent for three months to rebuild her house.

And now she runs Father’s House, the amazing orphanage where so many scarred children have come to find love.

I do not have faith in the goodness of humanity. But I do have faith in the strength of the human spirit. I have faith in our ability to hope and turn situations around.

What I know about humanity is that when we have faith, we are an amazingly strong and joyful creation.

Where Would Jesus Come For Christmas?

It’s been a while since I’ve been in the US for Christmas. I don’t remember much about what it’s like, other than that it’s extremely commercial. Here it’s totally and completely full of contradictions. It’s meant to be a beautiful, amazing time when you think of all of the wonderful parts of life. But in Africa, okay, in third world countries, you really remember why Christ needed to come.

I stayed home from school today, so I was here, watching Elf and sitting next to the Christmas tree, when a man showed up at our door. His name is Joseph, and he looks about forty five, but he was frail and shaking. He was recently a high school student and living at an orphanage, so he can’t be beyond 25 or thirty. My Mom went out to talk to him. He has AIDS and is on treatment, but has come down with Tuberculosis. He ran out of money. He and his wife were kicked out of their house. He was not even allowed to get into his house to retrieve his medication. He was turned away by the parish and left with absolutely nothing. He came just looking for some help. We don’t always help everyone we come across, sometimes people lie about their situations, but in this case it was clear what we needed to do. We gave him some money to get back to the village where he will at least have a place to sleep in his grandmother’s house, and my mom prayed with him. This man needs Christ’s love and salvation so much this year. I just pray he continues to get it.

I’m also reminded of the orphans I visited in Lira. This year they will at least have their own toys, and I just pray that they are reminded of how much Christ loves them.

A few years ago, we went to Rwanda around Christmas time. A few days before Christmas we drove down to Murambe, a place near the border with Burundi. During the Rwandan genocide, the government invited thousands of Tutsis to come and stay at a church for protection. Instead of being protected, they were starved for two weeks so that they could not fight back, and 50,000 people were murdered. Four survived. One of the survivors returned after things had settled and showed the new government where the mass graves were. The bodies were retrieved, and those that were not too far decayed were preserved with lime, treated with dignity, and are now part of a museum to remind everyone of what happened.

I will never be able to forget the image of the baby with the smashed skull. He was still wearing a little shirt, but his head was entirely caved in. His face though… it’s enough to give you chills.

Jesus was born in a manger. Yes, I know we all know that. But he was born in Israel, an oppressed country where people suffered of Leprosy. He was not born in Rome. I cannot help but think that if He were to come today He would choose to be born in Africa, where He would reach out to people suffering from AIDS, where he would demonstrate unconditional love to orphans whose parents were killed in front of them. He would speak hope to the darkest places. And He would die to take away the pain.

How can we say that Christmas is about setting up a tree? That’s great, but I think the real way to commemorate the birth of Christ is to think about where he would be, and what he would do, at this time of year.

We do not know when Christ will return. But in the mean time our job is to love those that He would have loved. I mean, for goodness’ sake, he loved a prostitute. Our job is to love those who suffer from AIDS, those who are alone. Celebration is necessary, though, because we all have the hope of Christ. Joseph can have hope that he will meet his Savior, despite everything he has gone through. The baby at Murambe I believe is with Jesus. And so we must celebrate through all of the suffering the fact that in Jesus, we have hope.

To me, that is what Christmas means. As I look at our tree with the African ornaments, and think of my collection of ornaments from all around the world, I know that all of this is to celebrate the beauty of hope in the darkest places.

Merry Christmas.

Beauty and Pain... Northern Uganda and the LRA

I have gone to Northern Uganda on two other occasions, both times to visit our Invisible Children partner school, Keyo Secondary School. This time I went to Lira and Gulu with my mom, and I hope that my post will illustrate what Northern Uganda is like.

Northern Uganda is full of bright smiles and joy now. But the wounds from the twenty year long insurgency are still extremely fresh and open. Most people outside of the towns live in little huts with thatched roofs, the same sort of accommodation they had when they were packed like sardines into Internally Displaced Person’s Camps. The insurgency is over, at least in Uganda, though the Lord’s Resistance Army continues attacking in the DRC, CAR, and South Sudan.

The lasting, remaining pain mixes so incomprehensibly with the joy sometimes that it is hard to make any sense of it all.

