Uganda 2012: 3rd Photos

Uganda 2012: 2nd Photos

Africa Journal #12: the update you’ve all been waiting for with bated breath…

Africa Journal #12: the update you’ve all been waiting for with bated breath…

Part 1:

Sometimes it is hard to even remember that I am in Africa. Of course that is exceedingly obvious from an outside perspective, but through these weeks of sickness I’ve been mostly by myself or in my own head. When I’m with others it has mostly been other Westerners. Westerners mostly have been taking care of me (thanks Gina!). I’ve been reading Western books and I’ve mostly been eating “Western” food (incredibly, it is healthier than food here). I’ve mostly been drifting through African life rather than partaking in it. I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever been in Africa and done that. It’s somewhat disturbing. Even recently when I was walking around Kampala and I felt distant, rather than a part of what was going on.

This morning, however, I feel like I’m back in Africa. I’m drinking tea on this fine Ugandan morning with Uncle Peter and I’ve been writing postcards and he’s reading a book I got for him on leadership. He loves it. Leadership books put me to sleep. He’s also eating roasted ants. That’s Africa. Generally speaking, I’m known for doing “crazy” things, so you may be shocked to find out that I will not eat the aforementioned ants. I’ve decided that I have a rule: I won’t eat anything, unless it comes from the sea, with more than four legs; safe rule, right? That keeps me from having to eat the millions of ants my friends here roast whenever the nasty creatures decide it’s a good time to emerge from the earth en masse. But Peter rather enjoys them and it’s good to feel like I’m somehow “back in Africa”.

A lot has gone on since I’ve last written an update. For me I’ve been more of an observer than a participant. This sickness, which is so uncommon for me, has really gotten me down and kept me out of the action. I’m still not at 100% as my body tries to recover from whatever virus it was that I had—the doctors failed to identify it. Now the headaches are almost gone and I’m probably just days away from having all my strength back although I have noticed that even my slight frame has lost considerable weight and muscle mass over the past two weeks. The remedy, of course, is more meat, more peanut butter, and more chocolate. Fat and protein is what I need! My caloric intake is already much lower here than in the US so it’s always a struggle to keep weight on here, but the sickness has taken it to the next level. My goal for my final weeks here is to “make up” (which is the Ugandan term for working out) everyday and to put some muscle mass back on and hopefully improve my cardiovascular situation after the relatively sedentary lifestyle I was forced to endure. So what have I missed out on recently? Well, a few things. I’ve missed doing much “ministry” as I could barely get around on my own. That’s thrown quite a wrench into the schedule of things, but that’s just how it is. I’ve also missed a number of other things. I was supposed to go to African Hearts in Ssenge, but was unable. I was supposed to be in Rwanda this past weekend, but was unable. One of the boys in our street program died last week and I would have liked to go to his funeral as well, but again I was unable. Speaking of death (sorry, no segway), it is continually an eye-opening experience to see how often it occurs here. If you remember from my previous musings on the topic, the mean age here in Uganda is 17. In the US it’s around 37. That means death occurs at quite an alarming frequency in this country with an almost record-breaking birthrate. One of the women in our women’s ministry had to bear the news that her son had been murdered in prison. Gina, the missionary here that works with the women’s program, went with her. Another woman Gina knows had her baby die when the baby fell off a boda boda (motorcycle taxi). Death, of course, is par for the course of human life and the global mortality rate will always be 100%, but not all cultures view life and death in the same way. One thing about here is that death is a community affair and not hidden from the population as it is in many ways in my/our culture. I am still trying to ascertain the real beliefs about death here, but they are definitely different than in the West where we have so many safeguards against death that most people here simply don’t have access too. Here God gives and takes away. In the West we tend to believe science and medicine give and take away. I remember being in Malawi where the HIV/AIDS rate is well north of 30% of the population and seeing funerals almost all the time. In Africa death is viewed with a particular perspective that I would do well to understand…

Part 2:

Because a number of you have asked, I will fill you in briefly on how my computer was miraculously returned to me. To be blunt, if you have ethical issues (as I actually do) about the use of bribery you should probably stop reading now. That’s an indicator of where this is going…

Contrary to my nature, I’ll make this explanation as simple as possible. As soon as my computer was stolen, Gina, the aforementioned missionary here, called an Uncle at a different home for street children, a home that only takes in teenage street boys. That in and of itself is worth commenting on. It must be known that it is very rare for anyone to take in street boys who are 14+. To be blunt, they are steeped in violence, thievery, drug abuse, and any other number of vices. They are the few survivors of their group in society, and they didn’t make it to their teenage years on the streets by being moral. On the streets the just perish. So this home is a radical concept of the gospel that says, “none should perish.” Yet Gina knew that the boys in that home knew where we lived and knew that if they wanted quick access to the expensive gear mzungus have, this was where to get it. So! She called the Uncle of that home and asked if any of their boys may have possibly stolen a Macbook Pro. He said he’d try and find out. Long story short, it became apparent that one of the boys had stolen my computer. We’ll call him Joseph for the purposes of this disclosure. One of the other boys had ratted him out to the Uncle and so now we knew who had taken it. However, by the time Joseph finally admitted to stealing my computer, it had changed hands four times, with money obviously exchanged in the process. Gina wasted no time. She went to the ATM, pulled out 500,000 Sh. (about $205 USD) and then went to the police to start to track down the computer. First she had to pay/bribe the police to do anything. That’s how it is here. Then, long story short, she had to pay each person off to say where the computer had gone. Incredibly, by the end of the day, she’d located my computer with a random Ugandan who lived in the Kivulu slum. He’d paid some 80,000 shillings for a computer worth over 1 million shillings. She paid him to get back the obviously stolen computer. It would seem that all is well at this point in time, but then there is the question of “justice” and it is not one that you would think. Somehow, and this is incredible, amidst the being paid off and everything else the police decided they would in fact want to arrest the perpetrator for stealing the computer. This is uncommon, in case you’re wondering. Usually there is no drive to arrest someone, especially if arresting someone may be a hassle, unless they are paid specifically for that. Nevertheless, they wanted to arrest Joseph, which they did. Now, you may be thinking, “That is just. He stole your computer and should face the consequences.” In a perfect world, I may agree with you. But Gina knew well enough how I viewed justice and knew that I would be appalled if this teenage boy went to prison because of his theft. He wouldn’t “learn his lesson” there. A boy who had never known an ounce of justice in his own life, a boy who had no one in his life who loved him besides the Christians who had taken him in, a boy whose own family rejected him, would not experience justice in going to prison without a judge, jury or trial. What he would experience would be sodomy, violence, and perhaps death. In there this young, impressionable boy would become a cold man. So the police were then bribed to not send him to prison. Joseph, our young thief, was set free. God be glorified for getting my computer back to me.

