Dear Patient Friends

July 14, 2006

Dear Patient Friends,

According to the CIA fact book, the median age of a
person in Uganda is 15.

UNICEF is the division of the United Nations that
deals with children and children’s needs. You can
spot the word UNICEF at all angles in Kitgum. Usually
it’s black writing against a white background.
Sometimes it’s blue on white. The word UNICEF is
emblazed on jeeps that take the unkempt roads with
ease. The word is clear in the daylight on the huge
empty tents waiting to be filled by the night
commuting children at sundown. UNICEF is on the
packets of the iodine tablets to clear the water
against the cholera outbreak. It’s on scraps of tarp
that cover the burnt remains of the roofs of huts in
the camps built too close to each other to prevent
fire.

The Lords Resistance Army (LRA) targets children. But
then, children are most of Uganda. The LRA is a
rag-tag rebel group known internationally for
kidnapping children between the ages of 8 and 12. They
murder and force the children to watch or even
participate in the murder. Once they beat humanity
from their victims they recruit the young people to join
their ranks. They take girls. This is what is most
horrific in the eyes of the local people. The people shake
their heads hoping not to imagine the fate of the
girls. Sometimes, after months or years, the girls
escape - a baby or two on their backs.

Kitgum Town, with its one bank, a hospital (with one
microscope) and bicycle taxis, is the biggest city
many here have ever seen. Most people who are now
living in Kitgum are not from Kitgum. They will tell
anyone who asks that they are from a now abandoned
village, not too far, mostly within the 65 kilometers
between Kitgum and the Sudanese border. But with the
last 10 years of terror from the LRA, no small village
has been safe. The government set up camps. People left
their home villages, they left their community, their
rural school, their crops and their dead buried near
their family hut which they also abandoned. The LRA
raided the abandoned villages. They stole the crops and
burned all that could be burnt. In most cases, there
is no village left.

The camps are sprawling huts, small, built too close
together and full of children. Near each camp is an
army base protecting its residence from the next LRA
attack. Yet, few feel their children are safe. They
send them into town at night. A child packs a mat, a
blanket and heads to the UNICEF tents in well lit
areas of Kitgum. They find their way, younger
siblings in toe, to the hospital ground, school yards
and the football (soccer) fields. They lay on the
ground, the dust powdering their skin. They pull the
blanket – often shared – close to their chin or
over their heads and sleep as children sleep, angelic
and hopeful.

It cannot be said that anyone appears unhappy in
Kitgum. Perhaps because there has been peace for
three months. Actually, the raids stopped about six
months ago, but it took three months for the awful
frozen shock of terror to melt before people could
realize nothing has happened of late. There has been
no truce, no amnesty (to spite international media,
northern Ugandans are sure Kony will never fall for an
amnesty agreement – Museveni’s word is worthless).
The raids simply stopped. But so has the food.

The LRA, who hides in southern Sudan, grows in number
(by kidnapping children and forcing them to become rebel
soldiers) and in size (most in the LRA are not full
grown adults) from the village raids. But now, with
villagers in the camps, there are no crops for the LRA
to raid. The hope is to starve off the rebels. But
in the process the villagers in the camp go without
food too. The World Food Program provides basics,
corn and oil and rice. A staple of this region is
millet, but the WFP doesn’t supply millet.

Right now, as I sit with my journal writing this
letter home, a young man greets me. He has a beaming
smile and wears brown clothes. His name is Simon and
his right arm is missing just above the elbow. He
looks about 16 and had heard I am from the North
America - a rarity in these parts. He wants to know
if I know Dr. John Wood, also from North America. He
knows little more of John Wood than his continent of
origin. I explained how very big North America is.
Simon assured me that he is fairly certain John Wood
is not from Mexico.

Simon also told me his father and older brother were
lost in an LRA raid. First their village was
attacked, then Simon was taken by the rebels. The
Ugandan military followed, attacking the rebels and
their hostages at the same time. In that second attack Simon
lost his arm and the LRA left him for dead. Simon was
taken to Fr. Tarcisio (who, incidentally, found his arm
when he went to bury the dead) who brought him to
John Wood, the head of St. Joseph Hospital in Kitgum.
From Simon’s beaming impression of North America, John
Wood must have made a wonderful impact on Simon’s
life.

