Justice for the Brave

As I was waking up today, reluctantly and slowly, I remembered a morning about three years past...

...when a then dying five year old little boy named Elton laid at my side.  My first thought (and subsequent fear) upon waking  that morning was that maybe he had stopped breathing at some point during the night after my body succombed to the exhaustion caused by the constant vigilance his fragile health required. 

When I heard him cough, I was relieved that he was still breathing, despite great odds, and I then found my feet and arose from bed. 

Elton’s body was very thin and weak, and his huge hungry eyes that were eerily sunk in their sockets followed me as I crossed the room to another child… a little girl I was helping at the same time who had been horrifically abused.

She had finally landed in our home after she had been caught trying to steal food to give to her hungry little siblings.  Her cries were heard by the whole village as she was being burned in a cooking fire in retribution for her crime.  Forced to work and serve a family, she was not allowed to go to school and when she tried to run away or ask for help, she was punished severely.

One of our staff members made the comment that when she was first brought into our home, she more resembled a wild animal more than a little girl.  Our housemother was calm with her, and our children gentle.  They had a hard job of bathing her, and combing through her wild hair, and finally dressed her. 

At last, the wild creature had turned into a little girl.  And that little girl loved our home, and she felt safe with me. 

She was in my room because she had nightmares during the night, and had grabbed her teddy bear to come and be comforted… and it was an honor to have earned enough of her trust to be able to do that for her. 

It was to her bedside that I tiptoed, her arms were flung over the top bunka-bed and I had to smile because a child is still a child when dreaming, no matter what their reality looks like during the day. 

I saw the corner of a package of stickers coming out of one of my suitcases, and I grabbed them.  Elton watched me interested.  I smiled at him, and placed one finger in front of my mouth motioning for him to be quiet. 

Elton smiled as I opened the package and began to take shiny sticker after sticker and place them gently on the face and arms of the little girl.

Before long, she sat up with a jolt, waving her fists in front of her face to protect herself. 

When she finally dared to open her eyes to assess her situation, we made eye contact. 

I smiled at her, she blushed, remembering where she was, and Elton grinned.  Her eye caught the glitter of the stickers on her arms, and I grabbed a piece of broken mirror (the only one we had) and showed her her face. 

I said her name, and I told her, “You are GOOD.”

Her skinny little arms found my waist and she buried her head in my stomach for a long time.  I hugged her back just as hard.  I wanted to protect her, and she needed to be protected.

Weeks later her abuser was released from jail, and fought again for custody of the girl.  He had friends that were policemen who helped him to get out of jail, and when they destroyed evidence and threatened witnesses, there were no longer any charges left against him strong enough to keep him in jail, nor to keep her out of his custody.

And so began a long journey towards justice for this little girl. 

The social workers when threatened, were afraid to pursue her case, and the easiest way to remove the threats was to return her. 

Although the courts were involved, without the help of the policemen or witnesses there could be no charges.  So she was taken from us and forced to go back and work for the family.  However, some of our caregivers left work when she was returned, and followed behind at a safe distance, and took note of where she was living.  After a few weeks we were able to witness that she was being abused again.   

I asked permission from the social workers to go after her myself… and I did.  I knew that if I could witness something, I wouldn’t withdraw my name from court, and if he tried to hurt me, the case would attract international attention, which could only help.  At first, I was so determined just to find her that it didn’t really occur to me that it was dangerous.  It only occurred to me that it was the right thing to do.

But there was a moment, when I was watching for her to come down a path which we knew she frequented to intercept her and offer her, if she chose to accept it, asylum, that I realized that it was.  I had to hide in an alley behind a bar, so as to not draw attention.  White people don’t often visit slums, and for good reason.  There was a drunken man who looked at me, and realized at the same time that I did how vulnerable I was there.  In my head I prayed quickly, asking God if I should run, but I felt the answer come back with a sense of peace that just said, “Stand your ground and do not fear.” And so I did.

The ease of which I could have been hurt was my protection.   I stayed there, until she came along. 