Personally there are few things in life I am more interested in than ethics… and yet as I’ve consider what it means to bribe the police to free this boy from ultimately being taught to hate I can think of no more sound of an ethical decision. Granted, my ethics have developed over the years of trying to practically apply my faith and don’t fit a “system” per se, but they are grounded in the two basic Kingdom ethics: Justice & Mercy… God’s ultimate justice and his mercy that we are to model. Those two cannot exist without the other. Let me offer and example. There is a famous scene in Victor Hugo’s preeminent classic Les Misérables in which the Bishop Myriel hands two silver candlesticks to the thief, Jean Valjean, who has stolen from him after the police return the man they saw leaving the city and suspected of stealing. The context you’re probably familiar with, and you’ll then remember that the Bishop Myriel leans over to the man and whispers, “and with this I have ransomed your soul. I have purchased you from Satan and am giving you back to God.” These words are some of the most beautiful in the history of European literature. The moral concept holds fast as well. I do not want to give stark moral equivalency to this timeless story and the freeing of a young Ugandan thief from prison via bribing, but I think we do well to understand what ends ethics has in mind. Bishop Myriel knew that he had been sinned against, but he knew to an even greater understanding that Valjean had experienced terrible things in life and he too had been sinned against. Bishop Myriel knew that as a representative of God he could pursue man’s limited notion of justice, or he could trust God with justice and insodoing, could do something divine and offer forgiveness and freedom from earthly consequence. He is afforded to opportunity to offer the fullness of mercy and chooses to do so. I believe that is the demand placed on us all. If we’re all truly God’s representatives in a broken, fallen world, then such radical mercy is the demand placed on us. Not as a legalistic demand, but as a response to the grace we’ve been given. We are free to offer mercy.

I had already forgiven the thief for stealing my computer. I was furious at having it taken because it is such a helpful tool in this life, and yet I could not really be angry with someone who had acted, in truth, as rationally as I often do. Abject poverty is a devastating circumstance to bear. It disallows me to really judge those who are caught in its web. When I learned that the thief was in fact a street boy, it was all the harder to cast judgment into the waters. I do however look forward to meeting this boy. I want to tell him that I forgive him and yet tell him of my side of the story so that he understands that taking from another isn’t a zero sum game. I want to give him an opportunity to speak about his side of the story as well.

The rest of the story is even more incredible. I was encouraged by a couple friends to try and raise the money that was lost by the theft of my computer. So I made a paypal support widget on my facebook profile. Within some 72 hours my friends have raised over the value of what I had suggested. It was profoundly humbling to be on the other side of the earth and to have my friends via the “faceless” world of facebook, raise over $700 to replace my computer, my portal to the modern world. Then my computer showed up, negating the need for the money… and yet every single person told me to keep the money and use it for any needs that I currently have or use it on ministry here. I wept when I thought of just how much God continues to use people to speak about his goodness. It is his church and the relational aspect of God in which I most experience His lovingkindness. And so now I find myself with a decent amount of money, enough to purchase some software to recover a portion of the data the purchaser of my computer erased, enough to give me some space to think about how I can bless someone here with this money. I am a blessed man and every day I run out of more reasons to believe otherwise. Thank you, friends.

So that is the story of the past few weeks. I will continue to update you as I can, and I have a lot of writings that I want to share, but thank you for reading and considering my thoughts. You all bless me. Please pray for the remainder of my time here. I want to be effective in my counseling and Mending the Soul groups. I want to heal so that I’m not so weak all the time. I want to be emotionally prepared for my return to Phoenix and the short turnaround that I have before going to Portland. Thank you.

Dan

Africa Journal #11: "__________!"

Africa Journal #11: “__________!”

Most of my tropical-fever nights I’ve been musing, perhaps obsessing, over what would be a catching, quippy intro to my latest and greatest journal update. As you can see, not much is the result. But of course I had better things to feverishly dream about, such as last night’s classic “I dreamed I joined the Coast Guard” dream. You know you’re delusional if you even dream of joining the Coast Guard, right Ryan? I mean real men join the Navy or a department therein, right?

Either way, it’s Sunday morning, I feel 60% and I’m drinking coffee because I love it and because I’m hoping the caffeine will help rid me of the constant headache I’ve had since Tuesday. With stimulants currently combating the malaria or whatever is in my bloodstream I am going to update you on my life. I fear this will be long, but not really. As most of my friends have said over the years, I’m waging a war on brevity and definitely emerging victorious….

I could either start with the computer debacle or the disease, but I believe it would be prudent to go with the latter before the former. So! I’ve been having an oscillating-intensity fever, constant headache, come-and-go appetite, and general achiness since Tuesday. That was about the last time I have been able to think clearly or be productive. I’ve had swings of jovial moods amidst the sickness to dour, cynical generalized bitterness. The first few days I just sucked it up thinking, “I’ll get better; I always do!” But that didn’t happen. The last time I was deathly ill I didn’t go to the hospital of course because of, well, if I’m honest, American political neo-liberal macroeconomic failures of the past 30 years masqueraded as, “you don’t have health insurance, Dan.” So I just sucked it up and hoped I didn’t die. It’s the legitistan way. This time, far removed from the medicinal properties of my beloved Arizona home, Africa got to me and tried to kill me. So this past Friday I went to a local clinic for Mzungus like myself. In truth, Gina, a hardcore Arizonan woman here who is taking care of me, made me go to the hospital.

“The Surgery”, as it is awesomely called, is located in the beautiful and relatively affluent part of North-Central Kampala known as Garden City. Granted, I’ve been jumped here, so it isn’t necessarily a cut out of Scottsdale, but it is really nice and far more beautiful than Scottsdale. I had to wait just over an hour to see a doctor, and he was a very kind, intelligent Ugandan man and took good care of me. Initially he, a specialist in tropical medicine, thought that my symptomology (is that a word?) leaned more towards bilharzias than malaria, which is what I thought I had. I would have gotten bilharzias, a small worm that tries to kill you, when I went swimming in Lake Victoria my 2nd week here. The gestation period was right on and the initial effects of being “infected”, if you will, were the symptoms I was currently experiencing. So Dr. Conrad, which was his name, had me do it DUI style: Blood, Breath, and Urine. Ok, so breath was irrelevant and possibly contagious but I had to give blood and urine. Urine, of course, is par for the course. Blood…. Well, I’d rather get a back piece tattoo for 13 hours than have someone stick a needle into an arm vein for 2 minutes. Ugh. Hell is hospital in my feverish dreams…

