A Christmas Reflection

Archbishop of Canterbury's Christmas sermon 2008

Thursday 25 December 2008

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'There went out a decree from Caesar Augustus'; we've very likely heard those words many, many times in carol services, like an overture to the great drama of the Christmas story. The emperor Augustus would have been delighted, I'm sure, to be told that his name would still be recalled after twenty centuries - but more than a little dismayed that it would be simply because he happened to be around at the time of Christ's birth. There were all sorts of things for which he would have wanted to be remembered, and many of his contemporaries were not slow in telling him about them. And in fairness he had quite a good claim to fame: he had, after all, restored order to the Roman state and consolidated its global influence as never before. For many decades, a kind of peace prevailed from Germany to Syria – enforced by typical Roman brutality when any signs of dissent appeared, but still probably better than the chaos of the Roman civil war that had been going on before. It made sense to hail him as restorer of peace, and to look forward to a long period of stability and prosperity.
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It didn't turn out quite like that, of course; but Augustus's reign was for many people a sort of golden age. In later generations, new emperors set themselves the goal of bringing back something of that stability and confidence, and they would describe themselves on their coins and statues as the rescuers of the world's good order – as 'saviours': something that had already been common among the kings of the Middle East in earlier centuries.
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So if you'd asked people of Jesus' day what the word 'saviour' meant, the answer would be pretty plain. It was someone who would bring back the golden age, who would put an end to conflict; you could almost say it was someone who would stop things happening. Salvation was the end of history, brought about by one unique charismatic leader.
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Curious that, all these years later, the same language still survives. Twentieth century totalitarian systems looked forward to a state of things where all conflict was over and change and struggle stopped. On the other side, after the end of the Cold War, some scholars were writing about the 'end of history', and an American President spoke of a 'new world order'. In recent weeks, we've seen some of Barack Obama's advisers and colleagues warning about the level of messianic expectation loaded on to the President-elect - wisely recognising the risks involved in tapping in to this vein of excited imagination always just below the surface of even the most cynical society. We have certainly not, as human beings, grown out of the fascination of saviours who will restore the good times. The Lord has bared his arm and is once and for all returning to Zion; surely that is real salvation?
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And as always the gospel comes in with a sober 'Yes, but...' The saviour arrives, but goes unrecognised. He is hidden in the form of poverty and insecurity, a displaced person. Instead of peace and the golden age restored, there is conflict, a trial, a cross and a mysterious new dawn breaking unlike anything that has gone before. He was in the world and the world did not know him. Yet to those who recognise him and trust him, he gives authority (not just 'power', as our translations have it) to become something of what he is – to share in the manifesting of his saving work.
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So what's happening here to the idea of a saviour? The gospel tells us something hard to hear - that there is not going to be a single charismatic leader or a dedicated political campaign or a war to end all wars that will bring the golden age; it tells us that history will end when God decides, not when we think we have sorted all our problems out; that we cannot turn the kingdoms of this world into the kingdom of God and his anointed; that we cannot reverse what has happened and restore a golden age. But it tells us something that at the same time explodes all our pessimism and world-weariness. There is a saviour, born so that all may have life in abundance, a saviour whose authority does not come from popularity, problem-solving or anything else in the human world. He is the presence of the power of creation itself. He is the indestructible divine life, and the illumination he gives cannot be shrouded or defeated by the darkness of human failure.
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But he has become flesh. He has come to live as part of a world in which conflict comes back again and again, and history does not stop, a world in which change and insecurity are not halted by a magic word, by a stroke of pen or sword on the part of some great leader, some genius. He will change the world and – as he himself says later in John's gospel – he will overcome the world simply by allowing into the world the unrestricted force and flood of divine life, poured out in self-sacrifice. It is not the restoring of a golden age, not even a return to the Garden of Eden; it is more – a new creation, a new horizon for us all.
