EAPPI- being a witness in Israel/Palestine

In 2002, after calls from local churches in Jerusalem, the World Council of Churches started a new program that would serve as a witness and help create an international ecumenical presence for peace and justice in the Holy Land.

The Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme in Palestine and Israel (EAPPI) has brought over 300 people to the Holy Land to accompany Palestinians and Israelis in non-violent actions and concerted advocacy efforts to end the occupation. Its objectives are to:

• Expose the violence of the occupation
• End the brutality, humiliation and violence against civilians
• Construct a stronger global advocacy network
• Ensure the respect of Human Rights and International Humanitarian Law
• Influence public opinion in home country and affect foreign policy on Middle East in order to end the occupation and create a viable Palestinian State
• Express solidarity with Palestinian and Israeli peace activists and empower local Palestinian communities/churches
• Be an active witness that an alternative, non-violent struggle for justice and peace is possible to end the illegal occupation of Palestine

It is also unique in that it is for people of different generations, including youth (young adults). Check out their website at http://www.eappi.org/.

And so it begins…

On Monday I start a whole new chapter in my life. That is when I start studying at the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Philadelphia, on a track to become an ordained pastor in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA).

In a time where you can become a certified pastor online over the internet in just a few hours here in the USA, the ELCA requires its pastors to complete four years of undergraduate study, and then three years of graduate study, completing a Masters in Divinity, one year of internship in a parish, and a summer of Clinical Pastoral Education, in addition to several other things.

Even writing that, it has been hard to let that sink in. I am committing the next four years, three in school and one on internship, to becoming an ordained minister. After three years of traveling and doing service work, having different odd jobs, and just being open and available to do anything at any time, I am saying that, for the next four years, I am going to be in the USA studying.

That’s a difficult thing for me to do. What if this great conference comes by, and I want to go? Or, what about an opportunity to do service work in West Africa? Or, how about a job that I’ve always wanted- I can’t and won’t just leave seminary!

It is something that I have prayed about a lot. And, the call I felt was strong and clear. I couldn’t just ignore this call because I was having so much fun!

And, because I am convinced that this is what God wants, I trust that everything will go according to God’s plan, whatever that might look like. It will be challenging, but also fun, and I am already excited to get started. Now, I have to get to the not so fun part- packing!

Settling for less

When I was in Africa, a local man, when we were talking about politics and corruption, told me that he was tired of the ‘West’ always telling them how it needs to be done.

Now, even though I am from the ‘West’, I usually don’t even try to defend it. In fact, that would be stupid, irresponsible and impossible. It is important that we admit mistakes that we have made and are making, and then ask for forgiveness and change our behavior. Why do we always think that we know best?

The reference in this conversation had to do with corruption in the government. He, like others I have met in the global south, is against corruption, but argues that corruption is and will always be a part of their politics. It is not even a topic worth talking about, goes the argument, because one candidate will be extremely corrupt, and maybe the other will be a tad less corrupt, but both (or all) will be corrupt. Therefore, the ‘west’, as in governments and donor organizations, should stop pressing them on the issue and just understand how things work.

Some might call this a realistic approach, but that doesn’t mean it is not an important issue. Corruption is an injustice, for the country and its people. When there are injustices, we should demand change, and work for that change in a constructive way.

We also have corruption in the United States government. A lot of it, in fact. It is a different kind of corruption- gone are the days (largely) when people passed politicians envelopes stuffed with cash. Now, instead, it comes in the form of giving political favors to businesses and individuals who have given to your campaign. This is an injustice, and we should work to right this wrong, too.

We will never have the kingdom of heaven here on earth until the second coming. Poverty, disease, slavery, homelessness, hunger, human rights violations, corruption, and many other injustices will always be a part of this world until then. Man, there are just so many injustices happening! It would be easy to give up and give in. There will be many obstacles in working for good and we will probably never be able to totally eliminate all of these injustices.

Jesus even told us that we will always have the poor amongst us. But, by his example in action and in words, he advocated change by caring for these people, providing for them when necessary, and even learning from them. Jesus was realistic in his statement about the poor, but he was also clear that we should work for the ideal. He sets the example and lays down the mission for us. I hope we don’t settle for less.

A Clash of Civilizations?

In three days I will be home again in the states. My six month long trip has come down to this. It will be good to be home.

As everything comes to a close, I’ve started to think of things I’ve learned while travelling. I think the biggest thing is that when you travel, meet other people, and experience different cultures, all your stereotypes start to fall. You start to realize that stereotypes are not true for all people- not all Scandinavians have blond hair and blue eyes, and not all Muslims are named Mohammed.

Studying politics in college, one of the theories that you learn about is the idea of a clash of civilizations- that certain civilizations are headed on a collision course that will only create tension and violence in the future (for example the ‘West’ and ‘Islam’). This idea has been pushed by many in my own country and government. And people are buying it.

But people like me who have experienced life in an Islamic culture, and other cultures, quickly find this theory losing ground. Many Muslims welcomed me into their houses for tea, food, and even to stay. One hosted me for three weeks in Bosnia. In Kosovo, one invited me to stay the night at his family’s house, and they cooked traditional food and took me all around the village to sight-see. In Palestine, one invited me up to Jenin to stay with his family for a weekend- and when I left Palestine, he gave me several gifts! A shirt in Bosnia summed it up- ‘I’m Muslim- don’t panic!’

This has been the hospitality I have experienced in all the places I have visited. I have never had anyone hate me because I am an American, and I have never had anyone hate me because I am a Christian. Almost everyone in this world just wants to live their lives in a peaceful, just society where they can work, have a place to live, and eat. People just want normal lives!!! They don’t want conflict, war, and death. There are exceptions everywhere- we in the USA, with our insane murder rates, know this too well. But those are by far the exceptions, not the norms.

As Christians I hope that we will not subscribe to this theory of a clash of civilizations. I hope we can love our neighbors in all civilizations, while not advancing false and harmful stereotypes.

Sorry!

Sorry for a lack in posting! As the trip has come to a close, I have spent much less time near a computer. I will try to catch up...

More Movement Restrictions

The Israelis have made it incredibly difficult to move from place to place in the West Bank, often adding hours and hours to a basic trip to a neighboring town. Mohammed, a Palestinian friend of mine who works at Augusta Victoria hospital, has to pass through 7 permanent checkpoints and countless other roadblocks in order to get home to his family in Jenin from Jerusalem. It now takes a whole day to travel, meaning that he cannot go home for the weekend. He must, instead, work a weekend so that the following weekend he can have an additional day or two off to go home. Of course he could just get a job closer to home- but there aren’t any.

The simple commute from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, only 6 miles to the south, now takes over an hour in many cases, thanks to the checkpoints.

In addition to permanent checkpoints, there are also moving checkpoints, roadblocks, and barriers that are set up by the Israelis to limit the movement of Palestinians. Israeli troops will set up random checkpoints wherever the want, but always in Palestinian territory, so as to not inconvenience any Israelis. I often saw them setting up a checkpoint in front of Augusta Victoria hospital, on the main road to Palestinian hospitals. They stop anyone and everyone they feel like, for as long as they want. The general rule is that the more you protest or question what is happening, the longer you are held.

Israeli’s have also denied Palestinian refugees the right to return even to the West Bank. I heard several stories of Palestinians who had a Palestinian fiancée or girlfriend living in a Jordanian or Lebanese refugee camp, who were not allowed to come back to be with the person the love. The only other option would be that the person still in Palestine leave- but then they might never be able to come back to see their family and friends. They told me that Israel “even controls who they can fall in love with.”

They also use these checkpoints to punish anyone who has a family member who is involved in resistance. Even if you have never been involved in violent or peaceful protest of the occupation, if you have a relative who has you might be turned back. What would you do, then, when there is a peaceful protest? If you go and participate, it might mean that you and your extended family might never be able to pass through a checkpoint again.

All these tactics serve to slow and restrict the movement of Palestinians, making it impossible to organize an effective resistance to the occupation. But what happens, as a result, is that this only leads to increased desperation.

Check out this recent BBC story about checkpoints: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/6245576.stm

Checkpoints and the Freedom of Movement

Not only has the wall restricted the movements of Palestinians within Palestine, but so have checkpoints. This combination, along with other things, serves to divide Palestinians, in an effort to minimize opposition to the occupation.

At permanent checkpoints, all those traveling though must present their documents. Israeli’s are let through immediately, and this is usually the case for internationals. Palestinians, though, must present their id, have it scanned and checked, and then must put their hand on a scanner in order to take their fingerprints.

The checkpoints are run by Israeli soldiers, and they do many things to delay and humiliate Palestinians. [The following are all things that I witnessed at checkpoints] Often they will only open one of the lines for Palestinians to pass, no matter how many people are waiting in line. Other soldiers will stand around and chat, instead of opening another line. The soldier who is running the only operating line will often be on the phone, taking their time in checking documents, even yelling at Palestinians who seem to be ‘hurrying’ them.

Then there is the metal detector. When I was passing through, a Palestinian set off the detector, and immediately was screamed at by a soldier. He went back, took out the coins in his pocket, and then passed through. I then passed through, also setting it off. A voice started screaming at me, too, in Hebrew. Of course I didn’t understand, so I went back through and started to take off my belt. But the yelling continued, and finally a soldier screamed in English “go through, go through”.

