Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

kenya

Six years later, I still can’t forget

Six years ago, Phil and I had an opportunity, one I couldn’t get out of my head. Our church was planning a trip to Kenya, to support and  encourage a couple who served there at a school. It was an impossible dream, in my mind, that I would see Africa. Our young family was barely making ends meet. My passport had long expired. There were so many steps, so many pieces that had to fall into place for this to happen. The deposit for both of us was due before Christmas, and in the lean years, we had no extra money for such things. I trusted somehow that things would work out, and in what I consider a truly miraculous way, I got a freelance job that paid almost exactly what we needed for the deposit.

That’s how I remember it, anyway. 

I was compelled by a force I could not explain to take this trip, and I couldn’t do it with my own resources.

As our team raised funds for the trip, some people we sought out for support thought we were asking them to fund our vacation. Our trip did include a safari and a hike to the top of a volcano, but the bulk of our time was spent working at the school where our friends worked.

And on one unforgettable day, we traveled to a refugee camp to attend church. While I consider the entire trip life-changing, it was that day in particular that changed my life in real and tangible ways.

Before that day, I’d barely heard about refugees. I didn’t understand the global crisis or know anything about what I could do about it. I’d certainly never met a refugee. (At least not that I knew of.) But that day, I watched children stuff hard-boiled eggs into their mouths, followed by a banana–a meal they could count on. I stood in a circle of children who reached for the free T-shirts we were distributing, overwhelmed by the need and surprised by the desperation. I had thought the children would receive the gifts with patience and gratitude. Instead, they grasped for what we had to give, some even telling us they needed a second one for their brother who was at home. (Which may or may not have been true.)

I stood in a church service listening to the voices around me sing about God’s faithfulness and wondered why I could not find my own voice. I peed in a hole in the ground. I walked through a dry riverbed to the homes of some refugee women who had walked miles to be at church that morning. I stood in their homes and floundered for words as they asked me–ME, of little faith–to pray for them. I found words, but they stuck in my throat and I hated the way they sounded as I voiced them.

Later, I cried unstoppable tears because I couldn’t help them. I didn’t have money to buy the purses they were selling. I was so overwhelmed by what I saw and what I felt that I did not learn a single name of the women I had met. I took not one photo while I was there.

Still, the images are burned in my mind.

—

This is not the first time I have told this story on the blog, so why am I telling it again?

First, I tell it again to myself so I can remember.

When I came home from Kenya in 2015, my worldview was shaken. I was no longer unaware of the needs in the world. I had seen them firsthand.

But what could I do?

Part of me wanted to save all my money and fly back to Kenya. The culture shock upon our return to the States was unexpected. I was tempted to yell at shoppers at Costco who didn’t walk their carts back to the corral because it was raining. I was aware of just how MUCH stuff we had. I wanted to give everything away, to live more simply.

Was that really going to help?

Then, I connected with a refugee resettlement agency in our city and for the next couple of years, I helped welcome refugees to our community. I sat with them in classes and tried to explain things they would need to know–like how to budget their money and how to practice good hygiene. I drove refugees to the grocery store and to medical appointments.

It was so far outside of my comfort zone but exactly what I needed to do at the time. Those years of volunteer service are some of my happiest memories of our time in Lancaster, and I still don’t feel like I was doing enough to help.

In 2018, about the same time that the U.S government was scaling back its refugee admission allowances because of a xenophobic administration, I got a part-time job, working at a school. My availability to volunteer with refugees dwindled and fewer refugees were resettled. At a time when refugees needed my advocacy the most, I spoke for them less and less. I had not forgotten them, but I lost hope that there was anything I could do for them when the government of my country was so opposed to their very existence.

Working in a school, though, is one of the results of my time in Kenya and volunteering with refugees. I would not have thought myself capable of such a step if I hadn’t had those experiences. And because of those experiences, I’ve had the opportunity to work with children of immigrants, students learning English for the first time, homeless students, and students who just need someone to believe in them.

I count this one of the many returns on the investment made in my trip to Kenya.

—

Again, though, none of this is new information to be shared. If you’re still with me and haven’t tuned out yet, please stay with me.

A few months ago, I bought a book written by a former refugee, Omar Mohamed, a man who now lives and works in Lancaster and who has started an organization to help refugee students in his former camp. My daughter and I both read the book in January, and on Saturday, we joined a Zoom meeting live from the Dadaad Refugee Camp, the largest refugee camp in Kenya. This camp is situated on the other side of the country from where I was in Kenya, near the border with Somalia. I could not pass up the chance to see it with my own eyes and hear from students who are striving to get an education in conditions we would not tolerate for a single second for our own children.

I think most of us can agree that educating our children in the last year has been difficult, to say the least. Teachers have had to make accommodations like never before. As someone who sees every day what they’re doing, I can say with confidence, they’re doing an amazing job. The challenges facing educators and students during a pandemic have required vast amounts of creativity.

They are like nothing, however, compared to the challenges facing educators and students in refugee camps.

