Abandoned-Orphaned

Beans & Dragons

Thanks everybody for your prayers concerning our Africa trip. Unfortunately I did not have Internet access for blog posts as we stayed in very Spartan lodgings. Seventeen guys sharing one toilet is not a pretty thing at all. Couple that with daily meals of rice, cabbage and beans and…well…you get the picture.

We also spent some time in a mud hut community on an island in Lake Victoria. Again, very basic accommodations with your standard hole in the ground latrine outside, rat droppings on your mosquito net, komodo dragons roaming about, and…yes…rice, cabbage and beans that were boiled in polluted, parasite-ridden lake waters.

Anybody care to come along next time?

Children of the Dump (part two)

During that first visit, children younger than six were working either independently or alongside their families to scratch morsels out of crumpled cans and cups, constantly beating off the competition of macro and micro-winged pests. Shacks made of rusty razor-edged tin, warped boards, and ripped tarps dotted the landscape of fermenting garbage mounds and craters. The children were covered in filth; it was etched into their skins and psyches. Ragged t-shirts and sweatpants were mere excuses for threads to suspend grime from gaunt bodies. Fibers were saturated with fetid sauces, drippings and smears. Little feet, often bare or inserted into dilapidated shoes or flip-flops, squished and crunched across mounds of multi-colored options and impediments. Each step could yield either treasures or treachery.

This was no place for a child. This was no life for a child.

Very few families and homeless kids live in the Guatemala City dump now. A giant landslide of refuse took dozens of lives. Eighteen bodies were never found, left to decompose within the piles they once plied. A fifty-foot wall of tumbling trash served as both executioner and embalmer. Now, rag-picker homesteads have been moved to the outskirts and curious missionaries like me have to observe from surrounding outcroppings and waste-strewn hills.

Children of the Dump (part one)

The graveyard is at least ten city blocks long and five or six city blocks wide. Mausoleum after mausoleum lines a grid work of streets that cut through the expansive cemetery of above-ground tombs. Most of the crypts are very elaborate, reminding me of latter-day versions of the carved sarcophagi in the necropolis of Hierapolis, Turkey, where the Apostle Philip was executed. These more recent vestiges do indeed show wear and tear themselves from the battering of tropical storms and the chiseling of homeless day laborers who find shelter and employment in the sprawling city of the dead.

People of lesser means are laid in multistory sepulchers adorned with colorful epitaphs and creeping plants. Some of these stacked vaults have been bashed in, and the remains removed, due to families’ inability to pay the regular maintenance fee. Rusty metal barrels ominously sit next to open graves, presumably to transport the former occupants to no-rent areas…or perhaps to the adjoining dump.

Large black vultures circle the edges of the cemetery, marking the boundary where interred trash merges with interred bodies. I stood on an outcropping, a place where these filthy beasts roosted on monochromatic crypts devoid of pomp and circumstance. A scene out of an Agatha Christie movie, swarms of birds perched on dead trees and equally-dead tombs while their brothers and cousins filled the air with the constant whooshing and whomping of large wings in motion. The morbid foreground panorama is placed against a background of trash and slums that reach to the horizon.

The stench of wet vulture droppings is mixed with the stomach-wrenching odor of decaying waste, hauled in by a continual line of trucks weaving in from the city’s compacted neighborhoods of three million residents.

Some of those residents were directly below us, sifting through the fresh refuse swarming with maggots and flies, looking for items of perceived value and sorting recyclables into piles of future subsistence income.

The last time I was in the Guatemala City dump was quite a few years ago, but just a few years removed from the country’s thirty-six year civil war, the longest in the Americas I’m told. Tensions were still high and wounds were still raw. The images of families working through piles of waste, in a country where many people had been laid waste, were disconcerting, to say the least.

To be continued...

My Tears Will Speak for Me

Last week, the founder of one of our partner organizations was in town for a visit. He and his family came over for dinner and shared their hearts concerning their ministry’s rescue of child soldiers in Southeast Asia, especially in the wake of the cyclone that caused so many more vulnerable orphans in the region. Southeast Asia boasts approximately 100,000 child soldiers, with the majority being sold, stolen or tricked into conscription in Burma.

Here is one of the stories that they share, from a young girl who managed to escape the clutches of a militaristic regime:

"Please excuse my tears...they must fall because there are many things I cannot say. My tears must speak for me.

My parents were drug traffickers, but they were addicts, too. I think some of you have seen what drugs can do. They make you a slave to their hunger, and eventually a thief and a beggar...that is what happened to my father. Last I knew, he was begging on the streets. I have been a thief, too, but I am not begging yet.