 And when she did, and she saw me she ran into my arms.  I picked her up and carried her to a hospital to document the many abuses that had befallen her.  I was in the examination room, holding her hand.  I saw.  And yet, the doctor would not witness, because he feared. 

After a few months of trying to make things successful in court, there was a night when I awoke suddenly from my sleep and I knew that we had lost her again.  

I went back to the social workers immediately and demanded that the child be enrolled in school.  I offered to pay her school tuition if she needed it.  (I knew she did.) 

Thankfully, the court listened to that plea, and ordered that she could only remain with that family IF she was enrolled in AND attending school full time.  So then I found the school and informed the teachers of her situation.  I asked them to document her attendance well, and gave them my cell phone number and talk time to inform us if (and sadly when) anything was noticeably wrong.  So when she was beaten... we knew about it.

Soon we found that she had stopped attending school and so I went back into the slums to find her again.  They said that they had sent her away, and the family had moved, but after walking around and inquiring for hours and days we found her again. 

I was given the go ahead from the social welfare officers to take her back into our custody at any time… if I could get the family to sign away their rights to her.  I couldn’t buy her, because that would look like corruption or trafficking.


I had to get them to do it for the right reasons, and by their own free will.

...so I’ve been trying. 

Yesterday I went back down into the slums, found the same family, this time in the market place.  And I plead the case for the child.  I explained that she was smart, and that she would do well in school and that if she did well, she could possibly help them in the future.  I told them that I was willing to help her to go to university, but we needed her quickly because she only has 7 years left to be caught up academically to that level. 

At first, they laughed in my face.  That worthless girl?  She couldn’t be anything! Then other people began to take a listen.  I guess it was too interesting to see a muzungu kneeling in front of a pile of used clothes talking to a drunken and otherwise known as dangerous man.

To the crowd that gathered, I said, “Which one of you would deny your child a college education?”  Mothers with babies on their backs, merchants, and even drunken men began to shake their heads in denial.  “Who here,” I asked, “would deny your family the opportunity to live in a better situation.”  Again the people responded.  And then in vernacular the people themselves began to plead the case of the girl. 

Near the end of the conversation, it occurred to me that if I only showed the man that I thought he was terrible (and yes… man was there a time when I wanted to punch him in the face.  I MEAN it!) but out of nowhere I thought, "What if I gave him the opportunity to be good?"

And acting on that, and grateful to God that my hands did not shake or that I did not show any repulsion which I have to admit I felt later thinking of the horrible crimes he had used his hands to commit,  I reached out and touched his hand and looked in his eyes.  And I saw that he feared.  Not violence, not manipulation… he feared goodness.  He was much stronger than me, but he knew that my intentions were pure, and somehow that was stronger.  God IS stronger, and instinctively he knows it.  He knows what right is, even if he doesn't adhere to it.

At the end of a very long conversation, the man finally said that he would consider it.  A big step.  He asked if she could come next year.  I again reinforced the idea that she would not have time to get caught up in school if that were the case. 

It occurred to me that maybe the Christians might stop buying from the man’s stand, and that his ability to earn even a meager income could be damaged by the harm he is causing the child in his care.   In the midst of an impossible situation I began to see many different avenues in which God could intercede on behalf of the child.  I am amazed.  Now, there are many more knowing eyes watching out for the child, even if she is not yet in our custody.

 I still don’t know exactly how this is going to happen, but I am very hopeful that we might have just managed, in a way that feels rather miraculous, to earn back the freedom of a little girl who is very dear to our hearts.  And when you stand for one, and when people are moved, that protection can hopefully spread to other children, even if it does happen outside of the courts.

Justice, to me… is more about the restoration of the victim than it is about the punishment of the offender.  Please pray prayers of protection and restoration for this little girl and that this very long story turns into one of God's divine intercession and a restoration that blesses the world and this community.

And I just have to say... in a world which honors the strength of heroes like firemen, armies, superheroes... I still think that some of the bravest people alive in our world today are the unprotected, orphaned little girls who are growing up in the streets of Africa.