There is more to write but little time. I’ve now
transcribed what was in my journal to a computer which
is running on batteries because the electricity has
failed this morning. It’s dark and the battery is
draining fast.

So thank you for reading again. I am well.

love, molly

"Have some, it's especial for this region..."

"Have some, it's especial for this region..."

The region is Kitgum, Uganda. My flight had landed an hour before. Fr. Tarcisio (see Link #1) - a Camboni Missionary from Italy who has spent the past 42 years here in northern Uganda - was standing beside me as I partook in my first meal in Kitgum. He offered me the local specialty, a platter of fist-sized meatball-looking delicacies. I roll the speckled grey and black meat onto my plate. It gives easily to my fork and crunched more than I'd expected when I took my first bite. It has an unexpected flavor released with each chew which, unfortunately, resembles canned dog-food. I smile as brightly as I can looking at Fr. Tarcisio as my fork slices another bite. "Termites," he says and nods. Trying to contain his inner smile he walks away.

8 July, 2006

Dear Friends,

Why am I in northern Uganda? Well, Fr. Robert - a native of Kitgum - invited me and I have the summer free. So I'm here for the month of July to learn about the situation of this region. This is the area so vulnerable to the Lord's Resistance Army (Links #2 and #3) and it is ravaged by HIV AIDS (Link #4).

I arrived in Kampala, the capital of Uganda, on the Fourth of July. Kampala is Delhi-like in its crowd, traffic and general chaos. Though disarming for a visitor - especially one of such a contrasting skin color - it is impressive that Kampala has come so far. Twenty years ago it was a hollow shell of a city following Idi Amin's terrorizing rule and the subsequent violence as internal power struggles pounded on the city. For most of Uganda, the past 20 years have been a time of growing stability - for most of Uganda, but not for all of it. The north, the area bordering Sudan and Congo (Zaire), the problems of betrayed loyalties, tribal warfare and government neglect continue.

None-the-less, I was relieved to be on the low flying 19-seat prop plane as we took off to the northern city of Kitgum. The view of vast Kampala below gave way to the green of African vegetation only broken by the site of the Nile River separating the north from the south.

As we neared the landing in Kitgum the sand and clay soil looked soft and comforting compared to urban Kampala. Kitgum's runway is dirt and runs beside huts of clay bricks and grass roofs. We came to a stop not at a terminal but at a line of six or seven white jeeps bearing the flags and emblems of international Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs): Oxfam, UN, Red Cross and others.

So I had my first meal of a local specialty - upon closer inspection I could see the crunch was the small legs and external skeleton of the insects. I received the information that things were busy right now as one of the Camboni mission parish's catechists had died that day - snake bite.

There is so much more to write. Ugandans are wonderful people. As with all new cultural experiences, I find I sink into the experience. What impacts me today will go unnoticed tomorrow as a new layer of the life here is revealed before my eyes. Thank you for taking the time to read this.

love and peace,

molly

p.s. My sister, Christina, arrived in her community in Honduras the same day I arrived in Kitgum. Christina will stay for at least 6 months living in community (L'Arche - Link #5) with those with mental handicaps. She is excited and happy to be sharing life in Honduras. I'm sure she'd appreciate your prayers for her and her work. Thanks!

MDL

Links:

#1 - On Fr. Tercicio - http://www.worldmission.ph/5June06/Tarcisio%20pazzaglia.htm

#2 and #3 - On the LRA - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord's_Resistance_Army and http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/5157220.stm

#4 - On HIV/AIDS in Uganda - http://hotzone.yahoo.com/b/hotzone/blogs1234

#5 - On L’Arche - http://www.larcheerie.org

India - 2003-2004

In 2003-2004 I was an Ambassadorial Scholar with Rotary International. I spent the year at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. During my time I traveled through the north of India, across Pakistan and to Nepal. What follows are posts from that trip.

A Letter from India - May 5, 2004

Dear Friends and Family,

Well, it’s my brother, Devin, who’s here now. This still does not mean the whole family has been here: Patrick and Lisa hold good jobs and have no intention of visiting in my final week in India. Yep, this is my final week. It’s unbelievable to me that I’ll be back in the US so soon. India is not a place one just stops being in. Nor is it a place anyone can really see in a lifetime, certainly not in 10 months.