Having no good place to go as a teenager, I was recruited into the army when I was 15 years old. There were about 200 of us. We lived on a tall hill with gray walls that stretched high over our heads. The barracks were very close to the capital city and a long way from home. There were soldiers that stood guard along those walls. The guards were not there to protect us. They were there to keep us in.

Every day we built guns. At 5:00 AM every day, we did our morning run. By 8:00 AM, we were constructing guns. My job was to clean them. We were a munitions factory. But we were also soldiers. Some of us were very young, very small, even 3 years old. Others had lived there so long that they were over 30 years old. Many of us were girls. "Obey!" our bosses said. We had many bosses. Obedience: that was the motto. If we tried to escape, well, the guards would shoot.

Everybody rotated through guard duty at different intervals through the night. Every night the drill signal sounded and we had to hustle out of bed, rush into our uniform and be in parade formation within 30 seconds. How easy is that? Those who were late were beaten. We hit them too, because if they got there in time, we didn’t have to drill that next day. But that happened about as often as a chicken goes a day without pecking the dust for food. Almost every night we were drilled, so we slept lightly. Sometimes we had to run to a village in the dark of night with guns or crawl through trenches in the mud and rain...everybody 13 and older that is. The littlest kids were our gophers. They ran errands for everybody during the day.

Everybody was under tight security. We were not even allowed to smile or the stick would come down on us. Of course, you learned quickly not to smile. Some felt the stick for other things. I watched people beaten for escaping to make love in the field. I watched others beaten till they bled and died in front of my eyes.

One day I ran away. I was scared, but I did not die. Now I can’t go back to my people. I am so troubled because of the things I have seen and done. 

I can speak no words that shield me from the pain...so I will not speak. My many tears will speak for me."

Ingenuity

After the heaviness of my Rwandan genocide field notes, here are some humorous African photos to lighten things up a little.

Introducing...

The African mobile phone:

(Photo: Paul Myhill, Uganda 2007)

The African IPod:

(Photo: Imageshack)

The Lion's Share

As I was sitting in the Nairobi airport a couple of months ago, an African regional news program was airing on one of the dusty TV’s hanging in a waiting lounge. The broadcast switched between different African national leaders and also highlighted an area conference where presidents and dictators gathered to discuss trade issues.

I was struck by the commonalities as the images flashed from leader to leader.

They were all extremely well dressed, well fed, and flamboyant. (Yes, this is just the type of thing that comes to my mind when I still have a stomach full of turkey.) These same heads of state were surrounded by very thin, often emaciated, subjects. The camera frame was constantly repeated...a broad peacock in the midst of scrawny pigeons.

It is no secret that corruption is rampant in Africa and the developing world in general. It is so blatant, even through the very presentation of the abusing figures themselves. They don’t hide it. They relish in it.

I shudder to think how much international aid has filled the coffers and bellies of those men...while their countrymen suffer so.

The Church is a much better recipient of such funds!

The Lion’s Share
- By the 10,000 Maniacs

Can I be unhappy?
Look at what I see
A beast in furs and crowned in luxury
He's a wealthy man in the poorest land
A self-appointed king
And there's no complaining while he's reigning

The lambs are bare of fleece and cold
The lion has stolen that, I'm told
There must be some creature mighty as you are
The lambs go hungry (not fair)
The biggest portion is the lion's share
There must be some creature mighty as you are

Can I be unhappy?
Listen and agree
No words can shame him or tame him

Razor claws in velvet paws
You dunce in your guarded home
'til a stronger beast will call on you
And pounce upon your throne

Do we pay?
Dearly, for the lion takes so greedily
And he knows that what he's taken, it is ours

That's how the wealth's divided
Among the lambs and king of the beasts
It is so one-sided
Until the lamb is king of the beasts
We live so one-sided

30,000

The United Nations and World Health Organization report that 10.5 million children – all under the age of five - die each year from "easily-preventable" conditions in the developing world. Malnutrition and unclean water are common or complicating factors in most of these deaths, but pneumonia, diarrhea, malaria, measles, HIV/AIDS, pregnancy issues, and a whole host of related items, get the official credit on the death certificate.

Poverty and lack of access to decent healthcare are mitigating factors. Unavailable or unaffordable $1 vaccinations take their toll in a world where half the population - over 3 billion people - tries to survive on less than two dollars a day.

The UN/WHO annual child mortality number equates to 28,800 children dying each and every day - almost ten times the tragedy of 9/11...each and every day!