Imagine what the world could be like if the effort that they have to put in just to survive each day could be redirected towards something that benefited everyone?  There is so much power in them if only they were given the chance to share with the world the goodness and strength that they are capable of.

Projects = Success!

So I’ve found myself at odd times wondering who might be reading this.  I wonder what they are up to, and in what situations do they sit down at the computer, from what context and life perspective do they meet these ramblings? 

Anyways… the question has crossed my mind a few times in between the many… and I mean MANY projects that I’ve been focusing on. 

Like helping the local widows...

 

Sometimes the best “aid” is simple commerce. When you walk into crazy situations, you find the people who have managed to keep something going despite it… and support their efforts. It totally hurts the economy if you just give people what they need. So we have worked to identify honest people who are working hard… or looking for honest work to supply their families.

So I hired a community of widows to make an area rug for our kids in the living room. It was a win/win/win.

You see… Africans seem to suffer from the “hoarding”syndrome.

They (quite understandably actually) never want to throw anything away. So you sometimes find that they will hold on to clothes and rags beyond any practical use which makes it very difficult to organize. So… we cleaned out the closet (hooray!) and sorted through clothes.

I offered the rags to widows and asked them to make them into a rug. The clothes were usefully disposed of, the widows earned good wages for their labor, AND our little gymnasts are less likely to smack their heads on the floor tiles because of the soft cushion! Not to mention… it’s beautiful! J

Win. Win. Win!

 

To hiring carpenters to improve upon our big baby bed... dreaming up a double-decker way to make covering up our kiddos with mosquito nets an easier process at the end of the day.  We turned it into the "Neverland" ship from Peter Pan... the one that "flies" with pixie dust.  :)  The kids love the idea... boys age 5 and under have the top bunk, girls age 6 and under have the bottom bunk.  They have been delighted.  Determined to stop those mosquitos yet. 

Another project has been to try to photo-document half of the things that we accomplish in a day... half of the stuff that makes us laugh... half of the things that bring a smile.  Like here, our Toby, whom we've had since he was in preschool.  He found an interesting use for the formula cans from our new Baby Emmanuel.  He made them into stilts.  Way creative and quite impressive.  The kids took quite a bit of time playing around the yard...

 

From creative stilt-walking... beautiful sunsets, to impromptu breakout ballet lessons in the driveway... for all of the struggle in Africa there is always something good happening in this beautiful land.

 

 



 

And not exactly last but nor least, trying this blogging thing.  Not the easiest thing in the world to do... it is not really hard to come up with stories to share... because the day is certainly full of them.  And I mean FULL! 

 

But more because, when I'm on the computer...

 

This is what inevitably happens... the kids turn on their charming personalities to try to entice me away from the screen. 

 

How could you ignore this adoring little face?  Oh!  How we love our babies!

 

Ahhhh! Held captive by little smiles!  Desperately needing some sleep and good food! 

A Resolution

On Wednesday morning, I crawled out of bed hungry and without having slept, short 4 staff members due to funerals, and responsible for 40 children, and also awaiting the arrival of a newborn baby.

I made a resolution to do something special for myself… 

I would take a bath...

This would be my first shot at cleaning my body (besides my hair being washed by the girls) since I was in the USA almost two weeks ago.  (Again, my profuse apologies to the good hygiene fairy.) 

I was going to have to be way intentional about making a bath happen.

First I had to make sure to save enough water.  I did that. 

I had to get the preschoolers to school.  Done.  Elementary kids… Done.  Middle-schoolers.  Got it. 

The sun rolled into midday and I sent a staff member for groceries, updated news and instructions with the tailors, and called the construction workers for the new baby bed to task.  The high-schoolers went off to school at about the same time that the social welfare officers arrived with the baby.  I still hadn’t gotten an opportunity to eat, but I figured I would save that time to bathe. 

The preschoolers came home and were put to their usual activities, while I worked on the paperwork with the social workers, jumping up temporarily to check on the other projects going on.

Yup.  I was on a roll. 