Anyways, they took blood—I didn’t watch—and then I had to wait. In the next partition over there was an Indian man who had obviously been in a really bad accident at some point in time having some regular maintenance done—I guess. His intermittent screams of pain and genuine laughter with the Ugandan doctor were singularly disconcerting. I think I was at 100+ degrees at that point in time, so not too bad, but feeling hyper-sensitive to sound, smell, and needles. About 30 minutes later Gina snuck in to my room to check on me. She’s a grandmother after all and won’t take “no” for an answer. I’m sure my mother would understand. Soon after Dr. Conrad came in and let us know that the results came back negative for bilharzias and malaria and that I likely had some sort of virus. I asked, “like what….” Thinking, “well, I know it’s not HIV, so that’s good….” Anything else was possible. Africa has some pretty cool diseases that I will never have a chance to fight in the U.S. In fact, I heard that the village I currently live in a couple years ago had one recorded case of Ebola. It was the only village in Uganda to have an Ebola case that year, again, allegedly. So maybe…. but no, there is no chance of me having Ebola because Ebola comes from certain monkeys that live in mountainous areas (like the primate SIV strain which is where HIV and HIV2 both come from); fun facts, terrible ways to die. So, that didn’t really narrow it down. Heck there are probably like 14,000,000 other viruses. That being said, Dr. Conrad said, “I don’t know what virus it may be. Likely you’d fight it for a while and then you’re immune system would overcome. [I’m thinking, ‘Sweet! New antibodies!’] We’re going to watch that. What is also possible, Dan, is that you have malaria it’s just of a strain that is harder to detect or it has not left your liver yet because that is where malaria hides out. So what I want you to do is not take your anti-malarial medicine so that if you have malaria it can show up and we can treat it.” I’m thinking, “or I will get malaria in that period of time on top of my other disease.” But I’m a cynic. So with that he let me hobble down to pay the $39 that my medical care cost. Seriously, what a deal! Yet another thing the U.S. has to learn from Africa.

That was a couple days ago, so tomorrow I’m to return to do the tests again to see if anything has shown up. The doctor has also ordered that I stay in Kampala until I get better… which is advice I’ll likely take. The hospitals are close here; they are pretty far in my village of Kikubampagi. I figure that 28 is a tad early to die, but if you’re going to die, Africa is the place to do it. I mean honestly, the worst way to die is of “complications” at a phenomenally expensive hospital in the United States that has miraculously kept you alive for $36,000 a day to age 84 despite the myriad of otherwise-life-ending conditions your corporeal state must endure. I will not pretend that my illness has this 20-something contemplating death, for that is not true in the way it seems to be true for people I know who edge into the later years of their life. But, I also don’t live my life to survive, but to thrive. I know that sounds overly poetic, but it is true. I know that thriving will in turn lower my life expectancy, and from an evolutionary biology perspective, lower the chances that my genes will go on in the species. Perhaps I’m not “fit” or perhaps I’m not the least of which concerned about fitness and believe wholeheartedly that such things belong to God and I need not worry about them. In truth I am scared to die. Very scared (in general). There are so many things I will have wished I had said, so many things I would have wished I had done. But a more alarming and pressing fear is that I will have squandered life in the hapless pursuit of living longer. That’s a personal conviction and I will preach it to few. Being decently sick of a tropical disease in a modern state in Africa is hardly the harrowing story of survival that it may sound to some. I’m in literally almost no danger of dying from anything disease-related, but I do, in a sense, have more opportunity to make decisions here that could willingly place me further from the safety net that my Western life has always afforded me, health care or not. It is, and always will be, a question of values. What do I value most? The “correct” answer is saying that I want to die for the Gospel and yada yada. A part of me does and a part of me doesn’t. A part of me wants to die for my lover or for faux-selfless reasons. None of me wants to die for my country—sorry. But I am bifurcated, as always. I do hope, however, that the net effect of my life, whether I die young or old, is that I somehow communicate to a profoundly broken world that the faith I attempt to believe has something to say for the chronic illness we all carry. I want people to somehow receive that if they look in the mirror they are looking upon something incredibly valuable and beautiful, even if they’re “the worst of sinners” and have taken life or innocence. Then they can address the rot that plagues their heart. This world is an ugly place and none of us escape alive. Just some thoughts.

God has been good to me in this time. I’ve not been able to get on the internet much because it require movement and presence of mind, but the few times I have and read even a fraction of what people have said I’ve been overwhelmed with the support. Whether fundamentalist Baptist or dyed-in-the-wool agnostic, many of you have emailed, messaged, texted, prayed, offered positive thoughts, and even sent “good vibes” my way. My personal conviction is in the efficacy of prayer, but I do believe God sees the hearts of all men (and women) and listens to the beseeching of his children for healing and restoration. I live in expectation of healing. Part of that is faith, part of that is statistical reasoning. Yet I know that God is working in all the crazy events of the past two weeks, and a lot I haven’t mentioned has gone on. Africa is always a little wild, but this is starting to push it a bit. I’ll write more about that (and about the crazy story concerning my computer) in a bit, but this will have to suffice for now. It’s Sunday morning and I’m skipping church here in Africa to listen to my mentor, Pastor Bob, give a sermon on beauty from Romans. Oh, and it can be found here: http://www.moonvalleybible.org/sermons.php

Can’t wait.

I love you all.

Dan

Africa Journal #10: Letter to the thief

Africa Journal #10: Letter to the thief

Sir,

I want to share a grievance with you. On March 24th, 2012 at approximately 5:00 PM in Mengo, Kampala, Uganda, you stole a 15” MacBook Pro from me. Please forgive the drama and the formality, but this computer was actually quite dear to me. Upon the sale of my motorcycle, my Apple computer rose to a) being my most integral worldly possession and b) my most valuable world possession. Granted it was over four years old and not as sprite as it once was, but it was a phenomenal computer and I had spent a lot of time on those beautiful silver backlit keys. It is always embarrassing to be sentimental about an object, especially when the item is, by design, cold and utilitarian, but in some ways I loved it.

You see, sir, these past four years my life has endured many changes and that computer was the peripheral to the world that allowed me to journal the feelings, fears, and hopes accompanying those changes. There are over 300 pages of journals and poetry (and even more of research) on its hard drive. Unless you’re a voyeur of a certain kind, none of these deeply personal musing will mean anything to you, but they mean a lot to me. If it is possible to “bleed on the pages” of a personal memoir or lament, then I have done as close a thing on the pages of my journal documents on my hard drive. In its absence I see the many ways my computer was a connection to my life. This is, of course, not without its sadness since it is arguable that a majority of my social interaction is via a relatively small laptop screen. But like you, I am a product and participant of/in my society. The loss of a computer that is the mainstay device of one’s life is actually an acute loss to one’s ability to function in modern life. I do not mean to patronize you as I explain what this loss means to me. You may be very well aware of what you took and the meaning it may have; I do not know. To be honest, I wish you’d just robbed me. I could have just given you the money. Yes, it could have been that I would have hurt you severely, but you should have taken the chance because it would have been one for one and I’ve been through worse here in Africa. But no, you just walked into a home when someone was in the back room washing clothes and took one small nondescript item: my macbook pro.