Many have to go through these checkpoints on a daily basis, and it is really a draining process. People are turned back for no reason whatsoever- it just depends on the mood of the 19-year-old soldier on duty. I saw one man who lived in Jerusalem and had the proper identification turned back without a reason. He pleaded and pleaded to be let through so he could go home, but was denied.

Pastor Mitri Raheb, a Christian Palestinian who is pastor at Christmas Lutheran Church in Bethlehem, wrote a great book called “Bethlehem Besieged”, which includes many examples of what life is like under the occupation. His step father, in an ambulance on the way to Jerusalem to one of the hospitals with heart troubles, was denied entry even with documentation permitting him into Jerusalem. They tried another checkpoint, which allowed the step father to pass, but not the ambulance. So they had to wait 30 minutes for an ambulance from Jerusalem to come. Sometime during this process he had a stroke, and died the next day. The checkpoints are a matter of life and death.

All this is done in the name of ‘security’.

The Lutheran World Federation

I have recently been asked to be one of the seven regional bloggers for the new Lutheran World Federation youth page (youth=young adult). Most likely, until the end of my trip, I will be posting everything on both sites. Check out the LWF youth web page at http://lwfyouth.org

The Land, The Wall

“A land [Palestine] without a people…” This is part of a popular saying used as justifying the foundation of the current state of Israel. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Although never its own, independent state, Palestine has been continuously inhabited- in recent times mainly by Christian and Muslim Arabs.

When Israel was founded, after the 1948 war, Arabs were killed, deported, or intentionally scared into leaving what was then the state of Israel, even though it had been their homeland for centuries. People left their houses, their jobs, and even the graveyards that held the remains of their ancestors.

Even today, Israel has a ‘right of return’ policy, where every Jew from any part of the world can come to Israel and become an Israeli citizen. This includes those who cannot trace any ancestry to the Holy Land, whose families might have lived outside of Israel since biblical times. But those Palestinians who lived there only a generation ago, some of whom are still alive, have never been able to return to their homes.

After the 1967 war, Israel began its occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. Recently, they have constructed a separation wall, with the intention to divide the Palestinian people. Unlike the wall that the USA is building along the border with Mexico, this wall is being built in Palestinian territory, often many miles inside the territory of the West Bank, allowing Israel to seize land that does not belong to them, while dividing communities.

The wall has successfully separated East Jerusalem, recognized by the UN and even the US as Palestinian territory, with the West Bank. The town of Bait Hanina and many other Palestinian towns have the wall cutting straight through it, separating families and neighbors. Kids can't get to their schools, farmers can’t reach their land, and people cannot get to their jobs. There was even a case in a Jerusalem suburb (in a Palestinian refugee camp) where Israel built the wall next to a school, making its playground inaccessible to the students because it was on the opposite side of the wall.

If Israel hasn’t illegally seized land in this way, they can always just use a settlement to claim the land. Miles inside the West Bank, groups of Israeli’s take land, often on hilltops, in land that is utilized by the Palestinians, and build a settlement. Israel then builds walls around the settlement, then roads to Israeli territory and other settlements, and then walls around those roads, constantly squeezing the Palestinians. Palestinian cities like Bethlehem and Hebron are now finding themselves completely surrounded by settlements, cutting them off from other parts of the West bank.

This has been done deliberately as part of a larger strategy to separate families and communities, in an effort to make it increasingly difficult for Palestinians to resist the occupation. Another strategy the Israelis use is the restriction of the freedom of movement…

Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid

This is the title of former president Jimmy Carter's recent book. The book doesn't have a lot of new ideas. Instead, it is significant because of the person who wrote it- a leader who has always showed a genuine interest in peace in the Middle East.

I first read the book when I was in South Africa, learning about what apartheid was. Apartheid literally means apartness. And, that's exactly what white South Africa wanted, and they didn't even try to hide it. The word apartheid will always be tied to South Africa, and for that reason many people have argued that it should not be applied to what is happening in Palestine.

Call it what you want, but the things that are happening on the ground now resemble what happened in South Africa-and it has even lead many people familiar with what happened there to say that the current situation in Palestine is worse. If you notice, the controversy caused by the book has nothing to do with the details of what is happening in Palestine. Instead, many people have decided to attack Carter the person or the way he wrote the book, instead of actually addressing what is going on in Palestine. This is not very helpful when working for peace.

Lets look at the facts...

Occupation

Occupation. I wonder what feelings emerge as people think of this word and what it means.

Is occupation always bad? Are there examples of occupations that have been successful or worthwhile? Or, is it always an evil that we should resist, whether we are the occupiers or the occupied? How would you feel if you lived under an occupation?

These theoretical questions could bring about a lot of good discussion. When my plane touched down in Tel Aviv, Israel, I immediately made my way to the Bethlehem, Palestine, in the Occupied territories. Since 1967, Israel has occupied Gaza and the West bank, including East Jerusalem. Palestinian quality of life has continued to deteriorate under the occupation, as Israel controls their every movement. Human dignity, the right to life, and rule by law are constantly ignored by the occupiers everyday in this ‘Holy Land’. But that isn’t the ‘news’ you will hear about in the USA.

For a month I lived and worked in the Occupied Territory. I heard many stories about the occupation from a variety of sources, and I will share some of their stories.

Geneva and the World Council of Churches

After only a few days in Kenya, I headed to Geneva for the first meeting of the youth (ages 18-30) body of the World Council of Churches (WCC). It was my first time in Geneva, one of the most international cities in the world, and I finally got to see the Ecumenical center, where the WCC and the Lutheran World Federation, among other organizations, have their headquarters.

The youth body, called ECHOS, met for several intense days, as we began to form this new body. There had been a strong call to form this body, but not a lot of clear ideas about what this body would do. So, in addition to interacting with WCC staff and the Ecumenical Officers of many of the churches, we were discussing what the next seven years would look like for the youth, basically starting from scratch.

There are a total of 25 members on the body, from all different regions of the world and many different denominations. We shared our experiences in the ecumenical movement and what was happening in each of our contexts. Some were deeply involved in AIDS, anti-poverty, and peace movements, and we brainstormed about how we can get more youth involved in the work of the WCC. One of our biggest challenges is how we can share the work of the WCC on local levels.

Even having been active in WCC events in the past, it was a great learning experience for me. The things that the Decade to Overcome Violence (DOV) has been working on are outstanding, and they are asking everyone, especially young people, to contribute to making a living letter about ending violence. They also have planned several site visits, where delegations will be taken to places affected by violence.

There is also a World Mission Conference planned for 2010, celebrating the centennial of the Edinburgh World Mission conference in 1910, seen by many as the start of the modern ecumenical movement. They are seeking young peoples input in their program and trying to find ways to bring young adults to the conference.

At the same time, the WCC is seeking our input on what ways we can help bring renewal to the ecumenical movement. How can we be a voice for the young people in the churches, as many youth are searching for spirituality in their lives, but not doing it in the church? This is a major challenge that many churches today are facing. Can we help them understand this problem?

After the ECHOS meeting, I went to a youth and spirituality conference sponsored by the WCC at the Ecumenical Institute outside of Geneva. I had heard so much about the ecumenical institute, which is affiliated with the University in Geneva and offers Masters degree programs and certificates in Ecumenical Studies, and so I was excited to see it. The conference was a great learning experience for me, as we wrestled with questions about our personal spirituality, and the spirituality of young people and the different Christian traditions. At the conclusion of the conference, I boarded the Swiss Air plane, headed to Tel Aviv, Israel.

What are some of your personal understandings of spirituality on both the personal and communal levels?

Mozungu

Going to Africa, I knew that, for better or worse, issues of race would be a part of my travel. It was a huge learning experience, as I was often the only white person I saw for days.

Mozungu is the word that many people in East Africa use to describe white people. I don’t really like the term because it’s obviously a racial term (some people insisted that it means foreigner, but when discussing this further, they admitted that the wouldn't call an African-American mozungu). People will call you Mozungu, or they will yell things like ‘hey Mozungu, come here’. I liken it to being called ‘whitey’. It’s as if my name becomes insignificant- it is only my race that seems to matter.

But I know that a lot of people don’t use it in an intentionally racist way (that doesn’t make it ok, though). Even little kids will point and yell ‘Mozungu’, and then groups of kids will look up and stare.

As I went through many villages, I wondered if I was the first ‘Mozungu’ that people had seen. In Mozambique we went pretty far off the main roads and walked down endless paths through small villages making our way to see fishponds and irrigation projects. In one of these villages, a group of kids saw me and ran over to the side of the road. They kept a safe distance- in case I would bite them! They just stared and stared. After a little while, I turned and wiggled my eyebrows for a second, looking straight at them. They all jumped back at once, and then, realizing how silly this was, started to laugh. I made a couple more faces at them, and then as we continued on, they waved goodbye.

In other places, a group of kids would gather around me, just watching and studying my behavior. It felt like I was the object of a science project. As I walked, they would walk. When I stopped, they would stop. But they were always at least 15 feet away. These areas never had electricity or even books, so I am sure that the kids never saw a white person unless it was in person.