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And it can be brought into being only in 'flesh': not by material force, not by brilliant negotiation but by making real in human affairs the depth of divine life and love; by showing 'glory' – the intensity and radiance of unqualified joy, eternal self-giving. Only in the heart of the ordinary vulnerability of human life can this be shown in such a way, so that we are saved from the terrible temptation of confusing it with earthly power and success. This is, in Isaiah's words, 'the salvation of our God' – not of anything or anyone else.
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For those who accept this revelation and receive the promised authority, what can be done to show his glory? So often the answer to this lies in the small and local gestures, the unique difference made in some particular corner of the world, the way in which we witness to the fact that history not only goes on but is also capable of being shifted towards compassion and hope. This year as every year, we remember in our prayers the crises and sufferings of the peoples of the Holy Land: how tempting it is to think that somehow there will be a 'saviour' here – a new US president with a fresh vision, an election in Israel or Palestine that will deliver some new negotiating strategy...It's perfectly proper to go on praying for a visionary leadership in all those contexts; but meanwhile, the 'saving' work is already under way, not delayed until there is a comprehensive settlement.
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This last year, one of the calendars in my study, one of the things that provides me with images for reflection every day, has been the one issued by Families for Peace – a network of people from both communities in the Holy Land who have lost children or relatives in the continuing conflict; people who expose themselves to the risk of meeting the family of someone who killed their son or daughter, the risk of being asked to sympathise with someone whose son or daughter was killed by activists promoting what you regard as a just cause. The Parents Circle and Families Forum organised by this network are labouring to bring hope into a situation of terrible struggle simply by making the issues 'flesh', making them about individuals with faces and stories. When I have met these people, I have been overwhelmed by their courage; but also left with no illusions about how hard it is, and how they are made to feel again and again that they come to their own and their own refuse to know them. Yet if I had to identify where you might begin to speak of witnesses to 'salvation' in the Holy Land, I should unhesitatingly point to them.
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In any such situation, the same holds true. In recent days, I have been catching up with news of other enterprises in the Holy Land, especially from the Christian hospitals in Bethlehem and Nazareth, struggling with all kinds of pressure on them from various sources and with the chronic problem of desperately small resources, yet still obstinately serving all who come to them, from whatever background. And last week I spoke with someone helping to run a small community theatre project in Bulawayo, supported by local churches, working to deepen the confidence and the hope of those living in the middle of some of the worst destitution even Zimbabwe can show. Signs of salvation; not a magical restoration of the golden age, but the stubborn insistence that there is another order, another reality, at work in the midst of moral and political chaos; the reality that is the eternal 'Logos', St John's Greek term that means not simply a word but a pattern of harmonious relation.
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That is what is made flesh at Christmas. And our own following of the Word made flesh is what gives us the resources to be perennially suspicious of claims about the end of history or the coming of some other saviour exercising some other sort of power. To follow him is to take the risks of working at these small and stubborn outposts of newness, taking our responsibility and authority. In the months ahead it will mean in our own country asking repeatedly what is asked of us locally to care for those who bear the heaviest burdens in the wake of our economic crisis – without waiting for the magical solution, let alone the return of the good times. Internationally, it is remembering that our personal involvement in prayer and giving is utterly essential, whatever pressure we may rightly want to bring to bear on governments and organisations.
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Isaiah looked towards the day when the guards on the deserted city's wall would see the return of the Lord 'face to face'. So much of our witness to salvation depends on this face to face encounter (and yes, that was one of the ideals that helped to shape the work of this year's Lambeth Conference). We can't pass the buck to Caesar Augustus, Barack Obama or even Canterbury City Council – though we may pray for them all and hope that they will play their part in witnessing to new possibilities. To follow the Word made flesh is to embark, with a fair bit of fear and trembling, it may be, on making history - not waiting for it to stop. And that means speaking and working for Christ in the myriad face to face encounters in which he asks us to be his witnesses – to see and to show his glory, the glory as of the Father's only Son, full of grace and truth.
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© Rowan Williams 2008

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http://www.archbishopofcanterbury.org/2075

But I Don't Dream in Colour...