In my last letter I promised to share a bit about the trip to West Bengal that my sister, Christina, and I went on.

India’s spring festival of love, excitement, childhood and cheer is called Holi. It’s celebrated by evening fires and daytime color. It happened that Christina and my trip coincided with Holi.

She told me her name was Nayna in the limited English the Sisters taught her. The purse probably communicated my lack of intention to stay, though I didn’t want to send such a message. It fell from my shoulder as I attempted to teach her patty cake. Her legs tucked under her, she sat on her bed ladylike with eyes brightly looking up into mine. I wondered if I saw hope in their glow, or if it was just my own need for reassurance. Her toes poked out, round and shiny, beneath her dress. Her bony palms slapped my own, while her fingers, cold and swollen with blue nails, hit my wrists. She’s dainty, enchanting in her smile, four years old and dying. She lives at the Sisters of Charity’s Orphanage in Durgapur about 160 kilometers north of Kolkata¹.

Nayna’s room is poorly lit, filled with child-sized hospital beds whose railings raise and lower to ease a caregiver’s task. Four beds are pushed together in an effort to conserve space. The other three children appeared to be boys, but that’s because their heads are shaven. They each lay in a bed, unable to sit up. Christina took interest in one in particular. His arms bent stiffly and collapsed towards his chest accentuating his handicap. Sister told Christina that he has cerebral palsy. His mouth was open in effort and expectation as if about to speak his first words. No word would be spoken. His expression is one of excitement at Christina’s attention.

Already, a week before Holi, pink powder had been thrown at Christina and me through a bus window. Knowing it was all in good fun but without color to return the assault we could only duck from the pink dust.

Without really planning it, but lead by our common interests, Christina and I found ourselves on an expedition to organizations and agencies that work to address needs here in India. Christina, who works with the L’Arche Community (a community of intellectually handicapped people and their caregivers) in Erie, PA, wanted to visit a sister community called Asha Nikitan in Kolkata. My scholarship here in India is through Rotary International, so I was interested to learn of Rotary Projects in the area. Rotary Clubs are all over India. As a Rotary Scholar I have the wonderful luck of being welcomed about anywhere. Amitabha (Amit) Bajpayee is the contact Rotarian I had in the area. Thanks to him we were hosted all along our travels.

The powder is the mildest of the fun. Come Holi Morning, syringe type water shooters and buckets filled with colored water are aimed at every moving target.

Amit belongs to the Rotary Club in Durgapur. He brought us to the Missionaries of Charity Orphanage where Nayna lives. The next day he brought us to the Speech and Hearing Action Society. SAHAS was begun by Mr. and Mrs. Jajodia whose son was born deaf and were told that in India deafness would mean he was also destined to be without speech. The Jajodias were fortunate enough to go to Los Angeles (John Tracey Clinic) where they were trained to teach their child to communicate with the 2% hearing he still had. Today, their son is 16, still deaf, but fluent in both Bengali and English. In addition, through the founding of SAHAS, there are 80+ children whose parents might not have been so fortunate as to go to Los Angeles, but who are learning to communicate in spite their being deaf.

Two little boys, one 4, the other 3, in royal blue shirts and clean faces ran in circles through the doorways that connect the three rooms making up SAHAS’s building. Our serious conversation of the continuing needs of the Center – including a larger building – was repeatedly interrupted by happy shrieks from the boys. I wanted a picture, I thought of just their ordinary play. But the boys’ parents wouldn’t let it be. Pictures are too rare to be wasted on candid play. Each boy stood still for a moment, the small cords of the hearing aids tucked under their collars. They looked at the box between our faces then blinked, startled by the flash. The second boy reached for the camera. Timid that it might flash in his eye again, he cautiously turned it around in his hand and then attempted to look through it himself. I turned it away from his face and lightly tapped the button showing how to make the flash. In an instant he made it flash taking an up-close picture of me.

Holi is a festival to pretend we don’t know any better. Children assault their elders with pink water then tackle their wet hair with yellow dust. Wives take the opportunity to pour purple water over their husbands and husbands smear pasty undiluted die in their hands and rub it all over their wives’ faces. No person, car, dog or even cow gets away without color.