I was treated very differently because of my race, but this wasn’t necessarily in a negative way. Taxi drivers always beeped or shouted at me, seeing if I wanted a ride. Tour guides flocked to me and would even stalk me to try and convince me to go on their tour. Even when I told them that I was a volunteer and would not be taking any tours, they still wouldn’t leave me alone.

Any time I went up to a shop to buy something, they always gave me the mozungu price. Whatever it costs, double it. There are no prices on the goods, so you have to take the persons word on it. I quickly learned to only go shopping with a local.

After making friends with Africans my age, eventually many of them would turn to a more serious subject. Could I get them a scholarship to go to college? I found this ironic because I myself am going back to school, putting together the funds I need to study!

These are all forms of racism in my opinion, but a very different type of racism than that which we had and still have in the USA and in other countries. Unfortunately, this treatment made me question whether I could really trust anyone. Were people being honest with me? Were they helping me and being nice to me just because they hoped I would give them a tip? Did they befriend me just to try and get a scholarship?

Without a doubt, the motives of some people were not genuine, but I think that the vast majority were. Africans are known for their hospitality, and this was something I witnessed and benefited from many times. I even started to ask myself what I would do in their position. If I just finished high school but couldn’t go to college, because of the money, what would I do? Would I just give up this dream of mine, and with it a huge chance to rise out of poverty? Or would I approach someone I thought could possibly help?

In Africa, I learned a lot about what its like to experience racism, and it wasn’t fun. Being in this type of setting for an extended period of time allowed me to feel racism everyday. And imagine- this wasn’t even some of the worst types of racism I have witnessed!

Thankfully, I don’t have to deal with this on an everyday basis in my home country. But imagine what its like for those people who do...

Christian Worship in Africa, Part 2

In Tete, Mozambique I finally got to go to the Lutheran Church. It was tiny- a small room that could fit about 12 people if they squeezed in. There was a table in the front serving as an altar, which was big enough for a candle and a flower, and communion was a real challenge! But the group was very lively! It was pouring rain afterwards, and no one had a car. One guy with a bike took me home, saving me a drenching 40-minute walk!

In Tanzania I accidentally found a Lutheran church close to the Shalom center, where I was living and volunteering. I couldn’t read the Swahili on the outside, but a painting of Luther’s rose gave it away. I went in to introduce myself, and they were very happy to have me. It was holy week, and, after asking me to have lunch with the assistant to the bishop who was there, they insisted on having me process in with them and sit up front. I tried to refuse- mainly because I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and was pretty sweaty because I had just come from playing with the kids, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer!

I also went to this church for Easter Sunday. I never understood more than a few words, but the people were friendly and I loved the music. One girl even gave me a coin to put in the offering, because instead of passing a plate, everyone goes up to the front and drops something in the basket. Because I was with the kids earlier, I didn’t have any money, and she saved me the embarrassment of being the only one who didn’t go up!

Afterwards I had a long chat with the evangelist of the congregation. In the Arusha Lutheran diocese, there are over 900 worshipping congregations, but only 56 pastors! Evangelists, who usually have about a year or two of theological training and cannot give communion, help run the churches that don’t have pastors. There are plenty of congregations who don’t even have an evangelist, and the pastors rotate between these congregations while lay leaders take charge on a daily basis. This is very common for the churches in Africa!

On Good Friday, I went into the Arusha city center and joined in the annual procession from the churches to the stadium. In the stadium, they celebrate with an ecumenical worship service, with all Christian denominations represented. It was really neat to walk through the streets, singing and dancing!

Across the border in Kampala, Uganda, they have a huge Christian gathering at the university every Saturday night. There were probably 1,000 students crammed into the swimming pool area, all listening to skits, songs, and sermons. It was incredible that so many people would dedicate their Saturday night to this. The man giving his testimony that night had had AIDS, but was miraculously healed. Now, he is a pastor who shares the gospel and his amazing story in all of East Africa.

The next day, I was planning on going to the Orthodox service with my friend Enoch, but he had a test that Sunday morning. So, I went with his roommate to his church- a Pentecostal church. I really liked the music, but the 45-minute sermon didn’t really seem to have any point. At least I understood it, though.

I was lucky to have the experience of worshipping in so many different communities. It taught me about other denominations and how they worship. But in general, the music in Africa seems so much more fun and alive! It was a great experience singing and dancing in church! We could learn a lot from the African way of worship.

Kampala, Uganda

From Rwanda I headed to Kampala, the capital of Uganda, to visit a friend named Enoch. He and I were both stewards in Porto Alegre, Brazil, for the World Council of Churches assembly in 2006.

I stayed with Enoch, his brother and a friend in an apartment near Makere University, one of the most well known universities in East Africa. Enoch is studying there, with several years left until he graduates.

The students in Makere, like those in many places that I’ve been to in Africa, seem to be very willing to demonstrate whenever they feel there is injustice. Usually they will only demonstrate if they are directly affected, and even though some of the demonstrations seem to be over petty issues, I admire the fact that they are willing to strike.

But the right to assemble is being taken away from them.

‘President’ Musseveni, who has been leading the country since 1986, has recently clamped down on public gatherings. After several large demonstrations against his regime, he has enforced with violence a ban on all public marches and gatherings. Ironically, you can no longer gather in independence square, in downtown Kampala, where Ugandans demanded their freedom from British rule less than 50 years ago. He has even created a secret police force, which has little oversight and only does the presidents bidding.

In addition, he has cut back the political science courses at Makere and other universities, because he was afraid that the students could turn into opposition leaders one day.

Musseveni doesn’t get as much negative press as some of the other dictators, like Mugabe in Zimbabwe. But a dictator is a dictator. From the favorable way he is treated by the West, it seems like Uganda doesn’t have enough oil for us to really care.

In addition to these problems, there has been a civil war in the north of the country for many years that has claimed thousands of lives. Enoch’s brother was one of the victims. As part of his job as the young adult representative on the National Council of Churches in Uganda (the national level of the World Council of Churches), he went to the north to help monitor national elections. He was taken hostage, tortured, and then killed. His was so disfigured, that his family was told that they wouldn’t want to see his body.

Africa continues to suffer. But we continue to turn our backs on them. I have heard many people talk about Africa like it will never recover. And so, our policies towards the continent seem to reflect this. But one thing I noticed everywhere I went is that Africans have hope. There are success stories. There are countries that are on the right path, but economic depression and as a result high unemployment are major obstacles that threaten to reverse these advances. Agricultural subsidies in the U.S. and in Europe continue to tilt the field against the Africans, making it impossible for them to export their cash crops. Increased foreign aid isn’t the only answer- in fact, if the overall GDP went up just a few percentage points, it would generate more money for the countries than all of the foreign aid combined.

There is all this talk in the USA about free trade and how important it is. But if you look closely, we are only for free trade if we think it will benefit us. It’s time to make a choice. If we are really for free and fair trade, then lets show it. Stop punishing the world’s poor.

Genocide

Almost everyone in the world has heard of Rwanda, and that is for only one reason: genocide.

Rwanda is a very small country- it seemed that you could get anywhere in just three hours in a mini bus from the capital, Kigali. You will find beautiful rolling hills all throughout the country, and even volcanoes, rainforests, mountain gorillas, and Lake Kivu, one of Africa’s great lakes.

But Rwanda has had a history of ethnic violence. The worst genocide happened in 1994, when anywhere from 500,000 to 1 million people died as a result. In college, I took several history and politics classes that focused on Rwanda, and therefore had read a lot about its history and what happened in 1994. I was anxious to go see it for myself.

My second day in Kigali I went off in a moto taxi to the genocide memorial. It is down the hill from the main part of town, but still very much inside the capital. I felt prepared to see and hear the stories that I had already read about and seen in the film, Hotel Rwanda.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. It is a great memorial, with a complete history of what happened, along with many personal stories. I slowly walked through, taking it all in and trying to keep my composure. I completely lost it at the end, when they had large picture of kids. Underneath, they had the name of the kid, age, who their best friend was, their favorite toy, their last words, and how they died.

I don’t remember specific names, but the ages in the exhibit were from 3 months to about 15 years old. The best friends included their father or mother, sister or brother, or a schoolmate. One of the kids was killed by the family of his own best friend. Most of the kids were killed with machetes, sometimes in the bathtub, and usually they were killed in front of their parents, so that they would have to watch their children die before they themselves were killed. One baby died because a militia man threw it against the wall. Another had his skull smashed by the militia mans foot. The only reason that these stories are known is because one of the family members, who had been sliced and left for dead, miraculous lived (often for several days) before they were finally found.

Around the memorial is a garden, and many mass graves of the victims of the genocide. An eternal flame burns, and there is even a library and classrooms for learning in the same building.

When I went back to the Presbyterian Church hotel/hostel where I was staying, the college aged girl working the desk asked me what I did that day. I told her that I went to the genocide memorial. After a short pause, and she told me that her family is buried there.