[this is taken directly from my journal].

10-12-08 12:35pm.
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I just woke up from another dream which suggests that my dream world doesn't consider Rexville [where my grandparents live in New York, USA] and Bukoto [the village in southern Uganda where I currently reside] to be so far apart. In this one, some aunt and uncle--not sure who and can't remember their names, but I half-recognised them, just as I do every time I go to Lewis family reunions. They were driving from New York to visit Heatwoles in Virginia, and they had room in their mini-van, so they gave Melissa a ride here. How Uganda is on a driving route between Rexville and McGaheysville, or why Melissa was in NY in the first place were not relevant questions until I woke up. As I was talking to this aunt about some mundane topic of American life, who should wander down the hill (our compound isn't actually built on a slope), but Amber. Stan and Diane had stopped, too. I returned to the house to find a large contingent of my Lewis cousins eating matooke and beans side by side with my brothers and sisters. Strange wonders from this scene: Maama was not at all surprised by their presence, had enough food for all these extra people, and was letting guests eat on the floor with our family. When I asked Maama if they knew what they were eating, she said no, but they seemed to be enjoying it. The last thing I remember is me saying, to the great amusement of my Ugandan family, "Tugenda kulya ensenene"* and not translating into English. Oh, the strange wonder of dreams.
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*In English: "We're going to eat grasshoppers."

Contemplating MCC...

I frequently realise that I really like MCCers...

Then I remember that I am an MCCer...

And yet, still I contemplate, whatever does it mean to be an MCCer?

I've been in a poetic mood lately...

Jangua Tugende Kusoma
(Quickly, We Go to Study)

Morning breaks lightly among the hills.
Dawn rises quickly as I step amongst dew
and dust.
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Too early for the young mechanics,
but I bend my knee and speak loudly
to greet the mad woman
and deaf dry cleaner.
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The night was beautiful, peaceful, restful,
as I slept with those I call
brother, sister, mother.
"Nasuze bulungi"-I slept well,
is all I say.
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A few steps through town--
burning trash,
babies crying,
children buying chapatis
or washing utensils.
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Waves and greetings.
"Bye-ee muzungu."
"Bye-ee," I respond,
"Bye-ee, muganda muwana,"
dear brown child.
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Past the coffee plant,
where young men sweep beans
into the morning sun.
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Smoke rises as tea boils
on rekindled cooking fires.
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Now I wander through gardens
of cassava, beans, and g. nuts.
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A palm tree, tall along the path.
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Banana plants,
simple in their sustenance,
providing food, fibre, water,
whose leaves take a part
in the dance of life and death,
love and loss.
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I watch the sun climb above the farthest green hills,
awestruck by the daily beauty.
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"Good morning Aunt,"
children pull me from my contemplation.
"How are you?"
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They are fine
in their many-coloured uniforms,
barefoot as they carry
paper-wrapped books,
capless pens,
plastic containers packed with
cassava and sweet bananas.
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"Quickly," I tell them,
and "study well today,"
drawing happy laughs
as I speak their tongue.
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Returning again to the road,
remembering childhood folk tales,
I imagine I'm playing a pipe
and wonder how far they would follow me.
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Greetings continue.
Boda drivers racing to their posts.
Cyclists starting the long trek to Town,
green bananas piled high as they trudge uphill.
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We all cover our faces
and dodge to the side
as heavy lorries speed toward Tanzania.
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As we reach the parish hill,
I urge my children onward
and upward.
"Quickly," I remind them,
"lessons are beginning now."
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Father Grandfather is giving mass up the hill,
the youngest children tidy the compound
with brooms and hoes.
Already teachers are in their classrooms,
the cook's toddler twins splash water in a saucepan.
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I pull out chalk and a book.
"You are most welcome,
dear Auntie Chrishtine"
as I cross the threshold from dirt to dirt.
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I smile crosses my face as the 7:00 bell
resounds across the grass.
It is the first hour of the morning,
I am exactly where I belong,
and my day is beginning again.

