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?