And these are just the children under the age of five!

Image if you increased that range to six years old? Seven years old? Eight years old?

Regardless, at least another 1,200 children under five (conservatively bringing the total to over 30,000 children) perish daily because of infanticide or sex-selective abortion. We can go on and on, but 30,000 is already significant enough a number.

30,000 little lives. 30,000 souls. 30,000 hopes and dreams.

30,000. Think about that number today. Pray about that number today.

Aversion

I narrowly averted harm today. I saw them gathering as I was walking along the fringes of the slum. The lead youth signaled others to join him, waving them over with low sweeps of his hand. They tracked me down a slum row as I was taking a parallel course on a busy street lined with sidewalks of broken pavers covered in slippery mud.

(DIRTY WATERS. A row of slum homes perches on a polluted riverbank in Addis Ababa)

They didn’t know that I had noticed them, but after traveling to some eighty developing-world countries, I’m super-sensitized to such things. The lead guy took an intercept course towards me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lift the rear of his shirt and quickly put a knife behind his belt at his lower back. He pulled down on the hem of his shirt to conceal it. The other youths, about ten in number, circled around a lone shanty in front of me, presumably to trap me between them and their leader.

(DANGEROUS LABYRINTH. Slums in Addis Ababa abut busy roads and commercial districts)

A wave of traffic was approaching on the street, about thirty yards away. Just at the point of our convergence, the leader raised his hand up gesturing me to stop. He shouted something inaudible. I quickly stepped into the oncoming vehicles, dodging cars across six lanes as they slowed or swerved to miss me. The gang was yelling. The horns were blowing. I was safe.

I don’t take for granted my personal security when I travel. But I certainly lift it up to God.

During my first trip to Addis Ababa a few years ago, six terrorist car bombs were detonated in shopping areas on the day we left. Had we been in those markets? I don’t know. I was in India when the trains were bombed in Mumbai, killing hundreds in an instant. I was in Thailand during the recent military coup, albeit a quiet one. And I’ve been in too many high-tension situations to count, where Westerners are public enemy #1.

(QUIET COUP. Fortunately, this one didn't go badly in Thailand)

My wife and I were mugged in the Caribbean a number of years ago. Youths surrounded us, pressing fish knives to our bellies. I felt immobilized as I saw the blade on my wife. As they started to run with their new-found riches, I started to chase them. Yep, not exactly the smartest thing to do, but I knew my wife was safe at that point. The sight of a white guy chasing a bunch of black youths across a beach was probably quite a spectacle. They threw my camera to the ground to divert me from the chase.

As a creative-type with a passion for photography, I counted that as quite the victory.

Kids, don’t try that at home, though. Probably not good to jump into oncoming traffic either.

Outside the Gates

As David and I were chatting in his room, he was going through some miscellaneous items of Talitha's. He threw a small handmade paper bag at me and told me to read what was scribbled on it.

It was Talitha’s writing. David said that he’d been finding many similar verses penned by her on various scrap pieces of paper.

Words offered to nobody but her and God...

I don’t know if I can bear it much longer
Inside the gates it’s a fine life
Outside it’s a dungeon that I just can’t leave behind
People die of starvation and AIDS
Babies left out in the heat for an orphanage
Or just to die

When I come in the gates
It seems like paradise compared to the other
They think we eat and dress like a queens and kings
And get everything we ever wished for
And here I’m thinking our pay is poor

This nation needs prayer
These children and babies need help
Oh God, bless them

(THE POET: Talitha Ochoa, August 2006, Uganda)

(INSIDE THE GATES: The Ochoa home in Jinja, Uganda)

(OUTSIDE THE GATES: Street children rummage through trash in Jinja, Uganda)

Stronger

Jason Kelly, the youth pastor that joined Mike, me and the Pa Pa's on the East Africa trip, wrote some very descriptive words regarding his journey with us into the Mathare Valley slum in Nairobi, Kenya. They are definitely worth reading. I have therefore posted them below (with a little editing and abridging for length) and have included some of my photographs that match with his observations and reflections:
_____________________________________________________

Looking down at my fingers on this keyboard, I am struggling with where to begin. So much happened today and my thoughts are many and jumbled. I thought I saw the most desperate place yesterday, nothing doing. Today was an emotionally difficult day. I woke up anxious about it, but really didn’t fully understand why. I understand better as the day is fading away. 

So far, every place we have been in Nairobi has required long rides. This morning’s ride, however, was only a short distance and ended at a fuel station. Paul announced that we were meeting Lameck, our host from Fountain of Life Children’s Home, and picking up two armed soldiers.