On the mini bus to the north, I noticed that several people had huge gashes on their legs and/or arms. Was this from the genocide? I also saw along the road many of the local trials that are still going on today, called gacacas. At these trials, the accused person, in a pink shirt, stands in front of the people of the town and tells his or her side of the story of what happened. At the end of the trial, the community decides what will happen to the person, which rarely includes jail time even if they are guilty of murder. This is not the most perfect way for justice, but how in the world could you possibly prosecute and jail the tens, if not hundreds of thousands of people that participated in the genocide? In Arusha, Tanzania, I passed by the international criminal tribunal, which is trying the worst offenders.

A friend of mine asked me “how many more genocide museums will we put up with?” And yet we continue to sit on the sidelines, allowing the long genocide in Darfur and others to continue.

I will never forget the last words of one of the kids. He said to his mother not to worry, because the UN will come to their aid. Thanks to our apathy and inaction, and that of many other Western countries, we refused. On the same day that they spoke of the horrible atrocities being committed in Rwanda, the UN member states, including the US, voted to reduce the UN force significantly.

How many more genocide museums will you put up with?

Christian Worship in Africa, Part I

In the several months I have been here in Africa, I have worshipped in many different churches, including: Methodist, Anglican (Episcopal), Presbyterian, Roman Catholic, Lutheran, and Non-denominational.

In South Africa, we went to a Methodist Church because it was the only church within walking distance. They had a traditional worship service and, at the same time, a service for young people (ages 14-30, approx.). The traditional service was attended by whites only, but the other service was multiracial, with a majority being black. The leaders were all white, but they were inclusive in their style. We sang a lot of modern worship songs, with guitars and drums providing the music, and they used a lot of videos (some home made) throughout the service and the message. We were even asked to break off into small groups and come up with a skit to present at one point!

When I was in Zambia, I went to an Anglican Church on what happened to be youth Sunday. The service was in English, and they used the traditional liturgy, with young people (18-30) doing the readings. They also had the traditional hymns with organ music, but at several points the youth sang and danced to African hymns. This was so refreshing!

In Malawi I went to the Presbyterian Church. The people in the town and a friend that I made all told me the service started at nine. So, naturally, my friend came to meet me to walk to church at 9:15. When we got there a little past 9:30, only the elders were there, and they assured us the service would start at ten. I had booked a ride out at 11, based on the information that the service started at 9, so I was anxious for the service to start. The church started to fill at 10:15, and while we waited different people started singing moving African hymns. At 10:45 the elders (all men) came out and it seemed like we would be underway. But the first business was the treasurer’s report, which lasted for 15 minutes! As the opening hymn started at 11 am, I headed for the door and ran off to catch my ride!

I looked for the Lutheran Church in Mozambique, but, as nobody knew where it was, I went to the large Roman Catholic Cathedral to worship. The hymns were traditional, with the organ playing in the background. The Bishop was presiding, and the acolytes and anyone who came up to read had to bow to the bishop. For the gospel reading, the assisting priest came over, bowed before the bishop, kissed his hands, and waited on his knees for his blessing (honestly, I don’t know if he was praying, getting a blessing, or what, but that’s what it looked like). After the incredibly long message by the bishop, all the young people were asked to go around the Cathedral (and there were a lot of them- probably 300) so that the bishop could come and give each one of them a personal blessing. After 10 minutes of this, seeing that the bishop had only blessed 20 people or so, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I left.

To be continued…

American Culture in Africa

I was crammed, like usual, in a car on the way to Kampala, Uganda. It was a dirt road, with dust flying everywhere, and it was very bumpy. We were listening to the radio when it happened.

I tried not to get too excited, and it took all of my energy to refrain from jumping up and dancing. The man next to me might have thought I was crazy if he saw my arms pop up as the Macarena came on!

It was the first time I had heard that song in so many years. But it was not to be the last. Just one half hour later, the same radio station played it again! Now I remember why I was so happy when they finally stopped playing it on the radio!

From music to the movies, can you guess who are African's two favorite actors? Nope, not Tom Hanks and Will Smith. Instead, my guess is that it’s Jean-Claude Van Damme and Steven Seagal.

This also seemed to be true in South America. Everyone really loves their movies, even though, in my opinion, they are all the same: The protagonist goes around and kills a whole bunch of people and probably gets a girlfriend in the process.

I’m proud of our culture that we continue to produce these exceptional films that provide such good educational material for the young people here and abroad. And we act surprised when a little boy or girl starts punching their buddies after watching these quality movies.

We are a very violent culture. Not only in our movies and our music (including that incredibly stupid song by Toby Keith where he says something like America will put a boot in your ass if you mess with us), but also in our history and values.

We continue to be the ONLY 1st world country that supports the death penalty, even though we continue to apply it unevenly and unfairly, along racial and class lines. For some reason the majority ‘Christian’ society continues to think that healing can only come with revenge. We don’t want real justice- we just want blood. An eye for an eye, that was what the Bible says, right? Is that the way that Jesus would want us to love our neighbor?

And, many people in our society continue to argue that the founders of our country, by writing in the second amendment of our right to bear arms, somehow wanted us all to have the right to own a machine gun. The second amendment aside, but when did we start thinking that the founding fathers were gods? They did a pretty darn good job of setting up our country, but they weren’t perfect (slavery, equal rights, etc). Can we have an honest debate about what would be best for the future of our country? If we looked at other first world countries and their crime rates and murder rates, we will find that again, we can’t even compare!

And of course there is that attitude that because we’re America and we’re the biggest and strongest, we’re going to do what we want. The UN, EU, and even our allies (or all the people in the world for that matter) can disagree. But we’ll bomb the heck out of whomever we want, for whatever reason.

This wasn’t supposed to be about violence when I started writing- it was about the Macarena and Van Damme. But especially with the recent tragedy at Virginia Tech (which, by the way, all the world knows about, and they are all supporting the community in thought and prayer), I hope that we finally have a real, nationwide discussion about our violent nature. Not just political jockeying, but real debate. How long can we continue like this?

Cheza

The Shalom Center is a Christian home for street kids. Most of the kids are not orphans - almost all of their families could not provide them basic necessities such as food, clothing, materials for education, and basic health care. Many ran away to the streets, trying to sell plastic bags or other things just to make money to eat (some as young as 5 were on the streets!) That's where the social workers at Shalom found them.

The goal of the center is that one day the kids will be reunited with their families (if they can find them). But in the mean time, the kids are fed, have beds to sleep in, access to health care, and everything they need to go to school.

Every night, before bed, they gather in the small courtyard area and have time to worship together. This always includes many Christian praise songs (in Swahili), and every night someone comes to give them a 'message.'

The message is basically a sermon. Sometimes it goes on forever, and I can see the small kids just dozing off. It is obviously really boring for me, because I can't understand what he is saying. But overall, I think it's a neat idea.

But the songs, that's what I really love. In Africa, singing also means dancing. I can't understand the songs, but I can usually pick up the words and try to sing along, and I definitely enjoy the dancing! They have taught me several African dances!

My favorite song starts off pretty fast, with clapping. After a couple verses, the person leading the songs starts singing "Cheza...Cheza..." many times. This means 'dance' in Swahili. So everyone just busts out their favorite moves. They really love it when I do the 'white boy' dance!

After four or five songs, the singing stops, and there is a time to pray. Everyone says their prayers out loud, at the same time, because that is what they are accustomed to doing. I pray silently, while still hearing "Cheza" run through my head.

You know Swahili

So, chances are that if you’ve seen The Lion King, you know more Swahili than you think. (Swahili is the national language of Tanzania and is spoken in several other countries, including Kenya, Rwanda, and Uganda).

Simba means lion.
Rafiki (the monkey) means friend.
Pumba means crazy or stupid.

If you remember the song Rafiki sings, it goes something like “Asante Sana Squash Banana”- Asante Sana means thank you very much.

And Hakuna Matata- It means no worries… What a good song!

There are probably some other words in there, but I haven’t seen the movie in a while. I give props to Disney for using some Swahili!

LTSP it is

I have made a decision.

For a long time now, I have heard a call to study theology in order to become a pastor in the Lutheran Church. Sometimes this call has been loud, other times a little quieter (although that could have just been me making it a bit softer). It has gotten louder more recently, and so I decided that it was time to act on it.

I applied to three schools in January, and had been waiting to hear back. I wasn’t really sure where God was calling me, but at that time I was thinking my first choice was Union seminary in NYC, then Yale Divinity School, and then the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Philadelphia (LTSP), but Union and Yale were a close 1 and 2.

While still continuing to pray about it, I got word back- I had gotten in to LTSP and Union, but not to Yale. I was excited, because I took the rejection as a way of God telling me that Yale was not the place to be. It seemed like the path was cleared for me to go to Union.

But I continued to pray about it, talk it over with some friends, family, and staff of the two schools, and it became more clear that God was calling me to LTSP. I couldn’t explain it, but I got really excited when thinking about being at LTSP. What a huge turnaround from only a couple of months ago!

I would have been more surprised by this, but a similar thing happened when I applied to undergraduate schools. And I really think that The University of Maryland was where I was supposed to be.

On Good Friday, after processing through the streets of Arusha and into the stadium for an ecumenical service, I went to the internet café and sent LTSP an email. I’m going to Philadelphia!