Let me pause here and say that I do not wish to overlook the sacrifices educators here in the States have made in order to teach this year. I love my co-workers and see the stress they carry and I wish things were different. What I saw from Dadaab, though, makes me grateful for what we have here and compels me to find a way to assist.

We heard from real students who gathered at their high schools for an extra FIVE HOURS on a Saturday, just so they could tell us firsthand what the challenges are that they face. Usually on Saturdays, their schooling ends at noon. When they spoke with us, it was edging toward evening. They told us how in one school the classroom is 5 meters by 4 meters, walled on four sides, and hosts 86 students every school day in a room designed for 30. These 86 students–64 boys and 22 girls–create a lot of noise and heat and body odor because of the heat and lack of air circulation. These students WANT to be at school. They WANT to learn. And in order to continue with their education, they must compete with students from the entire country of Kenya (most of whom have better resources) in order to secure scholarships to Canada. There are no computers in the classroom, and they only have textbooks when there are extras the government can give them. Many of them do not go home for lunch because within the hour they are allotted, they cannot walk to the village and back in time. Water lines in the village are only open twice a day for an hour–from 7-8 a.m. and 3-4 p.m. If a student waits in these lines, he or she might be late for school (or have to leave early).

Let’s sit with this for a moment. These students spoke to us clearly and articulately in English, which is not their first language. They are desperate to continue their education. They are learning in spite of these conditions. Lack of food and water, lack of books and other learning resources.

But wait. There is more.

We also heard from a Somali girl. (Many of the refugees in Dadaab are Somali.) Education for girls is especially difficult because families are eager to marry their daughters to a man who can provide for them all, even if he is uneducated. Early marriage is a common practice in these cultures. Girls want to learn, too, but they are grossly outnumbered. For every 8 boys who receive a scholarship to further their education, 1 girl receives a scholarship. Add to that the need for basic hygiene products for girls, who often miss school while they are menstruating, because they do not have access to sanitary pads. (Ladies, can you imagine having to miss work or school for one week every month because you are having your period?)

This is one initiative Refugee Strong is taking on for 2021.

Students from the next school told us that four students share one desk (meant for two students). There are 100 desks and 400 students in the school. Because there are not enough textbooks for everyone, students must rely on the notes the teacher writes on the board. They must study before the sun sets because they do not always have enough oil to burn to provide light after dark. (There is little to no electricity in the camp.) And those 400 students? They share two latrines, which are in danger of collapsing during the rainy season.

There are no nurses or school counselors at the schools. Some students sleep in a “dorm” at the school because they are serious about their studies in the last year of schooling and at their “home” in the villages of the refugee camp, there is no space to study. To secure a scholarship to Canada, students must earn at least a B+. Earning a B or a B- does not cut it.

Because of COVID-19, food distribution at the camp happens every two months. It used to happen every 15 days. So, every two months, families are given their share of the food rations: maize, beans, oil and rice. And it must last them TWO MONTHS. (Confession: I have complained about the pandemic reducing my trips to the grocery store. We still go once a week.)

In some places, a family of 10 (a mother and 9 children) share a two “bedroom” dwelling that is four meters square.

—

If you’re like me, reading all of this makes you feel overwhelmed. And probably a little bit helpless. Maybe you’re thinking things like: 

“I can’t fix this.” 

“This problem is too big to solve.” 

“What can I do?”

Omar, the founder of Refugee Strong, addressed this.

“The need is too much,” he said, “but we help what we can.”

This has been a loose mantra of mine since coming back from Kenya. What can I do? Where can I help? Sometimes it doesn’t feel like much.

But I’m excited about the mission of Refugee Strong because Omar hand delivers to the students in Dadaab Refugee Camp. He is aware of the corruption and of organizations who come and make big promises without delivering. When questioned by one of the students about what he was going to do to help them, he said, “We cannot promise anything, but we deliver to you whatever we have.”

This is a man who spent 15 years of his life living in a refugee camp, caring for his brother, searching for his mother. He could have taken his good fortune at being resettled in the United States and never looked back. But he not only looks back at Dadaab, he offers us a way to share in the way forward for these students.

If you want to know more about what it’s like to live in a refugee camp, get a copy of Omar’s book: When Stars are Scattered. It’s a graphic novel, and it’s a beautiful way to tell his story. (If you’d rather read a traditional non-fiction book, I recommend City of Thorns: Nine Lives in the World’s Largest Refugee Camp by Ben Rawlence. The subtitle is outdated, though. Dadaab is no longer the world’s largest refugee camp.)

You can find Refugee Strong at www.refugeestrong.org and on Facebook and Instagram for updates and ways to help.

These words are me doing what I can right now. What can you do?

What happened when I left my phone behind

God tricked me into taking a break from technology.

I’ve long admired people who can walk away from social media for an extended period of time and embrace the solitude. It sounds like a refreshing way to live.

And yet I can’t make myself do it. Which is why I think God had to trick me.

Earlier this summer, my husband and I went to Kenya with a team from our church. Two weeks before the trip, I learned for the first time that we wouldn’t be allowed to bring our cell phones with us. Maybe not a big deal. We were going to Africa, after all.