Unexpected Comfort

I have a green shirt I like to wear on somehow chilly mornings, often over one of my blue dresses. It has 3/4 length sleeves and a v-neck. It is heavier than my long-sleeve shirts, but fits tighter than my fleece. It must have some measure of spandex--or simply be really tightly woven cotton--because it still fits well, even after months of hand washing. On the left side, in gold thread, is embroidered the logo for Sight and Sound Theatre in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, USA. Never been to one of their shows, though I've heard they make quite an event. This shirt, which I picked up during orientation week in Akron, and which didn't take part in the agonising process of deciding what clothes to pack for a year abroad, has provided both emotional and physical warmth and comfort on many cold and lonely mornings.

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I like it not just for the way it feels on my skin and the ease with which it offsets my tanned skin and sometimes green eyes, nor for the sense of confidence and at-ease-ness it somehow always manages to bring with it [why am I more aware of the emotional impact of my clothing choices these days?]. I like it also for the memories it recalls of a rainy August night and of the many things I like about the organisation I work for.

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This shirt came into my possession one evening in August, toward the end of orientation. After saying farewell to IVEP participants, all of us SALTers and YAMEN boarded a bus and rode to the MCC warehouse/distribution center (I don't remember the actual name of this place, and my journal is light on entries from that week, probably because I was meeting and interacting with so many new people, as well as writing the last of a long list of thank you notes). This was the place where they pack all sorts of supplies to ship around the world as well as prepare items to be sold in thrift shops throughout the country.
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First a tour: we saw the looms where weavers make braided rugs from strips of excess donated clothing; the sewing room, where volunteers make beautiful quilts and other items; the tables for checking and properly packing all of the donated kits; a warehouse full of packed kits, bundled clothes and comforters, and canned meat; the shipping decks, where tractor trailers are filled with these same items; stacks of books which come from my own corner of the world, Harrisonburg, Virginia. We saw the kits MCC sends around the world--school kits with basic school supplies (trust me, a working pen and empty notebook can make quite a bit of difference in a child's scholastic performance), AIDs kits accompanied by financial donations for (expensive) medical supplies, and the relief kits given to refugees and families displaced by natural disasters. We learned about the food for work projects MCC participates in, providing both work and protein to people who do sustainable and locally beneficial projects.
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After the tour, we were put to work. At a long table, about ten of us sorted through hundreds of school kits, checking that the items fit MCC specifications, adding missing items, and repacking everything perfectly in the colourful drawstring bags. We enjoyed ourselves so much (for many of us, it felt really nice to finally "do something" after days of sitting around talking about all the wonderful things MCC does), they had to tell us repeatedly to stop. They then gave us a snack of biscuits and juice, though I didn't know then how very much I'd soon appreciate such simple fare, and pointed out a few shelves of books and a table of shirts (donated by Sight and Sound)--all free for the taking as we headed out to our respective assignments. I can't remember who all took shirts, but I had already put mine on as we dashed through the rain back out to the bus.
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And so, now anytime I wear my dark green shirt, I'm reminded of so many good things...

• of the many friends I made that week of orientation, some of whom now wear matching shirts as we serve and learn all over the globe,
• of the friends I've packed MCC kits with, both in and beyond Akron,
• of the foundational principles of my organisation, with our emphasis on practical love and peacemaking, our commitment to simple living, and our creative attempts at wholesome and sustainable development projects,
• and of the countless other volunteers and service workers who work alongside me all over the world in our shared attempt to bring the kingdom of god to earth in all its fullness.

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Okay, well honestly, I probably don't think about all these things all the time that I wear the shirt, but yes, it really does remind me of them.