Leg Hair

After the car accident where I broke my right leg, I had to wear a cast down my entire leg for a long time (I can’t really remember how long it was, but it was during summer and fall, and since I couldn’t run around like the other kids, it seemed like a very long time). When the cast came off (12 years old), my right leg was covered with long, dark hair. This was especially humorous because my left leg had barely any hair!

But no worries, my left leg quickly caught up. Ever since then, I have always had a lot of leg hair. For a while, it was something I tried to hide, because I was embarrassed by it. Later on, I didn’t really care as much, but it was always something I was conscious of.

Here at the Shalom center, the kids don’t have very much hair. All of their haircuts are very short, girls also, probably because it’s not easy to bathe (There are no showers. We, including myself, fill buckets of water from the nearby steam and then slowly pour it on our bodies with a cup. It would probably take several buckets and a lot of time to clean long hair this way).

The last time I cut my hair was in Mozambique. I told the barber to cut it shorter, but not very short. Unfortunately for me there is only one hair cut for African males (a generalization, but largely true), and he cut my hair extremely short, probably the shortest it’s ever been. At least I won’t need another haircut for a while!

But even with this shorter hair, the kids here love to touch my hair. And not only my head hair, but my arms and legs, too! They are fascinated by it. Any time I sit down, they come in around me and one will run their hands through my head hair, another will rub my arm, and if I’m wearing shorts, they will play with my leg hair, too. And not just the smallest kids do this- even the 15 year-old children do!

I know you are probably freaked out by this. At first, I was, too. It seemed really weird. But now I think it’s pretty funny. Here is something basic, that people really can’t control (maybe we can shave or wax, but hair still grows back! And when we lose it, it’s hard to get it back). And yet it was used as a way to connect with the kids. God knows I need ways to connect with these kids, as almost all of them don’t speak English, and I only speak a few words of Swahili!

The other day, an 11 year-old girl (who lived in Kenya, and therefore speaks English and often acts as a translator) told me she wants long leg hair like mine one day. I just laughed.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

In Africa, there’s a lot of holding hands that goes on. It happens between siblings, friends, and parents and kids. But it even happens between grown-up males!

This really freaked me out. I mean, it’s fine if other men want to do it, but it was really weird when another man would hold my hand. It felt like a Seinfeld episode- the one with the close talker. I felt like Jerry, when the “close talker” would come and stand right in his face, and he would stumble backwards, trying to escape.

I knew that African men hold hands sometimes, and that this was natural and meant only that you are good friends. But this didn’t make it less weird.

It first happened in Zambia, with my friend Friday. I had said something funny, and Friday wanted to give me five- but after he did, he didn’t let go of my hand. I remember feeling awkward and looking for someway of getting my hand out of there! Eventually, a nose scratch was what saved me.

At the Shalom center, the kids would always hold my hand- whether they were young or old, male or female. One of the young adults who lives nearby and often helps out even held my hand sometimes.

At this point, I began to start feeling more comfortable with this phenomenon. Why should I discriminate between male and female, young and old in this way? All those kids were looking for a friend, someone to love. Should I pull my hand back from one only because he was 17?

It reminded me of my time in Argentina, where strangers greet each other with a kiss on the cheek- even men to other men. At first it seemed weird, but then I got used to it, and now I really like this way of greeting. It gave a new meaning for me when I read in the Bible in Paul’s letters about greeting people with a holy kiss.

Here in Africa, I’m not going to go looking for guys' hands to hold. But if it happens, it happens. It’s just one way to show your friendship.

A New Record

I now have a new record. I was in a minibus with 35 people! Almost all of them were the young kids at the Shalom center, but hey, I’m counting it. 35 people, and of course not a single seatbelt…

Let's Play Doctor

I am very far from being considered a medical expert. My brother studied kinesiology in college, so he knows a lot about the body and how it works, but I know practically nothing. Almost everything I know about medicine and first aid comes from my time as a boy scout.

I know the basics, and could do CPR or the Heimlich on someone if necessary. By chance, here in Arusha, I had bought and just finished a book about Dr. Ben Carson, at Johns Hopkins, so I felt like I had new knowledge on the subject (The book is called “Gifted Hands”, and is a great story about his life and faith).

But then, my little knowledge had to be put into practice. We were up at the school, playing soccer and other games, when suddenly we heard a loud scream. “AHHHH!!! TEACHER, TEACHER! NJOOOO (come, in Swahili, one of the few words I knew)!”

The social worked and I ran over, and Maggie, an 11-year-old girl, had cut the bottom of her foot very badly. We were there in just a second, but there was already blood everywhere. The cut was about 3 inches long, and deep. She had been playing barefoot (like most of us, myself included), and stepped on some glass.

The social worker didn’t know what to do. Luckily he spoke English, so I gave out instructions. I got out my handkerchief, wrapped it around her foot, and pulled it tight. I told him to tell her to put pressure on it, using her hand or whatever else she could, and to keep the foot raised if possible (I don’t know if this was the right thing to do or not, but that’s what my instinct told me would help slow the bleeding). Then I ran down the hill to the center (about a 15 minute walk away) to get my first aid kit.

I ran back, putting on rubber gloves as I cradled the bag around my arm. I didn’t really know how serious it could be- it seemed like she was bleeding a lot, so I didn’t want to waste any time. When I got back to her, I saw that the handkerchief had been tossed aside, completely red and soaked in blood. They had put something else on her foot, and when I got there with the supplies, she took it off when I asked her to. Blood came pouring out.

Now, I really don’t like thinking about blood. Even since the car accident over 12 years ago where my father died and I was badly injured, I cringe at the thought or talk of blood. I no longer like needles, and it’s really difficult for anyone to take blood from me, and it’s impossible for me to give blood (which is a shame, because it is very important to give blood!). I even close my eyes during movies when there is even a threat of seeing blood.

This is even more ironic because as middle school student, I was one of the lucky ones who got to go and see Dr. Ben Carson speak at Johns Hopkins. And, after that I knew I wanted to be a doctor. The accident shortly after changed that dream.

Back at the school with Maggie, I felt like the guy in one of our commercials: He performs brain surgery, and then one of the nurses asks, “Doctor, when did you start working here?” He replies, “Oh, I’m not a doctor, I’m just with the tour. But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night”.

Of course this wasn’t brain surgery. I didn’t hesitate- I got out an alcohol wipe, and quickly ran it over her cut. I got out the gauze, put iodine on it, and taped it tightly over the cut. Then we carried her back to the center. I talked with the social workers, and told them that, in my not so expert medical opinion, she needed stitches.

So, we carried her down to the bus stop, and waited for a minibus. We had to squeeze into a crowded bus, and then get off at the hospital stop. But it was the Saturday before Easter, and this hospital was closed. So we hopped back on another crowded minibus and went to the closest clinic. It was a long walk, and it seemed like an obstacle course just to get her help. Since I was the one carrying her this whole time it seemed like a very long obstacle course!

The verdict: five stitches, and a tetanus shot. I think it was good that I was around, because the social workers had no idea what to do in that situation. It’s funny how God will use you even in those ways you never thought possible. But, that was enough blood and playing doctor in for me!

East York High School Volleyball

Walking around Africa, it’s always really interesting observing the different kinds of clothes you see. The more traditional clothing that many older women wear is very colorful and pretty. Many of us have seen pictures of the Masai tribe, and the colorful clothing and sandals made from old tires that they wear. Here, in Arusha, there are many Masai people, and several of the kids at the center are Masai.

I especially enjoy reading the t-shirts that I see. Here in Africa you see all sorts of random shirts that are obviously from the states. Like ones that mention specific middle schools and then have a map of Wisconsin on the back, with a star showing the location of that school. Or ones from different sports teams, including indoor soccer, minor league baseball, or even the professional sports teams.

I always get excited when I see shirts from my favorite sports teams. I saw an Orioles shirt the other day, and I have seen many old Steelers jerseys (ones of Kordell Stewart and Levon Kirkland). Just a couple of days ago I saw a Maryland shirt, and that got me so excited that I greeted the person wearing it. He was probably startled, but he didn’t speak English, though.

The obscure shirts especially got me thinking. At first, it seemed kind of ridiculous that someone here in Africa would be wearing an East York High School Volleyball t-shirt. I mean, they had no idea where East York was, and they certainly had never been there, and possibly they didn’t even know what volleyball was (these are my assumptions). Imagine seeing kids walk around the states with shirts in Swahili saying something like “Kwamref Cricket”.

Another natural thing to assume is that people in the states donated these clothing items, and the people here, as the level of poverty is higher, are in greater need for donated clothing. For the most part, I think that this is true.

But as I continued thinking, I started to wonder, maybe the people like wearing these shirts, even though they don’t know what they say. Or maybe, they could care less about what their shirt says, as long as they have a shirt to wear. I also wondered that, if by wearing one of the shirts, their peers would know that they are poor and had accepted donated clothing. Would this even matter to them?

I also thought about us, in the states. If we do give away clothing, we (including myself) only give away old clothing that we don’t want to wear anymore. I would never give away my favorite t-shirts. I would wait until that shirt is worn, or rips, and then when I do a spring cleaning of my dresser, I would throw it with the other shirts I hadn’t worn for over a year in a pile for Goodwill. What does this say about us and our culture, if we only give away the stuff that we don’t want, that we would just as well throw away? Why do I have so many t-shirts anyway?