(Image: Our soldier escorts)

I was really anxious, wondering what in the world we were doing going to a place that required armed men. I had some good prayer with the Lord this morning and found great peace in the light of the approaching challenge. We drove across the road from the fuel station and entered a narrow road surrounded by row after row of shacks.

 

(Image: One of the soldiers oversees our disembarkation point) 

These shacks were covered with mud, tin, tarps, and no telling what all. As we slowly traveled down this alleyway, the passage grew narrower with each passing shack. This entire slum is not even a square mile in size, and it lies in a valley. Looking down from the top of that valley, all I could see was a sea of rust-colored tin and make-shift roofs.

(Images: Tin-roof maze)

The normal pack of children began to follow us and watch every move we made. Before long we stopped and Mike and Paul opened the door to get out. I gathered my cameras and with mixed emotion got out of the comfort of the van.

 

(Image: Jason after exiting the van)

Initially, I was disconnected from my environment and fully intended to keep it that way, and the  two tall guys with guns behind me served as a great distraction, keeping me from truly appreciating the setting around me.

(Image: The reason and the distraction) 

I imagine if I were flying over this slum, looking down on it would look like a maze.  Each shack was attached and there weren’t backdoors to any of them. A series of two to three foot alley ways lead us to our first stop and the one room home of a lady named Elizabeth. The dirt floor in her house was at least two foot lower than the alley way outside.  Entry to the home required climbing down into it. Looking down into the room, I saw Elizabeth. She was a middle aged woman holding a less than year old baby. Turns out her story is far too familiar in this slum. She had two daughters die of AIDS and leave behind children.

(Image: Children outside of one of the 'homes' we visited)

Walking through this slum required careful steps. The rusty corners of tin were at eye level and the ground was covered with ruts flowing with sewage. We visited others in the slum all to find out they all were struggling to meet the bare necessities of life. The very things I take for granted are missing in these people’s lives.

(Images: Rivers of raw sewage flow down every slum road and alley) 

At one point, I spotted two little girls about three years old. They were dirty and standing so close to a collection of sewage and trash. An unexpected image hit my mind and caused me to enter into one of the most humbling experiences. I pictured my kids in this place.

(Image: A young girls navigates past the sewage rut outside her home)   

(Image: Thick sludge-stream of feces)

I was unsuccessful in keeping my mind from thinking about Jensen walking through this mess with no shoes. I could vividly see Juddy Bear running down an alley way with no shirt or shoes but clothed with the yuck of the slum. I visualized Jackson leaning against a wall looking down at the ground. Those thoughts were too much and the painful reality that children just like mine, were doing these very thing, living in this mess. My eyes filled with tears and they streamed down my face. The thoughts of my children living in that place were painful, but those thoughts soon turned into great compassion for the children that actually live there.

(Image: Children on their 'playground')

At one point the pain in my heart was so great I could hardly stand it, and for some reason, I just looked up, I suppose to take my eyes off of what I couldn’t stand to see. I noticed the sky looks just like it does in Arkansas. I was instantly reminded at that point that God was looking down, and he never changes, nor does he make any mistakes.

I admit, I questioned God why anybody should or would live that way. Only He knows why.

(Image: Another young girl standing amongst the piles of trash and excrement)

Some of us made the trek down to the center of that valley and there was a stream flowing there.  It wasn’t a pretty stream; the water was gray and full of trash. Disease and death were flowing in this water. Hundreds of people’s homes were on the dirty banks. While I was there, many were cooking nearby, children playing, animals growing. The sight of a banana tree growing by this stream made me sick to my stomach. The very thought that this was a real place seemed impossible, and still does as I think back on those images forever etched on my mind.

(Images: River of disease and death)

As we walked back up out of the belly of that horrible place, I began to sing a Nicole C. Mullin song in my head - Redeemer. I don’t know all the words in right order but some that hit me were: "Who made the stars shine in the heavens, who told the ocean you can only come this far? I know my Redeemer lives. I know my Redeemer lives, let all creation testify, that God’s love will never die.  I know my Redeemer lives."

When I got back into the van, I got out my bible and read the relevant words of Romans 12:9-18:

"Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil, cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor serving the Lord. Be patient in hope, joyful in affliction and faithful in prayer. Share with God’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited. Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it is dependent on you, live at peace with everyone." 

Looking back over all the events of this day, my heart was heavy, but my faith in God was stronger than twelve hours before.

(Image: Many children like these live in these conditions without parents. We can indeed see them protected and stronger also)