As soon as we got out of the car, I received a massive hug from an older woman (who I later learned was named Mrs. Tomali) as she told me how glad she was to see me. She just exuded great strength and amazing joy. As it turned out she was the leader of Father’s House, the orphanage we were headed to. Over coffee at a surprisingly western restaurant, I began to ask her about the orphans. She told me several stories.

Mrs. Tamali told me that while all of these orphans had some sort of guardian, they were from totally destitute homes. She illustrated this point with the story of one family where the father went crazy, shot the mother and several of his children, and then was killed himself later on. He left some orphans, who lived with their grandmother in a single hut where there was literally nothing. No clothes, no mats to sleep on, no furniture. Nothing.

Mrs. Tamali’s unfaltering smile finally faded as she told me that several of the children had been tied to trees while their parents were hacked to death with pangas (machetes) by the rebels. The trauma from that, as she said, was still fresh and very difficult to help children deal with.

The next morning we drove for over an hour out to Bar-Lonya, a former IDP camp which had been attacked by the rebels. The man who is now the village leader and had been the camp leader at the time came and told us the story of the night. The rebels, he said, surrounded the camp and began killing. They set fire to the thatched roofs and shot as many people as they could, killing others with pangas. This man along with some of the camp members escaped, and returned to find the camp burned down and people dying everywhere. The army finally arrived and started transporting the wounded and dying over 29 kilometers of horrible road to the hospital, where the number overwhelmed the staff and the people died. The President of Uganda presided over a memorial service in March of 2004 where the marker states that 121 people were buried there. However, the camp leader told us that when he and the other people returned in 2006, after there was peace, they dug up the bodies with the help of a doctor to document the numbers buried there. In their accounting, over 300 people are buried at that site.The picture below shows the memorial and the camp leader (right) with our translator

The hard part, he told us, was that people had returned to where the camp had been, and most of them did not know for sure whether their missing relative was among the 300 buried in a mass grave, or what their fate had been. To make matters worse, there is a whole group of children whose parents were killed that night and have returned without any form of guardian to watch over them. We stood at the mass grave, while two young orphans, Gerald and Innocent who are in the picture below, covered from head to toe in mud climbed around the memorial. We looked out and saw the rebuilt huts, and realized how much pain these people still live with.

That night, we went to Father’s House. The 48 children sang and danced for us with their huge smiles. Mrs. Tamali told us that aside from some clothes, the only object the children owned was a bucket to use to bathe. Eventually my mother and the others who had come along with us sat in front of the children, as Mrs. Tamali narrated some more of their stories. One of the boys, Emmanuel Okello, was orphaned by the rebels at two months old. He was taken to another woman who was caring for forty orphans. Eventually, he was transferred to Father’s House.

Another orphan’s father had put a spear through his mother’s lips and mouth, killing her. Each child had his or her own story.

Following these stories, I presented the gifts that were collected in the US by a friend and sent over in a container by my home church. There was a stuffed animal for each and every one of the children. As I called their names out, many of them dove off of their benches, landing on their knees in front of me, and clutching their first stuffed animal as closely as they could. Some of them, including the boys, actually started pretending to nurse them. They all sat there, just hugging their new friends. It was beautiful, and amazing, to see these children experience true joy and love after everything they had suffered through.

I can’t help but wonder, if something as small as a stuffed animal can make such a difference to these children, then what more can be done? And what about all of the others in Lira, and Gulu, and other parts of Northern Uganda, who don’t have an amazing place like Father’s House?

The next day I made my way with my mom to Gulu, where we visited Keyo SS for the third time. On my first trip there, almost two years ago, I found wooden shacks that students were attending class in. They had tin roofs, but no floors, make-shift chalk boards and canvas room dividers, and the desks were packed with students. I spent the day with a girl named Faith.

On my first trip there I learned that the brutalities performed by the rebels were so close to each of these students. One of Faith’s friends described her experience of running away when the rebels attacked her school. She escaped, while her classmates were abducted and forced to become rebels, and those found unworthy were locked in a classroom and burned alive. Each of the students described living without food, water, or clothing. Their childhood memories consisted of hiding in the trees to avoid being abducted by the rebels and turned into child soldiers. The pain of their experiences was palpable.