Of the projects we’d come to Durgapur to see, I was most interested in learning about a school that the Rotary Club of Durgapur was running themselves. I had read a bit about it, learning that it rested in an area on the boarder of two districts, each of which believed the village belonged to the other. For this reason neither district took on running the school. Before the Durgapur Rotary built a school, the local people wanted their children to receive an education. They were holding school in the shade of a tree in the hopes of bringing it to the government’s attention.

On our day to visit the school the classes were extended into the late afternoon in order for the children to meet us. The homes around were thatched but the school was brick with four classrooms and three walled pits outback serving as toilets. The school was very poor, cracked blackboards hung on each room wall and insect infested bamboo served as beams. Damage from last year’s monsoon caused the roof of heavy tiles to sag. The children were shy, not accustomed to visitors. Their eyes raised inquisitively while their chins obediently cast themselves down. A few had been taught English rhymes, like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. They proudly recited their rhyme and sat as quickly as they had stood.

Once the children were dismissed, a strong thin father carrying his even thinner four or five year old son arrived. The school building was converted into a simple health clinic. Once a week, a doctor comes from the city to address the health needs of the families in the village. The boy had cerebral palsy, we were told. The doctor explained to us in English the simple (and economical) uses of homeopathic medicines. In the dusty heat, the child clung to his father, trusting his loving efforts would carry him to what good there is to be done.

In Kolkata, the Asha Niketan house had a huge terraced roof, perfect for Holi celebration. There was great excitement in the air as everyone donned their oldest outfit expecting its colorful retirement. We climbed the stairs, some more capable then others. A few bounded up taking the steps two at a time. Others held back, apprehensive to see what the day held. The youngest of the community, Bidhan², only 10 years old, had the most severe physical disabilities. He could walk only short distances; his legs bent weakly attempting to balance his upper body which was a perpetually in moving "S" shape. Now he clung to the railing, pulling himself up in jolted movement. Christina, who is more instinctively generous than I, quickly knew to lift him slightly, taking some of the weight off his legs allowing him to lift one to the next step. The intimacy and trust was immediate.

Once all of us were on the roof the colors came out. Buckets of purple water were poured on one another. Then yellow and pink dust was smeared on one another’s face, hair and clothes. A puddle of purple formed on the cement rooftop. We cupped the water from the puddle in our hands and threw it at each other again. A short wrestling match took place in the puddle. Bidhan, clinging to the rail of the porch, smiled in the sunlight, unable to throw water himself but covered with color all the same. After the wrestlers relaxed, with the help of others, Bidhan made his way to the purple pool on the ground. Lying on his stomach, he allowed his hands and arms to swim in the water, the air and happiness. There’s bliss.

I fly back to the US on 12 May. Devin will say a couple more weeks and visit Pakistan. Incidentally, when Devin went to the Pakistan Conciliate here in India there were at least three times the number of people applying for visas then there were eight months ago when I stood in that line. The India/Pakistan relations have been improving daily since the ceasefire on Eid, last November.

I look forward to seeing so many of you again. Thank you so very much for all the support you’ve shown in the past 10 months (and before too!). I thank God every time I think of having come here. I wouldn’t have taken the risk of it weren’t for family and friends who supported, believed in and prayed for me. Thank you.

There is no fitting way to stop living in India, nor is there a fitting way to stop writing about it. I don’t say it lives on in me, but that it simply lives on, to be watched, participated in, worried about, born to, threatened by and loved. To have had moments of my life lived here has been an honor and, I hope, an act of peace.

peace and love,

molly

* The Speech and Hearing Action Society is looking for information, diagnostic equipment, hearing aids and other needs for children born deaf. Any connection of techniques or technology would be used well in Durgapur. Please contact me if you have any information that could help children born deaf in India.