To be honest, and here you will learn the most about me, the worst thing that you did is destroy my belief that my deep sadness and anger were valid emotions. But how could they be? Granted, it seems reasonable to lament the loss of something dear to you (no matter the reason) all things being equal. But that’s just it. My computer was not stolen in the United States where it is incredibly common to have an expensive Apple laptop. It was stolen in a country in which I find myself in the top 1%, in a world that I am already in the 1%. Sure it is sad to lose a laptop (and I’m much more than sad), but “sad” barely describes that average Ugandan’s lot in life. What you have done is, in absolute terms, “wrong”, but when I see the world that you live in and the multitude and nefarious reasons you were born into poverty that is almost nonexistent in the country I’m from, I can say that the baseline for your entire life is “wrong.” Forces outside of each of our control placed my life as a white, educated, male in the West and your life as (likely) a black, uneducated, male in the Global South/Majority World. Purely numbers wise, it was for more likely for a person to end up in your shoes than mine. But it is highly unlikely that you are poor because of anything besides of where you were born. The chances of you having a college degree, world-travel, protection from a largely functioning justice system, and access to decent health care are almost nil. I’ve had access to almost all of those my entire life. It is not “fair” that I should have those things and you should not. What is more, I know that I could not have much of what I have without the exploitation of people in your socioeconomic class and the exploitation of your forefathers. The affluence of the West is partially built on the exploitation of people who, because of where they were born, do not have recourse. I am keenly aware of this as I easily move throughout your society with the grease that is my inherent relative affluence. I know that if I get in trouble here my country will advocate for me and levy its unparalleled influence on my behalf. I know that if I need money, there is a host of affluent friends who can wire me money in moments. I am aware of all these things. I have seen with wide-open eyes what devastating poverty can do to a person, to a society, and especially to notions of volition. I have lost the ability to judge a woman who prostitutes herself to feed her children. I have wrestled with every ethical system there is and I have my opinions on many of them, but the ethic that is sacrificial love like that I cannot categorize. Devastating poverty is a force that is unrelenting in its life-taking ability. I do not know you, but I am willing to bet you know more about it than I ever can or will.

I do not know why you took my computer. Obviously there are obvious reasons such as “money” but we all make money for different reasons, some more noble than others. Perhaps the 500,000 shillings or so you’ll likely make from the sale of my computer will be used to buy cheap banana beer or even marijuana. Maybe it will just allow you to live for a little while in a place where 500k goes a long way. But maybe you have a daughter who is HIV+. It is not statistically likely, but I would not be shocked. The HIV rate is easily 20 times higher here than in the United States; probably 100 times higher. That’s not because your society is more immoral than my own, but because of the debilitating and compounding effects of poverty. They are legion. I do not deny that sin is an integral part of this drama, but when I no longer sin I will caste that stone. If your daughter does, in fact, have HIV, I am sorry. I know that antiretroviral drugs, which can theoretically allow an infected person to live as long as a non-infected person, are extremely expensive. Yes, I know that many of them are paid for by the US’ PEPFAR program, but your corrupt civil servants have syphoned off most of the money paid into that fund and so you do not have what you most need. Granted, I do not know, but in a world without justice, I can no longer be surprised when I see gross evil like that go unchallenged. So in my hypothetical you need to steal to make the money it takes to provide the life-giving drugs your daughter needs. I know this is likely not the case you face, but the mere fact that it is very plausible says enough: You and I were not born on equal footing and if I were in your proverbial shoes I would do exactly as you have done. Not because it is “rational” per se, but because I would love my daughter just as you would love yours. I do not deny you your own agency in making life decisions. Poverty does not erase agency or volition. You made a choice to take something that was not rightfully yours--and that was a choice that ultimately has negative moral implications (unless you’ve been reading J.S. Mill lately).

So resources are not distributed even remotely equally across the world. I have benefitted much from the largesse of my society, the exploitation of others, and—by the grace of God—the relatively safe and just public arena I inhabit. To say that I earned all that I have would be a misnomer of the highest order! What arrogance it would take to believe that I have earned that which I currently have before it too returns to dust. But more dangerous that arrogance would be the belief that I am entitled to that which I temporarily possess. And here lies my dilemma.

That computer, ultimately, does not belong to me. It has been entrusted to me in the way that oxygen, friendship, and the beating of my heart have been entrusted to me. But all of these things, although I can make a humanist case for their being intrinsically being tied to my “self”, I believe ultimately belong to God. He gives and takes away. I will not try to pretend that I sometimes do not take issue with this reality because I do. You may not identify with what I say here, but these past two years have been years of profound loss for me. No so much in the material sense although there is plenty of that too, but in other realms. I have characterized this past season as a season of loss, because it has been here that I have come face to face with the fundamental injustice of this world that underlies our desperate and pitiful attempts to have orderly, fair, and predictable lives. I have seen and experienced things that can never be made just. They cannot be made right on this earth and have destroyed any notion that true justice, as God describes, is even possible on this earth. It has taken a long time to divorce my concepts of justice letting Rawls and Locke and the liberal Western tradition have one concept, and have the truth belong to God. I am not against liberal legal systems; I am merely noting that the justice that God demands and desires and will someday usher in has never been fully realized on earth. The civil rights movement was absolutely a movement towards justice, but it was not justice realized. You know all about injustice I’m sure. Maybe you grew up on the streets and saw police officers rape with impunity. Justice would seem like a far-off thing at that moment. Maybe the woman you saw being raped was your mother. Justice would have died for you that day. I wish we could sit down and talk about justice and what it would look like to you, because I am sure I could learn a lot from what you’ve seen and experienced. But we never will. We never will because to you I exist not as a person with hopes and dreams (some of which recorded on a computer), but as a target—a mzungu with money. And you’re likely just another Ugandan I see on the street corner of Bakuli underneath, say, the shadow of the Gadhafi Mosque. In a different life we may have been friends. I do not know you, but I like to believe that I am free to be without enemies in this life. I have found hatred to be a tiring, fruitless thing.