When one of our preschoolers came down with malaria and began to throw up, it was alright… I had it.  Heating bottles?  Yup… done.  I was even diligent enough to make sure the now returning children all got in their piano practice.  (They can all play Jingle Bells and Silent Night… :) Which is a joy to me!)

The baby fed and settled, the kiddos through their practice, the carpenters finished paid, the new furniture installed, mosquito nets up, everyone (except me) fed for the night… and the sun going down over the hills… I saw my chance!  Finally! 

I ran to the bedroom to grab my soap and towel, not wanting to waste even a moment.  The dream of cleanliness and the smell of the bar of soap in my hands propelled me forward despite my exhaustion… it was like smelling a roasting chicken cook all day on a Sunday… a comfort long desired and awaited for! The soap smelled so clean I wanted to eat it!  At last!

As I jogged down the hallway towards t then, there was a loud

ZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!

And the lights went out.  And I couldn’t help myself from shouting in sheer disappointment…

“REALLY?!!” 

And for a second, I wanted to lay down on the floor and throw a tantrum that would make even the moodiest two year old blush, and I felt way lonely because there was nobody around who could identify with my wish to simply “hop in the shower”.

The teenage girls giggled at my despair, not understanding exactly why I was so frustrated, while the babies wailed to be found in the dark.  Someone found a cell phone and used the light to find and light a candle.  I made my way to the bedroom, discouraged, taking in one last smell of the soap and looking for my flashlight, which goes by the rather adventurous title of “torch” in Zambia.

As disappointed as I was about the power, to call all of ours to the living room where we gathered together in the candlelight, I had to admit that they all looked rather heavenly and beautiful and together we sang praise songs to ease the nerves of the little ones and prayed over our new baby boy. 

Then, some of my girls, knowing how badly I wanted to be clean, offered washed my hair in a bucket by candlelight.  It wasn’t a bath, but I was at least grateful for the rinse.  Mission sort-of accomplished.

 

A New Baby

As often happens, I started my field day by visiting the social welfare office.  And as often happens, they had many stories… most of them crushing.  (The social workers give us the raw situations and we have the opportunity to intercede and provide unexpected help and hope... sometimes even beyond the wishes of those who are struggling.)

They informed me of a young (teenaged) mother who came into their office.  She had a newborn of her own, and her sister, who had also been pregnant at the same time, was practically “butchered” in a cesarean delivery in a local hospital.  The baby had fallen into her care, but she could not breastfeed both when she hardly had enough to eat in the slum where she lived. 

Would we be willing to take that infant?  A boy?

Now, the poor girl did not have an address to give to social workers, nor a phone number to leave them with.  Nor did any of their relatives.  So, simply enough, we were given the instructions to head towards a specific slum, and to look for a teenage girl carrying not one but two newborns… one a girl, and one a boy.  There were no roads to speak of and too much water on the ground for vehicles to pass… so, as we often do, we hoofed it.

And so… off we went through the mud and the slush, with the clouds in the sky theatening another rain.  We looked around and anywhere we saw baby “nappies” (cloth diapers and/or otherwise specifically cut rags) hanging outside the huts we inquired.  At many places I was offered babies, even by the parents themselves… as all were suffering from some need. 

“Oh, muzungu!  You are looking for a baby?  We have plenty here!  Come and take a look!” The drunken men called.  I just smiled kindly at them so that they would not feel provoked or ignored, and kept my eyes open for the girl.

We walked around for about an hour before we found the one we were looking for.  At first the girl was doubtful.  Really?  Someone wanted to help? 

We made arrangements with the social workers to bring the baby home the next day.  (We needed to prepare a crib, get blankets and formula, etc.)

The night before, I couldn’t sleep… the faces of the little ones that I had refused while in pursuit of this one kept playing in my head.  Babies require so much care, and are such a responsibility, I felt like my head was going to come off my shoulders or that my heart was going to explode with worry over taking on another one. 