Another Poem from a Few Weeks Ago...

[note: at first, I wasn't sure that I wanted to post this one, but I've since decided to.]

The Echo

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Say that you love me.

And I will love you too.

Let life take us where it will.

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The softness of the wind

breathes softly through my hair.

But you dislike the breeze.

You cannot see where it ends

and so you fear its magic.

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Take my hand

in your own strong grasp.

And we will walk together.

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The path stretches before me,

and I journey beyond the signposts

that I couldn't even read.

You demand a map

and always seek the destination.

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I would offer you my heart.

(You already live inside it.)

Would you guard it well for me?

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And I dance,

twirling soft and free,

not thinking, only living.

It is reckless, you say, dangerous.

You dare not loose control.

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For love of you, my heart aches.

If I whisper,

will I hear your echo?

Hearing Christmas Carols on the Radio...

I keep having to remind myself that it is really December. The weather and the recent "summer holiday spirit" of my kids has made it difficult to contextualise the approaching holiday season. However, the Christmas carols currently playing on the radio do help a bit.
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I must say, though, as comforting as it is to hear Bing Crosby wishing for a White Christmas, I don't bear such hopes myself...
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Personally, I'm looking forward to fresh bananas, pineapple, mangoes, and grasshoppers for Christmas :)

Contemplating Miracles...

What are your thoughts on miracles? Do they exist? If so, what qualifies something as a miracle?
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The reason this is on my mind: the power has been on and off (off more than on) daily for the last week, with power shortages suggesting that this problem will get worse before it gets better. Unfortunately, we don't have a generator at the parish, and the school was counting on me to prepare certificates for our speech day on Saturday. The power went off sometime on Wednesday morning, but finally came back Friday afternoon, so my friend and I went to prepare the certificates. It took two hours of playing around on the laptop, searching for paper, and being frustrated with the printer, but finally they were finished, so I left for home. Sometime during the first half of my 20 minute walk home, the power went out (it was on when I left the parish, but off by the time I got to town 10 minutes later). (Last night, the opposite phenomenon happened: the power came back on while I was walking home... both are strange occurrences).
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I don't believe that god intervenes in the simple daily affairs of individuals (as an example, I don't put much weight into prayers for a parking space close to the front doors of the mega-supermarket whose unethical and unjust business practices cause suffering around the world), but the realisation that we had only just managed to finish this important project in time brought an immediate prayer of gratitude and thanksgiving to my lips. And then, it made me start thinking about miracles and divine intervention in human life and activity (of which, judging by the amount of suffering in this part of the world, I tend to believe there is not enough of, if it truly does happen).
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So, I'm curious what you all think.
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And, as another piece to think about in relation to this issue, I once shadowed a pastor who warned his congregation not to consider as divine favour blessings which are simply part and parcel of middle class western developed nation life. That is, be careful before you attribute all of the good things in your life to god's looking kindly on you, when, after all, your material blessings, good health, long education, employment stability, and life expectancy might just be rolled up into the package of your American lifestyle.
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Oh, and yes, I know these thoughts will be probably strike some of you as inherently heretical. If so, feel free to judge and pray for me as much as you wish, but know that I'm more interested in critical thought and experiential insight than ideological debates.

The Braids...

made of black yarn and twisted around my hair (see below),

these stayed in for about a week and a half...

i enjoyed the style so much that i'll get it done again as soon as i get a chance :)

78 Braids

When the braids came out...

Leavers' Party

last month, cooking food for the p7 leavers' party...

was very excited to be allowed to help...

the rain coat is because it rained quite heavily at one point while we were cooking...

Celebrating the Diocese Teachers' Day

at the tropic inn hotel in masaka earlier this month

Digging...

from sometime in september or october...

to the left are a cassava plant and a banana plant...

With Rebecca Katoona

this one's for meg :)

What I'd look like with black hair...

the wig belongs to a friend...

i don't particularly like how hot it is, but my friends are incredibly fond of me wearing it...