So I do not hate you. You have no idea what I have lost when you took something as innocuous as a computer from me. You do not see that my anger and fury still have nowhere to go and so I point them inward. This is now a part of your story, not just mine. For in a broken world we cannot contain the effects and consequences of sin. They linger, woven into the fabric of time and space, effecting things in far-reaching ways the butterfly effect only hints at. The immediate effects may be mundane, like my inability to communicate with my loved ones or write email updates. Yet the far reaching effects may be the toppling of governments. We should never see ourselves as so powerless as to view our sin and personal and benign. When you take from another you both sin and give God a space to do a work of redemption. I have a right to be angry at you. I have a right to feel legitimately harmed by you. But I know that you do too. I would not say you were being unjust if you levied equal venom and ire at a world so unjust as the one you and I inhabit. We are a tragic generation you and I. I born to a democracy that has taught me to kill and you to a cleptocracy that has taught you to steal. Justice, then, is far from us.

I need to say something now. You’ve deeply hurt me and unleashed something in me that you will not suffer; I will suffer. I just want you to know that. It seems petty from a distance, but you’ve not walked a mile in my shoes (and, granted, I’ve not walked a mile in your shoes either). This event is far more symbolic and indicative than you know. And yet this sorry excuse for “life” will go on. Obviously I do not make such choices, for I would run life much differently than God. That’s why I’m not God. We can all be thankful for that. Your choices though, sir, have made me face many things—mostly that entitlement that I am guaranteed anything past death in this life. I am not. All my ideas and passions and desires will one day return to dust from whence they came. I will be forgotten in this life having left a mark that only God will be able to judge. It is the same lot for you, my friend. And so in eternity we are equals. It is only here, separated by arbitrary and artificial social hierarchies that neither of us conceived in which we are forever pitted against one another. So today I will give you something that cannot be demanded, just given. I am giving you forgiveness because I recognize that the differences between us are ultimately infinitesimally small and that if God’s justice were to be brought down I may be found less just than you. Maybe not, but in God’s eyes it is possible if not probable. And it matters not because we would both be found woefully inadequate and we both need grace. So I forgive you. This is extended without condition. I hope there is a moment when your sin finds you out and you become acquainted with justice and would then be brought to repentance. But my end of this does not require your sentiments at all.

In truth, I forgive you partially for selfish reasons. I hope in doing what I know is mercy reminiscent of that which has been given to me I may learn how to forgive the person I hate the most, the person I blame for most of what I’ve experienced, the person I’ve plotted to kill since I can remember: me. I have become the enemy of myself and have saved my most brutal invectives for no one but myself for the failures that, in my mind, characterize my life. Forgiving myself would be a profound release for the way I psychologically deal with the fundamental injustice of life is to see where I fit in the picture and tear myself to pieces, regaining that sense of control that powerless people like myself often desire.

I forgive you and wash my hands of any desire to get retribution. Despite my deep hurt, fury, and relative financial ruin I believe the words I have said…

…I only endeavor now to feel them.

Goodbye,

Dan

Ps. Thanks friends for your prayers, support, and offers of financial support. I love you all.

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African Journal #9: Kampala: Crossroads of life

Africa Journal #9: Kampala: Crossroads of life

I am nearly convinced that I would die if I could not journal. Over the years it has become the lifeblood of my heart and soul and one of the only places I can really pray. I know I talk a lot in person, but the internal dialog is profoundly different and even faster. This amounts to an incredible need for processing. I am an “external processor” and so in lieu of human-to-human conversation this is where I turn. I am never without a journal, especially here. Whether it is in my physical journal or my 300+ page long computer journal, it is visited often to write what I feel and in so doing, discover who I am, what I know, and, most of all, what I believe. Few times has journaling been as important to me as it is today…

Today was probably the best day I’ve had since being here. It was an incredible journey through the various aspects of being immersed in Ugandan life. Its culmination was found not 45 minutes ago where I found myself atop Namirembe Hill, just a kilometer to the East of where I live (in Mengo), looking over the lit-up city. I just looked at it and remembered. Kampala has been, for better or for worse, the crossroads of my life. I likely could never capture the incredible changes that have occurred in my heart in this very city. When I walk down its crowded streets they remind me of times when I was so very different. A lot has changed since the last time I was here in August of 2008. Unfortunately the mosquitoes still remain. But I am a different man today then I was back then and as I stood atop Namirembe tonight I just cried in a confusing mix of joy and resignation. I think that hill represents, to me, the very real struggle for my soul. That nagging question finds me here: whether the hurt in my heart that has been surfacing over the years bodes well for my spiritual and emotional health, or if in the end it will kill me. That is why I am here, writing, being more honest than is probably wise.

Kampala is where I really started to take a look at my life and what it was being used for. Kampala is where I broke down crying on Rubaga road one night because I could not fit the complex reality that surrounded me into my head and heart. Kampala is where I fell in love in more ways than one. Kampala is where some of the best men and women I’ve ever known call home. Kampala is where I watched a government systematically deprive justice to a group of Congolese refugees I cam to love. Kampala is where I have been angry, scared, joyful, alive, sad, and painfully alone. Not every moment here, of course, is an example of Dan’s emotions running the gamut. But in the moments where I sit down and think about it all I am overwhelmed. I believe that cities sometimes inhabit a realm that is otherwise untouched when one is removed from the writhing, busy mass of people. But here humanity is all around you. It is here, amongst the throngs of people going about their business that I feel most acutely alone. This is a constant thread, or so it seems, of these letters from Africa. I do not yet have words to describe what it is like to come “home” to a place that is so singularly alienating and inviting. All of life is a paradox and it seems all the more apparent here in Kampala. Perhaps I spiritualize too much something as inanimate as a group of buildings that happen to be filled with humans, but when I am moving from city to city I adapt and assimilate and contest not just to the culture, but also to something wholly other. Phoenix affects me differently than D.C.; Kampala differently than Nairobi; Hong Kong differently than Dubai; Augusta, Kansas differently than Oklahoma City; San Diego differently than Amsterdam. I do not know if this makes sense, but in my hyperactive heart and mind I perceive subtle differences in the collective whole that are not easily named or identified. I have theories as to why this is, but I have not come to any conclusions. And yet understanding a city’s effect on me is an important endeavor for this city is where my heart must learn what it means to survive. There is more to say, but that will suffice for now. What a day it has been.