Babies are fragile to begin with, terrifyingly so.  When they have already been exposed to this kind of dire poverty, and flooding and disease, they are even more so. When they have less access to healthcare and more probablility of carrying diseases that demand it, they are even more so.  When bringing someone so vulnerable into a house full of kids, again, you wonder… what will happen to Baby Will?  Will that change the way he is loved?  Or will Baby Will absorb all of the love and will there be none to spare for the new one?  I am not kidding when I say I couldn’t sleep for worry.  Sometimes the fear and responsibility of bringing home a helpless newborn can seem more daunting a task than bringing home a bloodthirsty crocodile.

 

The next morning, we brought baby home.  His name is Emmanuel.

He is quite a peaceful little fella, and wouldn’t ya know, when they put him in my arms… he smiled at me.

And then… there was just peace. 

The sweet little face, the determined little fists, and the little eyes that search for a soft voice and the lips that respond by curving gently into endearing smiles in response to happy sounds…

It came to pass that there was nothing to fear of the infant, only for him and what might happen to him if he didn’t have our arms to fall into. 

Welcome home, Baby Emmanuel!

Carrot Soup

Over the past (almost) two weeks now, I have re-eaten the same meal over and over (and over) in my head and in my dreams. I spent quite a few hours in London before I changed planes to Lusaka  and knowing well enough the diet facing me in Zambia, I decided to splurge a bit.  And I was lucky enough to choose something rather fantastic...

 My “last meal” included some fantastic bread, which I dipped prayerfully in not wine, but carrot soup flavored with coriander… (imagine potato soup, but made with carrots…)  Good God it was delicious!  And whoa, did it need to be…  Almost two weeks later I still wish I had some of that good vitamin A in my system.   

Yesterday, between interviewing potential additional employees, teaching (very basic) piano lessons, filling out paperwork, adopting and bringing home a newborn, playing the “mommy” role for 40+ kids (our housemother has been gone all week to attend the funeral of her nephew), in between doses of antibiotics and vitamins, warming bottles of formula, supervising tailors who have been hired to make special pajamas, carpenters hired to do repairs, and widows hired to do some income-generating projects… there was a quiet moment when my eyes fell over the weight scale we use for our under-5’s.  Out of curiosity, I stepped on it.  Somewhere in the whirlwind I’ve managed to lose almost ten percent of my body weight in about as many days.  Hence the dreams... about carrot soup.  

Usually I am a spicy girl.  I want tacos… chili peppers… lots of them.  I’ve got a “if think you put too much, you probably didn’t put enough” kind of attitude towards picante.  Lord, would I love to crunch into some chips and salsa right now…

I fully meant to write a post about Baby Emmanuel… and here I am again.  Exhausted and dreaming about carrot soup.  Turns out I am not so good at this “blogging” business.  J  So much going on, so many stories to tell and moments to share and after midnight, before I dare allow my head to hit the pillow, I manage to type out a short post... all I can think about is carrot soup.

 

My "Last Meal" pictured.  I can taste it just by looking at it.  So... Happy Valentine's Day... Hope you get lots of chocolate, hugs, kisses... and carrots!!!

Babies

Field Day.

No… I don’t mean like a “field-trip, or a “fun-planned activity.”  The field isn’t some happy place where you imagine lush picnics, white dresses, joyful competitions, sunshine, laughter... and everything that is right with the world.

Nope. 

“Field Day” to me means tromping through muddy areas to identify potential beneficiaries and investigate their situations, to meet with social workers and hear of the worst cases… the bridges fallen underneath the power of the flood waters, the vehicles which were swept away and bodies that remain undiscovered.  The desperate communities that have been cut off and left to fend for themselves due to inaccessibility reasons.

…it means to walk far, look into the eyes of people who are hurting, and make yourself vulnerable to their emotions and to the dangers of their situation so that they can see that you are here to help and hopefully form the bond of trust that it will take to lift them.

Who needs our help the most? Anguished to discover the truth my heart already knew. 

Babies.

 Lots and lots of babies.