A Message from Our P7 Class

a message from our P7 leavers to Uncle Benard at their leavers' party last month

the lines.

"i coloured inside the lines, but lived outside of them, i suppose."

--thera, 28th november 08

Sometimes I can't help but think in verse...

A Midnight Conversation Between Sisters
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Love, she tells me, I'm not sure what it means.
If I don't know what it is,
how can I do it?
And it's too soon,
how can I know if we're meant
always to be together.
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I don't know if it's love, she says.
It feels more like "like."
My stomach flips over
and I feel giddy.
I'm not sure if I'm thinking straight.
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And shouldn't love be more than just feeling?
Shouldn't it be deeper,
longer-lasting,
not just sweet and sugary?
Will it still feel like this ten years from now,
or one,
or even twenty minutes?
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What if it's all a grand mistake?
What if he's not the one?
Where will it end?
Will I like where it takes me?
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And what of my heart?
How can I protect it?
Should I?
And do I want to?
But how much must I let him in
simply to give it a fighting chance?
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Oh my dear, I sigh,
so many questions in your young heart.
I can't offer so many answers--
I'm not sure they exist,
and you must seek them for yourself.
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But I'm glad, I think,
that you're asking questions,
that you're more than a bit suspicious
of butterflies and romance
and all the nice feelings.
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I hope you always keep a bit of that uncertainty.
And that you always welcome your head to the conversation
alongside your heart.
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But don't dismiss it too quickly.
It's not, yet, love, you say,
this attraction
and enjoyment and ease.
I know, you're right.
Love takes time,
and it's often difficult,
and it doesn't always feel so good.
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Sacrifice, and trust, and perseverance.
Sometimes the strongest decision
is the hardest one to make.
And maybe it will hurt,
and certainly you'll have to fight for it.
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But that's love,
and you're not there yet.
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Liking is okay, too.
In fact, I think it's good.
Enjoy these moments--
smile when you think of him,
feel at ease in his presence,
let him compliment you,
and delight in every sweet moment.
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Set aside the bigger questions,
at least for today.
They'll still be around to ponder next week
--or next year.
Perhaps you'll never find the answers.
Perhaps love doesn't need absolute guarantees.
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It will all come together in time.
Maybe.
Just remember,
always invite your head to the conversation,
alongside your heart.

A few more random comments and thoughts...