Yet even stronger than the pain was the hope they expressed. Each of them has a plan now that the war is over for what they want to do with their lives, and some of them want to do whatever they can to help others. When I asked if they feared the rebels’ return they answered me “Yes. But we have faith in God. He has brought us this far. We never thought we would be here, chatting and laughing and remembering our experiences. We thought we were going to die in the camps. But we are here today. We are alive today.”

On Saturday I had the exciting chance to meet with Faith and the head teacher at Keyo SS. Faith and I were so happy to see each other again. She showed me the new construction at Keyo, partly being done by Invisible Children, and then we walked down to the trading center where I bought her a soda and she taught me how to eat sugar cane. It was wonderful to spend time with her. Faith, however, is struggling. Her father had died several years ago, and her mother is now unable to pay her school fees. The school let her sit her final Ordinary level exams (it’s a British/Ugandan thing, you have to take exams at the end of 10^th grade), but she is struggling to pay for her next two years of education.

The pain of the war is far from forgotten. Everyone in the North has been affected. While some people face the day with smiles as large as Mrs. Tamali’s or Faith’s, many still cannot afford food. We cannot forget these children who have been orphaned, or the wounds which are still present in the North. But if something as small as a stuffed animal can have such a big impact on a young orphan, or if a visit to Faith can create so much joy, then surely we should all find a way to be involved.

There is still such a need for help in the North. While many NGO’s are involved in Gulu, Lira and other, more remote areas need help. All social structures were destroyed by the war in the North. One example of this, as a study showed, is that children slept in the same hut as their parents, which goes against cultural norms. Many people suffer from trauma, and there is a need for counseling and the rebuilding of traditional support structures. And more than anything, there is a whole region full of people who need to know that they were never forgotten and that they are loved by God.

For all of you who hold the conception that being an MK is never difficult

We had to write about an experience we had from a child's point of view in English, so I wrote about getting ready to move here... Being an MK is great but this is for anyone who thinks it's all been easy peasy:

The airport was slightly crowded as we waited in line for ages. We lugged our heavy bags forward slowly, until we reached the desk. My dad piled our bags on the scale, and then it was done. Our bags were on their way, and soon we would be, too.

My adopted grandmother picked us up and took us out for dinner nearby, while I never let go of my stuffed Winnie the Pooh. I had the last bacon cheese burger I would have for quite a while.

Dinner was a blur, and then we were in the car again. Something tightened around my chest, and I couldn't breathe.

"Mom, I can't breathe. I feel like I'm dying I just want to go home. I want this to all be over" I whispered.

"I know, sweetie. I feel the same way. But we can

't go back now. We just have to keep going" she replied in a tight voice.

We reached the airport and my adopted grandmother held us tightly, while we all started to cry.

"I know you're in the middle of God's will, but I still will miss you," she said, holding on to me.

Finally, we trudged forward, while I held on to Pooh. Nothing except this bear would feel the same again. OUr lives were not our own, we had to do what God wanted. I played my mini cd-player while we fought through security and towards the gate, listening to the Zoegirl song "Beautiful Name". We climbed onto the airplane in a daze. The British flight attendant looked down at me with what seemed like pity. We found our seats, and buckled in for the first overnight flight. As the plane took off I felt my heart pound and then I could swear I felt it stop beating. I shut my eyes and leaned against my mom.

When I opened my eyes my whole worlkd was different. I just wanted to go back to the home I never could go back to, where some strange couple was now living. I wanted my bunk bed back, but I had sold that and had been sleeping on my floor and then in our friend's house over the last month. I wanted my room back.

I had to find a way to live in a new world, just me, Pooh, and the God who had turned my life upside down.

Now I was officially a missionary kid.

Years later, I can pack a suitcase for a 6 week trip in an hour easily and never have an overweight bag.I can make my way through passport control on my own, and now I officially have an adult passport. Dulles International Airport has become my landmark... I know my way around, and I have become familiar with the disconcerting feeling that I am returning to a country where the majority of people have the same accent and color of skin that I do. I never set off a metal detector, and the only thing I've ever had confiscated was a stress relief ball that even the security people couldn't figure out if it had gel in it or not. I'm always so glad to know that God doesn't just stay in one country, but travels with me. Sadly enough, I don't travel with Pooh anymore.

That said, next year when I turn my world upside down and move across the globe again, Pooh will come with me... probably on the airplane, too.

An amusing narrative of my klutziness topped off with some questions...