Shalom My Friend

After a grueling two days straight on the road, I finally made it to Arusha, Tanzania. I have a friend here that I met at the World Council of Churches in Brazil, and I was looking forward to seeing her. I was exhausted and just feeling a bit down (probably from lack of sleep and food!).

I had been in contact with Joan (pronounced Joanne), and she helped look up places where I could do service work. When I got in, I grabbed a cheap hotel room, and called her. She was away, in the nearby town of Moshi (at the foot of Mt. Kilimanjaro), at a funeral. I didn’t know then, but funerals here in Africa are much longer affairs. Sometimes even three to four days! I was disappointed, because I knew that seeing a familiar face would help my spirits, but of course I knew it was important for her to be with her grieving friend.

But she did tell me that I should go to the ELCT (Evangelical Lutheran Church in Tanzania) to ask them about service opportunities. The next day, after searching around the city, I found the ELCT offices. I went in and talked with them, but they had no idea what to do with me. At this point I was feeling really low. What was I going to do?

I called Joan back, and she said she had talked to someone at Compassion International about me volunteering there. So I headed on over. I talked with the volunteer director, but he said they wouldn’t have anything for over a week. And, the work would be stuffing envelopes to send to the different donors.

I know that those kinds of things are important, but I didn’t want to spend my time in Africa doing that. I wanted to be with people. So, I quickly told him thanks, but I was looking to get started right away- I didn’t have a lot of time here in Arusha due to the change in plans.

The volunteer coordinator then offered a suggestion. He is on the board of a local home for street kids, and he could call up the director and ask if I could volunteer there. Without hesitation, I agreed.

The coordinator was happy to have a volunteer. He was close by and would meet me and take me to the center. I was really excited because this is the kind of work I wanted to do. For some strange reason, I have always (since middle school at least) had a dream to volunteer at a home for street kids and orphans in Tanzania. Why Tanzania, I’m not sure. But that’s been a dream of mine.

When we got to the place and I met the kids, I knew that this is where I should be for my time in Arusha. It wasn’t the original plan, but somehow I was directed here, to the Shalom Center for Street Kids.

No, You Can't Get There

One of the things I often hear in my travels is “no, you can’t get there”. Either the last bus for the day has left, or there are no buses, or there is no road anymore.

To me, “no, you can’t get there” sounds a little more like “I double-dog dare you to try and get there”, or “I’ll bet you can’t make it”.

And, through all my travels, every time someone tells me I can’t, I take it personally, and I always find a way to do it.

In Peru, they told us the mountain had collapsed onto the road, and so it was impossible to get to Cuzco. Maybe we’d have to wait a day or two, or maybe as long as several weeks. Of course this was entirely too long. So, I took a bus to the avalanche, and then hiked over it and onto the other side of the road. An hour later a bus coming the other way, who apparently hadn’t heard the news, came to the no longer existing road, and as he couldn’t continue, turned around and headed back towards Cuzco. I hopped on, and was on my way.

In Montevideo, Uruguay I went early in the morning to the bus station to catch a bus to Porto Alegre, Brazil, where our conference was starting the next day. But, they told me, I couldn’t get there- the only buses for Southern Brazil leave at night, and take over fourteen hours. If I waited in Montevideo for the next direct bus, I would be late.

So, I just took any bus that would get me a little closer to Porto Alegre. Every time we got to our destination, when I asked about getting to PA people told me it wasn’t possible. Little by little I got closer, and after four or five buses, and 16 hours, I arrived in Porto Alegre at midnight.

In Mbeya, Tanzania, I got to the bus station at about 3 pm and asked about the next bus to Arusha or Dar es Salaam. Many people told me it was impossible- I’d have to wait till the next morning. One man was very insistent on this point- but that’s probably because he had a bus going to Dar the next day.

After asking around at the bus station, I found out they were right. The next bus left in 17 hours! But I wanted to be in Arusha by the next day.

With some help, I went to the nearby junction, and by 4 pm I had found a truck driver going to Dar who agreed to take me with him- for less than a bus ticket would cost. It was even more comfy than the bus, as there was lots of space, and I got a good amount of sleep. Early in the morning we came to the road to Arusha, and in 15 minutes I was on the next bus.

Its funny how, in life, so many people tell us “no, you can’t”. They could help us or point us in the right direction, but instead they tell us no. Even our best friends do this, too! But sometimes when you feel called to do something (and, I’m not talking about buses anymore), you just won’t take no for an answer. In my experience, there are always obstacles to doing what you feel called to do. Some are bigger than others, and sometimes we let them block us from God’s Will. As for me, I always like the challenge. It wouldn’t be as fun without a couple of obstacles.

A Big Change in Plans

When I travel, I like to make outlines of where I’ll be, and when. For a long trip, I start by thinking of my route, and then writing down how much time I would ideally like to spend in each place. Then when I figure out how much time I actually have, I start cutting out time from different places, until the number of days are roughly the same.

Of course I never follow the schedule. It’s more of a suggestion, or a guess. I think of that line in Pirates of the Caribbean- “They aren’t rules, they're more guidelines”. Sometimes things don’t work out somewhere, so I quickly move on. Sometimes they work out great, so I stay a little longer. The schedule is important, though, to give to my mother, so she has at least some idea of where I’ll be.

Near the end of my time in Mozambique, I got an invitation to be a part of the World Council of Churches newly formed youth body (youth, in WCC terms, means 18-30 years old). I was really excited! At the end of the email, I saw the dates- May 4th, 2007.

That was only a couple months away! And, that was the day I was supposed to get into Kenya! I have several good friends in Kenya that I was excited about seeing, and I had scheduled three weeks in Kenya to do service work- and I had some great places I was considering to volunteer (but no formal commitments yet).

After praying and thinking about the situation, I decided to accept the invitation. It meant rearranging my schedule- but hey, that’s why it’s only a guideline. I felt that, although God was calling me to do service work, I was also being called to be a part of this body. So, I left Tete, Mozambique a couple of days early, to start saving up a couple of days to be in Nairobi.

In a way, I think that this is what my life after college has been like. I make my schedule, but something always pops up. It has helped to teach me to be flexible- I hear God telling me “you never know when I will call you somewhere, and so you better be ready!” It has also taught me to trust God. “You may think you know what’s best and where you’re going, but I have something better in store for you. Just trust me.”

So, the new plan is to go to Geneva, and then go early to Israel/Palestine. But who knows if this new schedule won’t change again…

Take a Ride With Me

As you might imagine, transportation works a bit differently in Africa.

Sometimes there are long distance buses- but I’ve found these only in the ‘richer’ countries (South Africa and Botswana, for example). The other countries usually have at least one bus a day between major cities, but it is impossible to find a schedule and you can’t buy a ticket in advance.

In most cases, the main form of transport for both long and short distances is a minibus- a 15 passenger van. But of course there are never only 15 people- they pack them as tight as they can. The most in a van that I was in was 25. Friends have had 27 and 28.

Being squeezed in isn’t so comfortable for a 6 ft 4 tall guy. (I honestly have not seen or met anyone even 6’2 in all of Africa) Every time we stop for more than a minute I try to jump out and stretch my aching legs. Man do my knees get sore! I try for the front seat, but they are the first seats to go, so I am relegated to the back.

I could wait for the next minibus in order to get in the front, but there’s no telling when it will leave. At the station, the minibuses only leave when they are full. I have waited over two hours in a minibus waiting for it to fill! This was especially painful on my trip from Tete to Arusha, because I had to take 6 different minibuses, each time waiting and waiting. It made the trip over two days long- with no breaks to sleep!

One of the neat things, though, is that you get a type of fast food service any time you pull to the side. Men and women selling all types of food and drinks run to the bus, and you don’t even need to step out to get a snack. Its funny watching money and goods exchange hands, even as the bus starts pulling away. On many occasions I have seen the vendors running to catch up to give a person their change.

But you have to be careful not to drink too much. You never know when you’ll get a toilet break. Five hours was the longest I had to wait. If I really have to go, I just kindly ask the driver if I can go to the bathroom the next time we stop to drop off or pick someone up. Usually he says yes, but I can only imagine how hard it would be for women who can’t just unzip and go quickly on the side of the road!

The Beauty of South Africa

South Africa is probably a beautiful country. I only got to see Johannesburg, but I have heard so many nice things about Cape Town, Kruger National Park, and other areas.

But to me, it wasn’t a very beautiful place.

Don’t get me wrong- I loved my time there, especially being with the kids at Nkosi’s Haven. They were wonderful.

But I can’t believe that the country had a policy of apartheid until 1994. I can’t believe that we as a country and we as a people largely stood on the sidelines, allowing this to continue, almost until the very end. It is true that many Americans began a divestment campaign, helping to finally end apartheid, but this only happened in force near the very end.

The place reeked of racism. You have plenty of neighborhoods where only whites or only blacks can enter. We were at risk if we went to a black neighborhood without a black guide (Soweto, for example). Even the nearby church that I went to had racist elements in it.