…. And this day began in the African way: Digging. Uncle Peter and I spent sometime digging to remove the weeds around the guesthouses where I stay. They are a pesky lot, but a huge hoe has the final word. I wasn’t very talkative this morning—which is often the case—and Peter asked me what I was thinking. I didn’t know. He said, “let us take tea.” So I gathered my things for Kampala and headed to House B for tea. When I got to House B Kamara, one of the young men who work the land here, asked me if I could help him set up a facebook account. So I did. It was funny asking him some of the questions because you could tell that he was unsure of their importance. Political ideology? He just said, “Uh…I love God.” You have to love Africa! We set up his account and then Uncle Peter checked his email—a internet-connected computer at the house is an in demand commodity. As Uncle Peter read his email, Kamara and I talked about being in our late 20’s. He said, “ah! You need to get marriage. You are too old! For me, I will get marriage in 3 years. Why are you not married?” This deceptively simple question has literally been asked of me dozens of times since being here. Granted, marriage is basically a social necessity. This was explained by Kamara when he said, “If I do not marry, my family will not respect me.” To which I asked, “what if your wife dies?” He said, “then I will find another wife.” We talked a little further about what marriage meant to him. Suffice it to say, for whatever reasons are most salient to the each of us, we have quite different hopes and expectations out of marriage. Kamara remarked that I did, however, need to find a wife soon, as 28 was “too old!” In the past I’ve attempted to put dating and marriage into cultural context when the topic came up, explaining what different factors are at play in the West when two people are “in love.” This is usually a somewhat fruitless endeavor, but my African friends usually ask, and I usually am willing to explain if they are willing to listen. Something that is notable is that I have a number of Ugandan friends who have spent a considerable amount of time in the US and it sticks out that they never ask these kinds of questions. I did not want to talk about me and so I quickly just asked him some questions about what he would like in a wife. He was only too happy to answer and offer projections about when he could “find” (select) a wife. I will never cease to be amazed at home much pre-planning men in this culture put on finding a wife. It seems wholly removed from the inherent nuances and individualities that one finds in a person when they actually know them. But I suppose the rhetoric of “finding” a wife explains all that needs to be explained.

Then my boda, “Brown” as we call him, arrived at the house and he and I drove off to Kalule so I could catch a taxi in to town. I was blessed to get a front window seat, so I put in my earbuds and jammed to Anberlin all the way to Kampala, thinking about some of the questions that have plagued my heart these past few weeks. In Kampala I took a boda to Mengo and met up with Shawn at the house. He’s such a rad guy. We love to sit around and talk about Land Cruisers and adventures, and today was no exception. He also loves meat. He’d never been to the small “restaurant” in Kisenyi outside of the goat slaughterhouse. So we rectified that. The meat may have been even better this time! Shawn and I discussed what we viewed as the crux of Ugandan politics since we as of yet have been unable to ascertain what are the actual substantial differences in policy/ideology between the long-ruling NRM (Museveni’s crew) and the opposition. It is easy to make light of Ugandan politics when you’re used to the overly stark contrast drawn in the shameful spectre of American politics, and we recognized that and sought to be charitable to Uganda’s political beliefs. It was a wonderful conversation with a wonderful man over some wonderful food. It was a good day.

Then one more boda ride and we were in Kivulu, the other major slum in Kampala. We played some football—a sport I doubt I’ll ever be good at—and then I gave a devotion on the story of The Good Samaritan. I had been laboring over how to articulate the concept that the Jews were the enemies of the Samaritans, and thus the power of the story is in Jesus’ sweeping assertion that your neighbor is anyone, up to and including your enemy. The villain in the hearer’s ears would have then been shown as hero. The first, after all, shall me last. But what could draw my young, non-political listeners to an understanding of the gravity of Christ’s words? The answer, of course, is football; soccer for all you Americans. Shawn can be thanked for this nugget. So in my retelling of the Good Samaritan story I had the first person to walk by the bleeding man be a preacher too busy to concern himself with the hurt, distraught man. The second man being an MP (Member of Parliament) who pretends someone calls him so he can avoid eye-contact with the bleeding man. I then note that the blood from the beat-up man is falling onto the man’s new Manchester United t-shirt. This man was a—almost literally—dyed-in-the-wool “Man U” fan. For my American readers, Manchester United is one of the premiere football clubs on the planet. If I am not mistaken David Beckam plays/played for them. For my Samaritan I have another man walk up to the beat up Man U fan. This new man is a fan of Arsenal, which is by my limited knowledge, one of the biggest rivalries in the sporting world. The analogy worked. The kids howled at the concept that these two would help one another. And so went the story as we really tried to understand that Jesus telling the young lawyer that your neighbor was anyone in need, even the enemy, was an incredible statement. Oh how I hope this foundational truth was able to sink into their hearts. How much we all need to wrestle with the demands of such a truth as this.

From there the A Perfect Injustice team headed to an Ethiopian restaurant on Rubaga road. I’d eaten there a few times, but it had been years before. Not much had changed. It was still dark, menu-less (which is basically all of Africa), and refreshingly Luganda-free. Amharic was of course the language of choice. They didn’t have meat that day, so we had huge plate of njera with assorted vegetables. If I’m not mistaken, these are known as wats. So I carefully tried to remember to keep my “unclean” hand, the left, underneath the table and I dug it. It was incredibly tasty and it’s a great meal to share with the incredible company I was with: Gina, Amy, Abby & David, Uncle Lawrence, Uncle Eddy, Shawn & Sarah, and a Ugandan friend of Abby’s. These are some of the incredible folks I am blessed enough to spend much time with here in Africa. An interesting, educated group of people for whom faith is a call to serve and act. I am thankful for them all! Unfortunately I had to leave early as I had an important event to make!

Jumping on a boda I finally got down to 3,000 shilling I made my way through the continually hellish central-Kampala traffic to 1,000 Cups, and coffee shop catering to tourists and wealthy Ugandans. This place is a place of memories for me. It had been the only real coffee shop that I spent any considerable amount of time at the last time I was here. I was also looking for a very special antique coffee grinder that had been there 4 years ago. I could not find that exact grinder, but I did find one like it. This, however, is a story for another time, another place. I ordered a mocha and sat down and started to journal the flood of feelings and memories that had rushed into my head and heart. The words bled onto the pages and I wonder if anyone saw how oblivious I was to the world, barely drinking my decent espresso drink. I was ruefully drawn from that place when two of my favorite people walked in the room: Abbey Lutaaya and his wife, Sandra. I cannot even tell you the joy that jumped into my heart when I saw him! I immediately wondered how it had gone so long since I’d talked to him! We embraced and smiled and the years of history started to flood back. Abbey (a short name usually given to men named Abdul) and I had lived together in 2007/2008 the first time I had come to Uganda. We had a modest, single-room flat just off Rubaga road near the heretical Miracle Center Church. I loved that time of washing clothes on the roof, overlooking the verdant city, walking to the internet café, and taking bodas for 700 shilling to the small house on Rubaga where Lutaaya’s organization, African Hearts was located. Those were simple, humble times that I feel blessed to have been a part of. Lutaaya and I quickly because fast friends and when I returned to Uganda in the summer of ’08 we picked up right where we’d left off although things had changed considerably better for Lutaaya and his boys. There was now a new home being built, Ssenge, for street boys and a home for the original “Mengo Boys” that were in Lutaaya’s charge. We had the best of times that year. We had amazing American interns, cool experiences, and when I got back from a short jaunt to Congo, a lot of work completed at the new Ssenge house. There are so many fine memories. This was all back when Lutaaya and I used to talk a lot about his love for Sandra. My, how times have changed.