I recently went on a trip to Mabira Rainforest with my class to collect data on, well, trees. Let me just start this off by saying that yes, this is the kind of forest where there are snakes, freaky bugs, massive spider webs, and so many trees you can't really see the sky and so many vines and underbrush that you can't see the ground.

It was muddy. It was slippery. There were mammoth tree roots protruding from the ground which we fought our way over in rubber boots. They were slippery, too. I am a klutz… It was only a matter of time before I fell. And so I was waiting for it; I was just waiting for an epic, spectacular fall. It seemed almost inevitable. I made it through the first three days of the trip, fighting through underbrush where you’re not meant to pass unless you’re doing research. For the record, fighting through an untraveled stretch of rain forest is not easy. The picture below is like what we walked through, only we were walking uphill... and yes I do mean the dense foresty part

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And so when I was required to climb up a 45 degree hill of pure mud (honestly, no rocks, no tree roots) it did not surprise me that I wiped out and did a face plant. The more funny part was that my backpack had gotten stuck on one of the many climber vines which hung down from the sky (okay from other trees but still). So when someone was helpful and lifted up that vine, I started sliding backwards down the hill until someone very nicely grabbed a hold of me and lifted me up.

With my spectacular fall out of the way, I trudged up the 45 degree slope fighting through underbrush so dense you could not see your feet, confident that I would not fall again. That was up until we started coming down the hill… I stepped off a dead, decomposing, splintered, creaking, hollow tree trunk and stepped down into the underbrush. The problem with not seeing the ground through the underbrush is that you can’t, well, see the ground. I put my foot down; the distance between the tree trunk and the ground was greater than I had expected, and of course the mud sucked my boot straight in. Yes, I fell backwards, landing on my shoulders. Well, I’m a klutz, what else was I expecting? So I tried to get up. Of course, this is a tropical rainforest. The underbrush contains about 5 trillion vines just waiting to grab you. I stood up, and quickly fell again. At this point I finely wizened up and so I untangled my feet from some of the vines which were on my boots. I stood. I was pulled back to the ground again. I untangled myself more. I stood. I was pulled back to the ground again. Finally I found the culprit: a woody vine with a death grip on my boot. I fought my way out of the underbrush onto the “path” we had trampled on our way up the hill. Thankfully, I walked down without further epic falls.

Then the afternoon came. Pleased to be finished with our data collection, we retraced our steps for some photo ops. Because I felt like it, my friend Valeriya and I trudged across an over flowing rushing stream and climbed up that same disastrous amount of mud which was responsible for my first fall. But I made it up that time, and so did my friend. On our way down, we had a feeling we might fall, and so we said we would fall down together. When I reached out to take her hand she shoved me, sending me slipping part way down. The same vine which had caught me earlier caught me again. When I tried to get up, though, I of course slipped and slid down the remainder of the hill on my shoulders. I landed with my knees bent up over my head.

Valeriya and I trudged back across the stream, and then I decided to start splashing her for revenge. We had a water fight for a while, and then she pushed me down and I landed with my face in the stream. I was soaked. My other friend Jordan then attacked Valeriya and took her up the hill on the other side of the stream. I won’t go into details, but the whole thing ended with Valeriya pulling me down into the mud, pinning me down, and Jordan throwing a pile of mud on my nose and mouth.

I just laughed, to the amazement of our chaperone, my favorite teacher. He encouraged me to keep a smile, and I did. There is video evidence of all of this, and the video has actually been a good thing for me because it’s shown that I have a not-so-serious side.

Since then, though, I’ve been thinking a lot about falling. I’ve come up with so many questions. No, I’m not talking about physically tumbling… But what happens when you end up sliding down pure mud with your legs up over your head? Is it okay to fall? You’re trained as a missionary kid that it’s not okay, that you have to be the example, that you can never slip. And so I fight not to. I have avoided doing so many things (and not all of them are actually bad) simply because I thought an MK wasn’t meant to do them.

But is life staying in the city, walking paved sidewalks? Or is life taking the risk that you may fall?

Or are you supposed to do what I have always tried: walk on a tight rope and never let yourself fall?

And then the question becomes where is God when you fall? Is He the vine that caught me, and dropped me, twice?

Is He the friend who picked me up?

Is he the vine that had a death grip on me when I stepped off the log?

Is He the friend who through mud on my face to top off the experience?

Is he my encouraging and supportive teacher?