I listened to several stories from black college students about the blatant racism that still exists. Whites get better service in the country. And I heard many people, especially black South Africans, go on racist rants about Zimbabweans that are flooding their country from the economically and politically unstable dictatorship of Mugabe.

On my bus ride to Botswana, there were three white people besides me. They were first in the line and grabbed the front three rows of seats, one to each row. Black after black got on the bus, asking them if the seat next to them was free. No, they responded. The bus continued to fill, and when it was time to go there were only three open seats- all at the front.

There were bus troubles, and we had to stop. The (white) conductor came out, and spoke to us- in Afrikaans. This is one of the official languages in South Africa, and it also happens to be the language spoken by the whites. Kids have to take Afrikaans in school, but generally black people don’t know Afrikaans as well. Many people asked the conductor to explain what was happening in English. He refused. When he left, one black woman who can speak Afrikaans stood up and explained what happened. We would need to switch buses.

We switched buses, and as the three white people were in the front, they were the last ones off the bus and onto the new bus. Two of the white people got a seat together. The other one refused to sit next to a black person, even though there were several open seats, and instead stood in the back by the bathroom the whole time. He and the other whites got off in North South Africa.

My experience was different. I was in the back next to a Nigerian who lives in Botswana (on both buses). He was very nice and friendly, and we talked almost the whole trip. When we got off in Gabarone, he and his friend took me to several guest houses to see which one I liked (even though it was 10 pm). We found a good one, and I went to sleep. The next morning he came by to see how I was. If I had stayed another night, I am sure we would have had dinner.

When the apartheid government still existed, even into the 90’s, South Africa deliberately tried to destabilize neighboring countries that were friendly to the African National Congress (this is the largely black political party of Nelson Mandela that was banned in South Africa for 50 years). I saw firsthand what they did in Mozambique. They funded and trained an army, and set them loose in Mozambique, basically manufacturing a ‘civil war’. Hundreds of thousands of people died, and peace was only established in 1995. South Africa signed a treaty with Mozambique, promising not to fund the army any more in the early 90’s (90 or 91?), but they continued to do so anyway.

The scars remain, as many building in the north are still destroyed. Little by little Mozambique is improving. Thousands of land mines still present a very real danger for everyone. I even read about travelers who stopped on the side of the road, and peed into the buses, setting off a landmine.

I know that all South Africans are not racist. I met many wonderful black people who treated me as an equal. The coordinator and founder of Nkosi’s Haven is white. She has adopted black children and she works her butt off for the mothers and kids at the orphanage- not a single one of whom is white.

I also know that the USA has racism, some of which is very close to me (even in my own Lutheran congregation and multiracial town exists blatant racism).

Racism is stupid. Its unbiblical, inhumane, and hateful. And it makes people ugly.

Mozambique

In Mozambique I was in the Northwest province of Tete, not far from Malawi and Zambia. I stayed in the city, along the Zambezi River, at the guest house of the Lutheran World Federation, where I would be working.

This was a great way to practice my Portuguese- Mozambique was a Portuguese colony, and so it is the national language (although of course there are many regional African languages). Most of the funding for the LWF comes from Northern European countries, and so they request reports in English. Unfortunately not many people speak fluent English at the organization, so I lent them a hand at compiling the annual report.

After a couple days, I went with some of the staff to review the local projects that they coordinate out in the field- all in rural areas. It’s not all that far- about 250 km from project to project- but the roads are terrible and so it takes forever to get from place to place. Often you get the feeling that it would be quicker to walk!

In many places, the LWF has built local schools. To construct a school with chalkboards, electricity, desks, etc. costs about $35,000 US in Mozambique. In one area we visited, they were about to start construction. The existing school was branches and mud, with no desks or chairs, or even electricity. Most classes were held outside, which becomes a big problem in the rainy season.

In another village, the LWF constructed a secondary school. The closest secondary school (middle and high school) was over 100 km away. So, after fifth grade most students stopped their studies. This school had dorm rooms for the kids. Many come from far away, and as there is no regular transport, they could not commute in one day. They come for two weeks at a time, and each time they come back they need to bring back enough food to last them until the next time home. The dorms don’t have any beds (or mosquito nets), and the kids sleep on thin mats, on top of the concrete. They don’t have pillows or blankets, either.

There are only three or four teachers at the school, and about 150 students. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the kids have to make the meals themselves, cooking on wood fires outside (there is a kitchen, but it is so small and doesn’t have ovens or stoves). This is another big problem when the rainy season comes. I can only imagine if I needed to cook a meal for myself when I was 11 years old- I definitely would have starved!

As we traveled from town to town, we called a meeting of the townspeople. Sometimes as many as 100 people would come, and sit in a large circle, as we would consult them on various things. We provided equipment and training for beekeeping at one village, bikes for AIDS activists so they could more easily reach rural areas to spread their message at another, and fish ponds and irrigation projects at other villages.

It was a very informative time for me, but it was also difficult to see the standard of living in the towns. Not all is bad, though, as I could see the positive changes that are being made, and local leaders being lifted up.

This is a story about Gugu

We just celebrated Gugu’s (GooGoo) fourth birthday! All the volunteers are here, and we sang happy birthday to her in many different languages. She has the biggest smile on her face, and she is laughing. Even after a long, tiring day at the haven, the second we get home and see Gugu she reenergizes us. Her never-ending cheerfulness, laughs, and hugs never get old! In all my time here, I can’t remember a single time she was unhappy or crying, except that one time she closed the door on her hand.

I don’t even know Gugu’s mothers name- I never met her. She died several years ago from AIDS. And during Gugu’s birth, she transmitted HIV to her beautiful little girl. Now Gugu will have to live- and die- by this tragic occurrence that happens all too often here in Africa.

Even though she’s four now, she still looks like she is less than two years old. Only her maturity and her intelligence make her seem older. She speaks Zulu, as all the kids at the haven do. It’s their mother tongue, and they don’t learn English until they start school. But I always hear Gugu singing in English around the house- she sings “Irreplaceable” by Beyonce like a champ. It is one of the volunteer’s favorite songs, and the girls are constantly singing it. And Gugu picked it up, even though she never heard the Beyonce version.

We started teaching her the body parts in English, and she’s a quick learner. We’ll ask her “Gugu, where is your mouth” and she immediately points to it. We taught her the song “Head and Shoulders Knees and Toes” and she can do it all on her own now.

But HIV is taking its toll on Gugu. She never wants to eat, and we have to force her to take even a few bites of supper. To finish her entire bowl takes several hours. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and sat there for several hours every night, refusing to eat dinner. But this was because I was picky and stubborn, and not because of some disease- and my life didn’t depend on it.

She also never wants to take her daily medicines. What kid would be excited to do that? Remember when your mother tried to give you cough syrup? Gross! But of course her wellbeing depends on it. Her adoptive mother stormed out just the other night because Gugu wouldn’t take her medicine. She yelled “fine, it’s your life” and she left.

Gugu also has extremely short hair, one of the effects of HIV. Sometimes she has extensions put in, but for a kid they are irresistible to play with and they slowly get pulled out one by one.

With or without hair, and with or without HIV, she’s as good of a diva as Beyonce. I will remember her smile forever, and I will never forget the Gugu version of Irreplaceable. “You must not know about me, you must not know about me…”

On the road to Mozambique

From Joburg I made my way north to Botswana, first stopping in Gabs (Gabarone, the capital). But, as it was pretty expensive in Botswana, those of you who know me well wouldn't be surprised that I left Botswana as quickly as possible - but not without making a stop at the Okavango Delta and doing a walking safari.

As I missed the daily bus north to the Zambia border, I ended up hitchhiking for my first time ever. After an hour or so a guy picked me up. He was driving from South Africa to Zambia in a new car, only to sell it in Zambia for a large profit. After we crossed the Zambezi River, which was flooded, on a small ferry, I was off to Livingstone, a town very close to Victoria Falls.

Victoria Falls

The falls were incredibly full, and it's almost like walking into a hurricane as you make your way onto the island in front of the falls. I rented a rain coat, but it didn't matter, as I came back soaked to the bone. As the wind blows, the mist clears and you get a great shot of the falls. But i doesn't last long, and I had no time for a picture.

There are permanent rainbows above the falls, and every time there is a full moon the park stays open at night (even thought there are no lights and few railings!) so that you can see lunar rainbows. Completely by accident, this happened to be the day that I was there. So I came back at night, willingly got soaked again, and saw the lunar rainbows. That night I stayed up late, so I could see the lunar eclipse.

On to Zambia

Then it was off to Lusaka, the capital of Zambia, to visit Friday, a friend who was my roommate in Brazil for the World Council of Churches assembly. I met his wife and two month old son, and got to see and learn about their life in Zambia. It was great to be there first hand, learning from them, as Friday is very active in the Church and is a leader in the fight against AIDS, political corruption, and many other important issues.

Malawi Next

From Zambia I went to Malawi, to see Lake Malawi, one of the great lakes of Africa. I met three Americans there who are teaching in Malawi for an extended period of time. They offered me a ride and asked me to stay the night, so I did. I was really excited to see some of the work they are doing, as it could not be in a more needy country. Malawi is one of the ten poorest countries in the world and has a literacy rate of only 20%. Almost everyone did not even speak English, which is an official language.