Sandra, Lutaaya, and I all sat down and endeavored to catch up. It was a whirlwind ride. So much has gone on. The stories of miracles and triumphs were almost too much! Abbey and Sandra recounted the traumatic birth of their daughter, Nevaeh, in which Sanda, technically speaking, died during the childbirth but then came back to life. Seriously. What an incredible story, one that was remarkably close in certain details to my niece’s traumatic birth. I told them that story as well. Lutaaya told me about some of the boys I used to know and how Musa Musoke represented Uganda in a football club in South Africa and is now the captain of the team here in Uganda and should be able to get a full-ride to many schools of his choosing throughout the English-speaking world. Incredible to think of this hilarious, fun little boy who used to call my brother “teem” as a 16-year-old on his way to perhaps study economics in London and being the captain of a football team. God is good. The three of us just sat there and laughed and remembered and just caught up. It was amazing and we made plans to make sure we spend more time together even though they are a busy family and African Hearts has grown considerably in size and scope. When the power went out in the part of Kampala we were in we just kept talking, using the light of the laptop to carry us on. Eventually we had to leave and the Lutaaya’s dropped me off in Bakuli so I could catch a boda to Mengo, just over the hill. It was here, however, that I decided to walk. My heart was so full with the events of the day and I needed to process, cry, and just be alone. I walked through the bustling city at its best time: Friday Night. I smelled the roasting goat meat, exhaust, and various stewed vegetables. I saw a Muslim man muttering a prayer, and lovers holding hands against the backdrop of the hilly, lit-up city. I was home and I began to indulge in the emotions that I’d long held back and I started to cry for both the beautiful and the mundane, for both the epic and the awful. I stopped by my favorite grocery store, greeted some folks and picked up some water, The East African newspaper, and some snacks. I then just continued to walk. I was almost home when two men approached me asking me for my email address. They wanted to come to America. I politely told them that I could not help them. One man gave up and walked away, the other, as is characteristic in these conversations, tilted is head slightly to the side as he beseeched me to “give [him] 1,000”. I told him I could not and I carried on my way, greeting the boda drivers at the corner near my Mengo home. My heart still had so much that needed processing. When I arrived home I immediately walked in the door and fired up the computer to get this all down. Some many hours later, after an intermission with my housemates in which we watched an episode of the BBC’s Top Gear, this letter has come to an end.

I recognize the number of folks who have waded through this deluge of tedious writing are probably few. For those who read this sentence, thank you for listening. Goodnight.

Dan

Africa Journal #8: Africa Shopping List

Africa Journal #8: Africa Shopping List

You can get almost anything you need here in Uganda if you know where to look. This is great, but the imperative word in the previous sentence was almost. Here is a short list of the things you should absolutely bring with you to Africa that you cannot, at least to American quality standards, buy here or shouldn’t buy here because it would be so expensive. Again, not an exhaustive list of what to bring, just the essentials that would be wise to pack with you from the states:

· Hi· High-quality backpacking socks and underwear

· Backpacking compact quick-dry towel

· Containers of your favorite American peanut butter

· Individually wrapped pieces of quality, European dark chocolate (I prefer Lindt)

· iPod filled with plenty of music, podcasts, and audiobooks

· A decent set of headphones

· Breathable, dryquick t-shirts

· Petzl AAA headlamps! Many. . .

· Face wash, Toothpaste, Shampoo & Conditioner (I prefer the Burt’s Bees stuff)

· Starbucks VIA

· Quality polarized sunglasses

· Aveeno sunscreen

· All natural mosquito repellant

· Chewable fiber (this is a really good idea if you’re eating the local food often)

· Zebra F-402 pens

· 10L/14L daypack w/ bladder (I love my Arc’Teryx Endorphin Pack)

· Zip ties

· SOG multi-tool

· Pepper spray

· All-natural multivitamins

· Water purification filter (backpacking grade)

· Resistance bands for working out

· Frank’s Red Hot Sauce

· Quality lithium AA’s

· Coleman camping lantern

· Benadryl anti-itch cream

· Lawry’s Garlic Salt (or whatever spices you can’t live without)

· Loradatine allergy pills

· Aluminum camping spork

· Photos of friends and family

· Photocopies of your passport, DL, and shot record

· Topo map of your country and adjacent countries

· If you’ve got the room, bring toilet paper. You’ll thank yourself later

· And finally all the books you’ve ever wanted to read: You’ll likely have time to read them and while there is a decent bookstore, if you’re a hardcore reader, it still leaves a lot to be desired.

You may be saying, especially if you’ve been here before, “You can find that either at Owino market or Nakumatt” and maybe you can, but the previous list is of things it would be better to bring from America to save money or to have the selection and quality that you like. There is one brand of American Peanut Butter that is good here, but it’s expensive and it is just plain American peanut butter. I like the natural JIF. Yeah, can’t find that here. You can get electronics here, but they are almost exclusively trash from China. Good dark chocolate is hard to find too. Quality clothing is almost non-existent. You may be thinking, “a lot of stuff is missing from this list! What about baby wipes, milk chocolate, quality sandals, hat, journal, medicines, The Economist, etc?!?” You can get all those things here for similar prices on what you’d pay in the US or significantly less.

Fellow Africa sojourners, anything I’ve forgotten? Let me know!

Africa Update #7: “Muzungu Musings of a Madman”

This has been my first weekend in Kampala. True to my fears, I’ve been getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. Fifty-seven bites on my arms alone last nigh—with a mosquito net. I’m not exaggerating either. Se la vie.

There is so much on my heart that I am simply going to write and not think about what I am writing. Just write the confusion and pain and anything else. I has been a simultaneously lonely and enjoyable experience, a more magnified example of what the whole of my time in Africa is like: surrounded by amazing people, a few of them friends, and yet there is a loneliness that is ever present. In truth it has been present for years now. So Africa, then, really is just a further magnification of the actual perceived state of my life. I hope you do not read this with pity, for I do not benefit from pity, nor do I warrant it. My life is blessed for while everyday is intimate with devastating struggle, at least I know I am alive.