Some that even with the best of care stand a doubtful future at best, two of them not even yet a month old.    In just a couple hours of searching and tromping and raindrops and mud, I’ve uncovered so many little lives… and while there are things we can do to help each and every individual one… we cannot help them all.  And my staff, as good as they are… they are tired.  It has been a rough year keeping all of our sweet little ones alive. 

ARGH.  Somebody else take this job for the day.  To what extent to we risk the safety and well-being of the children already in our care to reach out for others who are in such need of it? 

These little ones have done nothing to offend the world.  To see them living in such offensive conditions is just heartbreaking.

Babies.  I love babies.  That’s the problem.  It would be easier if I didn’t.

God show me the right ones, or if it is right to take any on right now at all.

  The heart is heavy. 

Soaked.

I can’t stay dry.

My tennis shoes are soaked through, so are my socks and the legs of my pants… the skin on my toes is all wrinkled…

It keeps raining.  And raining.  And raining.

And as a result, people keep dying and dying.

 Yesterday I went for a walk around the village.  Usually when I go, little children follow along and most people greet by waving or smiles, and even the most rigid I can bend with a smile and a cheerful greeting.  But this time few smiles are returned.  The people are hurting.

Last night a worried Mrs. Njovu informed me that her little nephew was ill, and she asked to go to his bedside in the morning.  I gave her permission to do so.  When I awoke this morning I was surprised to find her warming a bottle in the dining room for Baby Will. 

“Mrs. Njovu?” I asked… the rest of my question couldn’t find form to pass my lips…

Her shoulders crumpled down, and she answered me without lifting her head, “Because there was no need.” In other words, her little nephew died.

“Where is Purity?” I asked.  “Her best friend has died,” answered another co-worker.  “She’s left behind a 4 day old infant.  Purity is with the family now.”

There have been many others. 

People continue on about life, not linking the rain to the disease and the killings it is causing.  The sores on little kids are amazing.  It is impossible to avoid the water and the mud.  I’ve covered our little ones in plastic raincoats, but the rain and mud seeps into their shoes and socks on their way to school.  I bought a plastic backyard swimming pool in the city and filled it with (very strongly) chlorinated water.  As soon as our kiddos get home from school, they are undressed and bathed (and swim around) in the water.  (Pictured, Chico coming home from school.)

While our little kids are splashing around in their clean water, listening to music and changing into dry clothes, and getting ready to eat their steaming hot meals, and working on other projects and activities, the mud-brick homes of the village are melting… tin roofs are caving in… and as I’ve said, the people are dying.

The kids all the way down to Baby Will are singing a song, “Are you coughing?  Yes, I’m coughing! I’ve gone to London, to see the doctor…” It has about the same weight as kids singing “Ring around the Rosie” which although sounds cute, but cryptically enough is referring to the black plague in the middle ages. The meaning of their little song is basically there is no healthcare here.  If you get sick, you’ll die.

We let people fill their water drums from our water source.  But even the drainage from our house is creating a problem for the people outside.  While we are working hard to keep things clean on the inside, the water that drains out is adding the already excessive amounts in the streets. 

As I was typing the last sentence, another downpour began.  It comes down so strong that it even comes in the windows.  A little Ruthie came in the room, and said, “Mommy! Uh!” trying to pull her pink raincoat around her shoulders and needed help with the zipper.  Only about an hour ago a little Niza ran beating on the gate, her hair flattened around her face and her nose dripping with rain water.  “Ahh!” she cried as one of our caregivers ran to her with a towel, saying “Sorry, little mama” and drying her off with a towel.

 

Rain brings disease like cholera, creates an environment for parasites, mosquitos and other waterborne diseases. Poor little Harriet (pictured above) came down hard with malaria. After giving her the medicine and a warm drink, teaspoon by teasoon, and put her to bed with a cold cloth on her head. The poor girl was shivering and burning up from fever at the same time. 

 

I have tried and tried to come up with an innovative way to keep these little bodies covered well with mosquito nets at night.  It is much harder than it looks.  They move in their sleep.   (ARgh!)

And yet the rains keep coming.  *Slosh, *Splash, *PLOP
 
Soaked.   (Sigh...)