One of the guys, named Bill, was a missionary in Malawi for three years several decades ago, and when he and his family got back to the states they were often criticized, being called 'nigger lovers' and other names. This was especially hard for his kids, who were only in Middle School. But now he has returned, by himself, to teach again.

Jeff is a 36 year old, and is a professor at a teachers college. He gave up a lot to come to Malawi, and many people told him he must be crazy. A long term relationship even ended as a result of his decision. But he had long felt called to do this, and so here he is for at least two and a half years.

Ted is retired, but is now back, working as a teacher at a University. I went with him to see the college, and met several students. As I talked with one, she told me that she had just triumphed over a long and life threatening bout with malaria, one of the leading causes of death in Africa. This is a disease that is always around, as there is no vaccine or sure, and even the best preventative measure may not be enough to stop the spread of the disease. But, for short term workers/travelers, there is effective medicine you can take (which I am!).

To Mozambique

After my short time in Malawi, I was off to Mozambique in a small combi, packed with about 21 people (originally designed for 13). Even though we went by the main highway, there were incredibly few cars, and always hundreds of people walking on the road. Sometimes you couldn't see a building for miles, but there were still people walking on the road. We passed people spending their day cutting patches of grass with machetes, and others sitting at their small food stands, where even if they sold their entire stock they might make only a dollar. Rarely did you see a house made with cement and all the buildings seemed to have roofs made of branches.

Not much changed on the Mozambique side.

Johannesburg - Nkosi's Haven

On February 5th, I landed in Johannesburg, South Africa, after a twelve hour layover in London. Maybe it was my misconceptions, but Iwas surprised at what I saw. The skyscrapers, crime, and lack of a decent public transportation system made it fit to be a city right in the USA. Even the "bad areas", as described to me by the locals, seemed to have middle class or lower middle class housing. For awhile I didn't see any slums, with houses built of corrugated tin, which were all too common in South America.

That same day I landed I headed to begin my volunteer work at Nkosi's Haven, a safe place for Mothers with HIV and their children, some of which had HIV passed on to them at birth. The Haven provides food and medicines to everyone, along with a private education for all the kids, beginning with pre-school and even including college. There are three houses on the property, plus some office and storage space. In all there are around 12 mothers and 60 children living there, with several more living at the Village, a property nearby that they recently bought, which, when they receive the money needed, will be an even larger facility for even more mothers and children- over 100! There is already a full waiting list for the village.

In this place, it truly is the village that raises the children. Many of the children's mothers have already died of AIDS, and when one mother dies, another mother will look after the children. Because of this, the kids have a different sense of family. One five-year-old boy told me about his mother, and then about his other mother, and then about his other mother. He then told me about his many brothers and sisters. It seemed like everyone at the pre-school was his sibling.

Every morning we would go to help out the pre-school across the street from the Haven. There are over 100 kids, from ages 6 months to 5 years. Sometimes we would hand copy different worksheets for the kids, because they didn't have a photocopier. And, before we left, we would always help feed the babies.

I would always read to each of the classes. When the kids saw me carrying a book, they would all yell 'story time' and run for the steps. They would sit down, not without a little pushing and shoving, and start singing their storytime song. As I finished each page and showed them the picture, they would all say "woooowww".

When I finished, it was playtime. Although the play area was tiny, they all wanted to play hide and go seek, even though there was only one place to hide- a cut out in the wall of the school. So I would count, and they would all squeeze into this area. I would jump by and yell, and they all screamed and ran out. After four or five times of the exact same thing, I decided it was time for another game. The only other game they knew was called monster. For this creative game I would make monster noises and chase them. They would scream and run, but eventually I would tire out and need a break.

After we went back to the Haven we would have a lunch break before the kids came back from school. As I met the kids, I noticed that they were all so happy and full of life. They immediately welcome any person with hugs and kisses, or, as in the case with the older boys,with cool handshakes. Most weren't shy, and we became instant friends.

I knew that several of them had HIV. I couldn't help but wonder which ones, even though I didn't really want to know. I would think to myself "I hope Keneliwe doesn't have HIV. She's just the sweetest and smartest girl. Oh, and I hope Musa doesn't have it. He's so fun and nice, and a good soccer player." So many times I went through each of the kids, thinking this. But I knew several of them were infected. It was just so unfair that some of these beautiful kids wouldn't live to see their high school graduations, and that as they aged, they would slowly waste away and their energy would be sucked out of them, from no fault of their own.

But thankfully, as we played soccer and jumped rope, and as we pelted each other with water balloons on the sweltering hot summer days, I wouldn't think about these things. It was only back home, as I would lay in my bed or was alone, that it was hard to rid my mind of these thoughts. Back at the Haven, every day the kids would read, and we volunteers were all assigned 8 kids to monitor their reading and help them with their homework. One of the 8 was a young kid with reading troubles, with whom we would sit with 30 minutes each day to help them.

Sonto was the 6 year-old girl in my group. She couldn't read or count. One of the volunteers told me that she has epilepsy, and therefore can't concentrate for very long. She has had several violent seizures in her short life, and therefore her mother insists on sleeping with her, in the case that she would have another. And, instead of walking to school, Sonto is driven to school, paid for by her mother, because of the fear that she will have a seizure along the way. If this wasn't enough, she also has HIV.

I would sit with her and we would go over the different letters. We would play a little hide and seek game, so that she would practice counting. Other times, I would read her a book she would pick out. My last night, a Friday, I asked to stay at the Haven. We played games and did some skits, and the kids loved it. We then watched Shrek, with 50 some kids of all ages squeezed into a small room. Zintle, a third grader who asked me to be her Valentine on V-day, and Sonto laid on me as I fell asleep during the movie, which I very usually do.

I traveled through Zambia on my way to Mozambique where I am doing more service work. But I can't stop thinking about those kids and their mothers…For more information on Nkosi's Haven, visit their website. Or read "We are all the Same", a book about Nkosi and how the Haven came to be.

Ray's plan

The plan is to spend six months, from the beginning of February to the beginning of August, abroad doing service work. I will start in South Africa, and will go by land to Nairobi or Addis Ababa, then on to the Holy Land, then to Eastern Europe, and finally on to Rome where I will catch my flight home.

I have experience backpacking around the world. When I graduated college I spent several months sightseeing in Northern and Northeast Europe. Then, after my year in Argentina, I took two trips in South America- both from Buenos Aires to Caracas. One by way of the Andes (Chile, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, and Venezuela) and the other by way of Brazil (Argentina, Brazil, French Guiana, Suriname, Guyana, and Venezuela).

It was on the first backpacking trip in South America that I vowed to give up these long sightseeing trips. It wasn’t because I didn’t like it- I love traveling and the excitement of meeting new people and exploring new places! It was because as I saw all these amazing sights, I still felt this emptiness inside.

It was on the hike to Macchu Picchu that I finally realized this. We had reached Santa Teresa, our last stop before the great Incan city. I left our group to go back to the hostel, to have some time to rest. In the road, there was a young boy playing soccer by himself. I asked him if he wanted to kick the ball around with me. Soon another kid joined us, then another, and then finally it seemed as if all the kids from the town were playing- around 30 kids!

I stayed up practically the whole night, playing soccer, hide and go seek, tag, duck duck goose (they had never heard of this game), and then finally we sat in a circle and told ghost stories. Eventually, I walked each one to their houses, and they told me about their lives.

As I continued on the trip and after I came home, this was the night I remembered most. This was the night I most longed for, the night that always put a smile on my face when I thought about it, the night that made the whole trip worth it. It wasn’t the awesome sights of the great salt flats in Bolivia, Macchu Picchu, Cartagena, or even Angel Falls that left me breathless. It was that night with those kids.

On my second trip in South America, after another stay with my host family and friends in Argentina, I went through Brazil, staying for one month in Porto Nacional, doing service work. It was amazing, as again I came in contact with some incredible kids with incredibly nothing in their possessions. And it felt so good and so right to be with them.

Now I want to discover Africa and all of its wonders. I want to experience its culture and its problems, too, as I do service work in many different places. I want to continue on to the Holy Land and learn about what is going on there, and, if I can, try to help alleviate even a little suffering. And finally I want to do some service work in the Former Yugoslovia, a place that was ripped apart in a bloody war and genocide in the 90’s, and even now faces an uncertain future, especially in regards to Kosovo.

I have made all the contacts with agencies on my own. I’m not doing this with any organization or group of people- even though most of the places I will serve are related somehow to the Lutheran Church. I am using mainly my own funds, although some have generously given to help offset some of the costs. This is not a sightseeing trip, and it means that I will miss out on a lot of the tourist sights in the places I am going. But I’ve done that before, and that’s not why I’m doing this trip.

When I get home, I will go back to school- to seminary, to study theology on a track to become an ordained pastor in the ELCA. But I’m trying not to think too much about that now. I will need plenty of energy and focus for this trip! I am going South and East, with an open heart and an open mind, to people and places unfamiliar to me, to let myself be enriched by them- and to help out where I can.