But we were leaving our kids, ages 7 and 5, behind with grandparents and in the year 2015, it never occurred to me that a cell phone ban would even be a thing.

I did not take the news well. I cried for days. I snubbed my pastor, who was leading the trip, when he tried to talk to me. It almost made me physically ill. I proposed a compromise. I sought commiseration. I basically behaved like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

No! You can’t make me!

There were deeper issues than just feeling like I needed to be connected to social media. I wanted a direct line to my kids, even if I couldn’t be physically present. I wanted to be in control of how I checked in on them. I had serious trust issues, even though I knew they were in good hands.

“If I’d have known about this at the beginning,”  I told Phil, “I’m not sure I would have signed up for the trip.”

“Maybe that’s why you didn’t know about it then,” he said.

For almost a year, God had made it clear that we were to go on this trip. He provided money when we didn’t expect it and He kept moving our hearts in ways we couldn’t ignore.

Maybe He wanted me on this trip whether I could take my phone with me or not.

I sat with that for a day or two, considering the possibility that God—not my pastor or my church—might be asking me to do this.

Our group settled on a compromise. We could take our phones but we would have limited access to them while we traveled. And my husband and I did have a chat with our pastor to clear the air before we left.

The way forward was settled even if I was still unsettled. It had only been two years since I’d had a smart phone and already I was so attached to it that I couldn’t imagine being without it for 10 days. That was a problem I could acknowledge, but I still didn’t see how it could possibly turn out well.

The phone went on airplane mode as soon as we loaded up the vans. I tucked it away, reluctantly and with a bit of anxiety, because I use my phone for lots of things: weather, clock, calculator, flashlight, to name a few.

Waiting to board our plane in New York

Waiting to board our plane in New York

 

Even as I write about it and think about it now, more than a month after, my heart starts to race. I’ve believed the lie that I’m useless without my phone.

As we flew from New York to Belgium and then from Belgium to Rwanda to Kenya, not having access to a clock was a benefit. I had no idea what time it was locally or what time my body thought it should be, so I just went with it. I slept when I was tired, and I ate when they fed us on the plane.

We were tired enough we got to our destination in Kenya that the phone didn’t beckon me at all.

The first morning was a different story, though. (You can read more about that over at Shawn Smucker’s blog, where I have a guest post on the subject today.) I felt like part of me was missing. I kept reaching for it, thinking I’d take a picture or check the weather or the time. I had to re-train myself to look for the clock in a room. Eventually, I could guess the time by where the sun was. We were so close to the equator that sunrise and sunset were near 7 a.m. and 7 p.m., respectively.

And the weather was virtually the same every day, so I didn’t have to check for the possibility of rain or whether I should wear jeans or shorts. We dressed in layers for the cool mornings and evenings, and changed our clothes when appropriate to the dress codes of the villages or the activities in which were participating.

I still wonder if it was easier to be without my phone on our trip because our days were planned out for us and because of our location.

Most days, we were so busy I didn’t worry about what time it was. On one of our painting days, four or five hours passed before I even thought, “What time are we eating dinner?” It was freeing, in a sense, to be so involved in life that I didn’t have to keep track of the time. Here, I feel like I have to fill my hours according to a certain schedule.

When we were given access to the WiFi password and agreed to limit our use to an hour in the evenings in our rooms, I will admit to being tempted to push past those limits. If I was in my room, who would know if I checked my e-mail in the morning? Because of the time difference, I didn’t always get the most current updates on our kids and how they were doing. I craved information about them, and the phone was the only way to get it. As hard as it was, I did stick to the agreement as I understood it. And most nights, I was too tired to even bother logging on to the network and checking e-mail.

In the evenings or at meal times, when I might have been surfing my phone for whatever, I was engaging with the world around me. We played Apples to Apples or sat around talking. We looked at the stars or smelled the flowers or took a walk.

I sometimes convince myself that I’m too tired at the end of a day to really engage with my kids for one more minute, but in Kenya, I was just as tired or more so at night and I still found some reserve energy for human connection. I’m ashamed of myself for all the times I zone out with my kids.

In the first week after our trip, I practiced leaving my phone in another room, or in the car if we were playing at the park. It was freeing when we didn’t need to be anywhere, and it was out-of-sight, out-of-mind. I didn’t think about checking it because I couldn’t. It wasn’t with me.

Old habits die hard, though, and I’m back to my former ways. Some of them anyway. The lure of social media, especially for someone who creates content, is hard to escape. I feel pressure to be interesting and post regularly so that people remember who I am and know what I’ve been up to. Because we all know that out-of-sight, out-of-mind also applies online. If I don’t see your updates regularly, it’s easy to forget you. (And that is not an easy confession to make.)

Even though I’m struggling to put my technology experience in Kenya into practice back home, I know that it was a good exercise for me, one I wouldn’t have chosen for myself. And I know I need to impose limits on myself for the good of my family and my soul. I don’t want to have to be tricked into doing it again.

I’m curious how you’ve accomplished this, or if you’ve ever thought about it. Do you feel the pull of social media on your life? Have you ever taken an extended break from it? How do you limit your online time in daily life?