¹ Calcutta’s name was changed to Kolkata in 2000

² Name changed for reasons of …Molly’s forgetfulness about names

A Letter from India - March 24, 2004

24 March 2004

Dear Family and Friends,

Hello all! My parents visited India for two weeks last month. In honor of their visit, I’ve moved into a two bedroom apartment off campus. I’m high on the fourth floor of a middle class neighborhood. With my very few furnishings, the cement walls and floors echo. The screenless windows stay open and the fans stay on to keep the rooms cool. Built in cupboard doors, too high for me to reach, hang open in the bedrooms. Pigeons come in the open windows to nest in the vacant storage space. I’m living in luxury.

There is something reassuring in having my parents, so familiar and close, in a land that, though my temporary home, is still foreign and insecure to me. While they visited I took time off class to relax and see India through a newcomer’s eyes again. Maybe I can become so wrapped up in India that I forget how to see India anymore. My parents and I visited Rajasthan – India’s desert area with limber camels and incredible forts.

At the end of my parents’ visit we were joined by my sister, Christina, who extended her Spring Break in order to see India. Together we all went to visit Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. Christina still had a week and a half in India after my parents left. We both were interested in seeing Kolkata (Calcutta’s name was changed to Kolkata in 2000) so we traveled to West Bengal.

As grace would have it, as opposed to great foresight on my part, my sister and parents visited India in the best weather of the year. The temperatures were like a breezy summer day in Ohio. To my surprise, within two days of Christina’s leaving the heat moved in. Now I remember my first impressions of India eight months ago: heat accented by the sound of peacocks hidden in the trees of JNU’s jungle. It’s too hot to sit in class. We lean forward off the backs of the benches so that the sweat does not collect and moisten the backs of our shirts. We try to concentrate while our sub-conscious reasons that now it would be best to sleep. Then, as if to remind us that things could be worse, we hear the outdoor generator conk. The six overhead fans slowly whirl to a stop. This is a daily event now that the heat has returned. Time slows when the electricity is off as if the turning of the clock is generated by the turning of the fan. More likely it’s just the assault of the heat that slows the time. I kid you not, my battery operated alarm clock, sitting on my windowsill, keeps time just fine through the night, but slows during the heat of the day. At 8pm it still reads 5:15. I know the cooler nights are a lingering relief that will disappear soon. And so it is that I’m back in Delhi. The comfortable weather lasted much longer then I’d expected (nearly 5 months!) which has been a blessing.

Tonight is the India/Pakistan Final. As has been the case with the other four cricket matches leading to tonight’s play off, streets and shops will be quiet. Taxi drivers will be hard to find. In order to draw business, restaurants, cyber-cafes and even some shops bring out televisions. Those who cannot afford the goods in the shops or restaurants still gather around the windows to watch the match. Many bets are placed, whether based on skill or loyalty I don’t know. The jovial conversation on the subject masks the depth of the competition. India and Pakistan have been on improved terms since agreeing on the cease fire in honor of Eid last November. Now newspapers carry confidence building stories of how well Indians have been treated by Pakistanis when attending the games. This is very encouraging, considering the high stakes game of 'Chicken' the nuclear armed brother nations have been facing against each other over the years.

I’m aware my letters are often long so I’m keeping this one shorter. I’ve cut a good deal out of this message. There is so much to share. I particularly want to tell you about Christina’s and my trip to West Bengal. But that will have to wait until the next letter. For now I’m well and will write again soon!

love and peace,

Molly

follow up - 10:20pm - alone in my apartment: India must have won. You should hear the fireworks!

Thoughts on Mother Teresa - March 15, 2004

There are some who have criticized Mother Teresa and the Missionaries of Charity. The critics are often those in developed countries who are most concerned about overcoming the problems of poverty and equity in our world. They say that she did not do enough to tackle the systemic problems of poverty. Some say that she took money from the wealthy whose funds may, or may not, have had ethical sources. Her homes, run by her Missionaries of Charity, didn’t meet basic health care standards.

But I’ve learned it’s hard to understand the ramifications of Mother Teresa’s actions until you have stepped over a shivering burlap scrap, whom you know may very well be someone dying, and continue on you way for a cup of tea. Only until you have looked a slender mother in the eye as she carries a sleeping child and an empty bottle and tell her a forceful "No", because you don’t believe in encouraging begging, can you begin to understand the extent of Mother Teresa’s life call. You might think these are examples of the harsh and insensitive wealthy towards the poor. I hope they are not; I have done both already this week.