Something “switched” in my heart some time back. It would not be accurate to say it was a moment; rather it was a number of moments, all tied together in one narrative. You may call them “insight” if you prefer psychodynamic terms, “epiphanies” if you prefer human terms, or “revelation” if you prefer spiritual terms. I cannot—will not—speak to those things directly because I do not yet have language to convey how I see things past a few “simple” truths. I t is possible that part of me is unknowable for even I am frustrated by the poverty of verbal language that can be used to explore “reality”. I have long mused that perhaps that is why art even exists. Obviously I am not the first to say such a thing but when I see the debates about what art “is” I have to chuckle for such a debate is necessarily removed from art, from beauty.

Beauty too is something I’ve mused on for a number of years. I do not yet understand it and hope to never understand it in a way that makes it benign or safe. I cannot speak to its essence, but as Justice Steward once said about obscenity, “I know it when I see it.” Moreover, I think Dostoevsky spoke truthfully when he said, "Beauty is not only a terrible thing, it is also a mysterious thing. There God and the Devil strive for mastery, and the battlefield is the heart of men.” Why is that important? Because my heart is definitely a battlefield. It is as much a battlefield today as it has ever been. I refer to myself as “bifurcated” because that is one of the few words I know to accurately and succinctly state the condition of my heart. Dostoevsky’s protagonist Raskolnikov from Crime & Punishment means “schism”, which I think is an apt descriptor of my own heart, and that too is a germane term. James (would likely call it a “double mind” (likely Orwell would as well). And this is but one thing I am trying desperately to understand, but I am at war with myself and cannot find solace in the dichotomies I often wrestle with. I am always wrestling with the Sermon on the Mount when Jesus puts the finishing touches on his epic sermon by beseeching those heeding his call to “not be like them” (Matthew 6:8), that is, those who do not call Him King. There is a separation here and that is what I’m focused on. We could make a simplistic interpretation, arguing that the simplest idea is likely the most correct (law of parsimony), but we deceive ourselves if we believe his commands have tame, moderated applications. As I wrestle with his call on my life it becomes more radical and demands more and more from me. But I do not know if it produces more righteousness or peace. This tree may bear no more fruit today than some time ago. It truth, grace probably has to bridge that gap so that I can operate as a child of the King, not as one obsessed with complexities and the overwhelmed by the anxieties therein. To be free from that, to truly love and live would be an indescribably joy to me and yet they are only viewed in a mirror dimly lit. Yet love and freedom are inexorably linked. I think of the last part of my favorite poem, Lovelace’s To Althea, From Prison: “If I have freedom in my love and in my soul am free; Angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty.” Thus, God’s love manifest for us in Christ is expressed through grace. All, after all, is Grace.

It is probably only in Africa where I can indulge in such truthful (and esoteric) reflection. I do not attempt to deceive in the West, but I am an product of my beloved environment, and assimilate well, keeping much to my cerebral self, and feeling, but only talking of logic and intellect. Here I am both participant and observer. There is little safety here, in the broad sense. One must live engaged in life to survive. My time is spent as the unfortunate child of privilege, my host country affording me far more respect than I deserve. I hate how I am defined my race and nationality, but in truth, my perceptions of Africans, despite my many friendships here, is largely of seeing them as “other”. Not dehumanized—far from it—for I am intimately aware of the humanity around me. How can I not weep when reading a book about the Rwandan genocide when the events happened less than 100 miles from here and involved people very much like the people all around me; involved people very much like me? And yet I am other here and cannot arrest that terrible self-awareness. Even so, as I write this I am indulging in my privilege, drinking cheap lattes that cost more than the average Ugandan makes in a day. So I am keenly aware of the separation. I feel it more here than when I amongst dozens of forgotten kids that haunt the consciences of the privileged. Even in the street program, interacting with those who Jesus used to wrap in his arms, one can feel lonely. And I do. This loneliness isn’t relational although I’ve felt “romantically” lonely, mostly by my own doing, for as long as I can remember. But what I speak of here is different and still not defined. That’s why I’ve managed to just write things as they come to mind instead of attempting to communicate something defined. I’m just telling you what I don’t really know. This is merely a mindsteam, born out of a heart that pains….

Last night while at a store a Ugandan girl about my age was hitting on me and asking me to take her to America. She smiled and gave me what I take to be a look of interest. I will never be good at these things. She asked me if I had a phone and I said yes, and I pulled it out. In my confusion, and because I was looking for some legit peanut butter, I handed it to her when she asked if she could see it. She put her number into my phone. In her one small action, so much was revealed about the state of man. Granted, I am not interested in this girl, but I started to think about what it means for me to have the capacity to be her escape. What colonial history so created me into a “rich white man” supposedly “superior” to others? Why was I born with the power to take advantage of the situation this girl has laid before me? What did I do to deserve the grace that has afforded me the wisdom to know that taking advantage of her desperation would be evil? It is grace, after all. As Brennan Manning would say, “All is Grace.” And it is true. A part of me just wanted to tell her, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for things I could not possibly explain. Can you forgive me?” Perhaps it is shame or even fear that holds me here, but perhaps I want to just confess and beg forgiveness for a world as unjust and broken as the one I see every single day no matter what continent I am on.

As I am about to send this out someone knocked on our door. I answered the door and there stood a small street boy named Hiiya. He is about 9 years old and he came in hoping that we would just take him in. He did not ask, but what does a young, young boy living on the streets need to say? He needs to be loved, to have a home, to get off drugs, and to have a place, even for just a night, to lay his head where his life is not in danger. We brought him in and Gina, with the tenderness of the grandma that Hiiya has likely never known, washed him and cared for his small wounds. She asked him many times about his life and where he has been. Kisenyi was the answer, of course. It’s the slum A Perfect Injustice no longer works in. He has been hiding out/living there after running away from the API home twice to go back to drugs. It was clear he was high and that the huffing was exhausting his slight frame. Much of the time was spent in silence and I just watched Shawn and Gina take care of his wounds, both emotional and physical. Then we had to return him to the streets, a perfect injustice for a small boy.

As Shawn gave Hiiya a piggy-back ride to the street I asked Gina, “What is the hardest part?” She just said, “What part is easy?” Touché. He had, after all, just come in to be treated like a human for a little while. I don’t know how I would have answered the question I had asked Gina. I may seem verbose in my writings and from personal experience, but I am remarkably taciturn here. I am more observer than participant. As the wound was being patched I just watched and contemplated life. I do not know what I felt. I do not even know what I feel now. Perhaps I don’t feel much of anything and maybe I am just numb. Maybe we are born of dust and to dust we do return. Perhaps we should take out sackcloth and cover ourselves in ashes. Perhaps we should just cry out to God for mercy.