Or is He just standing back and laughing at me making a fool of myself?

And speaking of all of this, really, am I allowed to ask these questions? If I ask this, will you think I’m falling? Because what if I am? I’m not saying I am, I’m just asking.

I guess I walked away from the week with the knowledge that falling can be entertaining, for me and for everyone else. I guess that maybe it’s ok, as long as you can pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and walk away with a smile. But the question remains… does the rest of the world think it’s the worst thing in the world if I slip a little?

My in between world

This is something I wrote as a class assignment about a year ago. I think it definitely sums up the confusion of my life, and so I thought I'd share it.

I have often said to my family that I live entirely in an “in-between” world. I do not exactly belong anywhere, am always different from those surrounding me. There are many examples of this. One reason for this is that my cultures make me very different. I am American, but I only lived there until I was ten years old, before my parents and I moved here to Uganda. Because of this, some of my most important years have been spent in the US, but some of them have been spent here, so I’m not really American, but I’m also not Ugandan. Plus, I’m not quite the average third-culture kid who grows up in Kampala and just goes to school; I live at a university a ways outside of Kampala and therefore have a lot more direct cultural interactions. And yet, after all these years, I still do not belong in a strictly Ugandan setting. But, I go to school in Kampala, where I am still different. I don’t belong there, either.

I am majorly between two groups of friends. One group is my school friends, other international students who, for the most part, despise Uganda and hide away from interacting with the culture. Then, there are my other friends, those made during my years of homeschooling with my mom at the university we live in. These friends are total opposites, while my school friends have huge amounts of things and live very sheltered lives my friends here in Mukono have nothing. My favourite example of this is my close friend Bridget, who I only see for a few months a year as she is in boarding school. Bridget spent most of her life in a one-room accommodation, with the kitchen and latrines outside. She is a brilliant, lovely girl and I love the moments I get to spend with her. I do not quite fit in with my school friends as I prefer to spend my time raising money for an under-privileged school in the war-torn region of Northern Uganda than drinking and texting on my iPhone. This creates a barely bridgeable gap between me and my school friends. On the other hand, I have my own computer and iPod, so much more than what Bridget has, and I have had incredible life experiences that she will never have. This puts a difficult distance between us despite the fact that we are close friends regardless of our differences.

During the school days, people see parts of who I am, and judge me accordingly. It has taken a long time for people to stop assuming that I am a rigid Christian who will never have any fun, never have a boyfriend, and despise them for what they do. On the weekends, people see one side of who I am, and judge me accordingly. We live at a Christian University, where people tend to focus on not drinking and living a perfect life. They expect me to think along the same lines all the time, and I am often too nervous to do what I desperately want, to shout out at the top of my lungs “I am not perfect!” I do, however, have strong beliefs and a strong faith, which I try to make one of my more defining features. This keeps me apart from my friends, who prefer to stay out all Saturday night smoking marijuana and drinking than getting up and going to Church (not that I can possibly say I go to Church more than every other week). Sometimes I don’t go to Church because I can’t stand being told yet again that “Christians don’t drink or dance” and that I should spend my entire life in prayer. I’m simply not going to obey those guidelines, but I won’t go to some of the extremes (ie drugs and getting drunk) that my friends do.

Then there are the rules I’m somehow supposed to know by heart and follow. According to people at the university, I should never wear anything that comes above the knee. According to my friends at school, I should wear the dress that comes about three inches above my knee with no leggings because I have nice legs. Then my friends in the US wear mini-skirts and outfits that I would get yelled at for wearing on campus. Honestly, one day I tried going to the store on the way to a friend’s house in a pair of modest shorts. I will never make that mistake again. Add on the whole concept of dating. I have literally been told at a youth camp that you should not date until you think you may marry the man. Dating is totally taboo, especially for someone my age. Then I go back to the US where not only is it expected that I have a boyfriend, I’m asked probing questions about boyfriends by people at my church. Which set of rules am I actually supposed to live by?

People try to simplify me, perhaps they find me confusing. They try to put me into one bracket or another, sometimes trying to change the way I think about things (like telling me that I really should have just a few more drinks, that hooking up with a bunch of guys is cool) or by telling me that I should be a perfect little Church girl. Somehow, I manage to break the mould every time, creating what sometimes feels like a chasm between me and most people around me, aside from those who really know and accept me for who I am.