I search for a word to describe how I feel and can only find "emasculating" even if I have no claim to masculinity in the first place. It’s as if things that I have valued so dearly, held so true to myself, have now been ripped from me revealing how little I had in the first place.

Mother Teresa’s critics are well intended but far away from the heat of Kolkata. Sure, method matters in all work and good intention is never enough, but Mother Teresa’s inspiration is an incredible ministry. It can be so easy to lose hope when what is present emits no glow of change coming. But to love is an act of faith, and faith is not based on what we see around us but what we believe to be beyond our reach in the realm of that which is greater and better than us. Accepting the humanity, even of Mother Teresa’s ministry, is not to let down our ideals but to put hope in good coming out of our clearly inadequate attempts to love one another.

An update on Yamuna Pushta Slum - March 4, 2004

Yamuna Pushta Slum Update – 3/4/04

Yamuna Pushta follows the Yamuna River. It was January 10 that I first visited the slum. I wrote these impressions about it soon after. I’ve been back a couple of times since.

***

The narrow alleys between the simple brick homes of Yamuna Pushta are comfortably walked single file. If we walk two next to each other, we’re constantly quickly stepping back to allow those walking the opposite direction to pass. Even single file, at every corner, which is every few meters, we slow down getting closer to the wall foreseeing a possible collision at the blind turn. Each corner we pass presents new angles and views of slum life: naked children gathered around the communal spigot, soap suds dripping off them into the stream of water and sewage following the alleyway; ankle high outdoor stoves made of mud smolder outside of doorways, unattended.

My favorite sight in the alleys of Pushta was a group of five or six women and girls squatting in the shade outside a home. They were straining their eyes. Half were picking lice from the other half’s hair. Those having the lice removed from their hair were bent over small beads, stringing them on a wire bangle. Anisa had already asked about these bracelets. They’re to be sold to a US company. The bracelets of tiny beads will most likely find their way to the US malls where they’ll be sold in stores like OLD NAVY and URBAN OUTFITTERS. And so, two images of modern life touch.

***

On January 10, there was an article in the lower left hand corner of the newspaper, The Hindu, telling of a new park to be built in an effort to make Delhi “a world class city”. The term “world class city” is thrown around so much. Those of us from places (like Geneva, Ohio) that have no desire to be a “world class city” wonder what the appeal is. Mostly I’d interpreted “world class city” to mean a nice airport and well organized traffic. Though I like Delhi’s airport (for its efficiency, not its beauty), the traffic…well, there are a lot of people in Delhi.

I didn’t look closely at the article in the newspaper but a few days later Anisa brought it by. It went into describing the plans for the park along the Yamuna River, behind Raj Ghat. It said the first step to building the park was removing the squatters living there now.

***

Rohinton Mistry’s novel A Fine Balance set in 1975 India, describes how slum residents moved in. The characters, an uncle and nephew looking for jobs and ahome in the city, ask about the masses of houses on the land they are about to move to themselves.

“But then, whose land is this?”

“No one’s. The city owns it. These fellows bribe the municipality, police water inspector, electricity officer. And they rent to people like you. No harm in it. Empty land sitting useless – if homeless people can live there, what’s wrong?”

The problem, of course, is when the land is wanted again. In Yamuna Pushta today, it’s not just renters falling victim to decades of corruption. It’s people who have been farming the land, maintaining businesses and holding deeds for over 20 years who are now told they’re squatters. In return for the land and the structures on it, the Pushta families are offered small bare plots outside the city, which would be a 20 rupee (45 cents) bus fare to and from any job they had near Pushta. The land will be given for the reasonable price of 7000 rupees ($150).

A notice will come to a family telling them their home will be the next to go. The trucks come as foretold. Sometimes they come, park for a few hours then leave. Other days the excavators do their work. The strong arm crushes the brick, metal and bamboo homes. The families pile what they can on cycle-rickshaws, sometimes taking the bamboo walls themselves. Very few head to the land offered them. None will leave the city. Most will set up shanty homes elsewhere.

***

I don’t pretend to know the solution to urban housing problems. It’s true; one does not solve housing problems by perpetuating a slum. But one doesn’t do it by eliminating what housing there is either.