Me, to a group of "my boys" during lunch on Monday: "Boys are boys. You're all the same, all over the world." And then I had to explain... and clarify for them, that yes, girls are also the same all over the world.
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Some boda driver hanging out on one of the street corners of Masaka Town (and this one is altogether common): "Sister, give to me for helmet." Umm, no.
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Maama, the last time Benard brought me home from Town: "That one is really your driver. Maybe I should ask him to bring a bull, and he can marry you." To which Benard chivalrously replied: "It would have to be a cow at least."
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Me, to Uncle Robert, who I periodically help to understand the poetry homework he gets for his university course, as we struggled with something written by Tennyson: "I'm afraid I don't understand the structure of this poem either... but I do really like the way it sounds."
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Rebecca, as we discussed how men are the downfall of African society, and how neither of us could ever be a good wife to a traditional African man: "And that's when I realised I was a feminist."
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From a commercial on UBC this morning: "We look forward to a time when getting tested for HIV will be a normal part of every person's life... You can be part of an HIV-free generation." While I understand and appreciate greatly this message and the need for getting tested to have less of a social stigma attached, I choose to cling to the (perhaps irrational) hope that we will sometime see an age when HIV is no longer a relevant concern for the vast majority of young people on this continent.
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In an email from Uncle Benard Yiga, my friend from Bukoto village currently working in Canada with MCC, whom I've only met by email: "I have had from several people that they realy love having you and they enjoy your company. May be you should not plan to come back to America. Afterall it's very cold!" I don't miss the cold, and I don't make lightly my promises to return to Bukoto eventually, but still, I also look forward to the day when I can return to the US and reunite with the other half of my heart that belongs to all of my friends and family there.
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the recent petrol shortage is affecting everything from the cost of my boda ride to Town (past numerous stations showing "0000" for the cost of petrol [by which they mean, we don't have any]) to the quality of the beans we buy for our school lunch.
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i love living in a place where the post office clerks greet me by name, even when we meet on the street.
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i've decided that i prefer the rainy days to the sunny ones. they're cooler, yes, but it's a whole lot easier to empty a few huge saucepans into our jerry cans than to pump and haul 40-100+ litres of water each day.
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i try not to think about the illness possibilities inherent when i watch my students smash a few hundred mosquitoes against the wall of their classroom in a single day.
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at some point in the next couple weeks, my fellow teachers are theoretically organising a "welcome party" for me... i've only been here 3 months and taught a full term, after all.
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i read the constant gardener this past weekend. it is as thought-provoking and inspiring as the movie, which i first saw on this same continent a couple years ago. if you've never seen or read it, i highly recommend doing so, though be warned: it's not the kind of movie/book to take popcorn with or to joke around with friends immediately after. it's deep and heavy and may inspire you to go out and try to change the world.
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a couple weekends ago, when i spent the night with rebecca for the first time, we rented and watched the happening. also highly recommended. also not a light or easy movie. a good one to watch with folks willing to engage in discussion afterward. and the ending... well, i think it's a tragic but true take on american society.
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and to end on a lighter note, though i have no plans to celebrate the holiday here, happy thanksgiving to you all. may you spend the day with friends and family, and perhaps with those who have none. may you count your blessings and find ways to bless others. may you find ways to share with those who have less, but always out of love, and never pity, knowing that they have much to teach you about the world, love, god, suffering, perseverence, and true wealth. and may you join me in hoping and praying for peace and wholeness to become a natural state of life.

Epilogue to a Birthday

To continue the tale of my Ugandan birthday (which starts somewhere below)...
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After leaving the internet cafe, I wandered to my friend Rebecca's flat, but since she wasn't home yet, I chatted a bit with Waswa, the day askari (guard) for her building. When Rebecca reached home, we greeted and hugged as if we were sisters who had known each other forever (rather than a week and a half) and as if we hadn't seen each other in months (rather than a week and a half). That's part of what I love so much about Rebecca :)
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We went to the market to buy our simple supper and to our favourite bakery (well, her favourite, and the only one I know) to buy samosas for tea. To celebrate my birthday, we also bought a gigantic slice of "moist orange cake". I'm not sure I've ever bought my own birthday cake before, and 2000 shillings (approx. $1.25 USD) felt like quite a splurge.
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Reaching home, we prepared tea and enjoyed our samosas as we discussed the finer points of poverty and feminism within an African context (such conversation inspired by my reading aloud parts of a letter from a mutual friend of ours in the US). We were both excited by the fall leaves which also came tucked into my friend's letter, and Rebecca now keeps one on her pillow.
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Our discussion about the problems facing African society (Rebecca has many thoughtful opinions about this) was interrupted by my cell ringing. The display showed "0000000", so I held my breath, assuming that it was probably an international call. It was my parents and sister calling to wish me a happy birthday. It was wonderful to talk to them, especially since they passed around the phone and we got to talk for more than the 12-13 minutes of airtime I typically buy for international calls.
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Apparently, Grottoes, VA, celebrated my birthday with snow showers... while I enjoyed a cold bath to remove the sweat of another sunny day.
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I fell asleep next to a good friend, and apparently continued teaching my students as I slept. Rebecca says I started spelling "December" at one point, but I was aware enough of the fact that I was talking to stop after the second "E". At 23 years, I wonder if I'll ever grow out of talking in my sleep... at least it often causes much amusement for anyone who gets to listen in.
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And now, I'm twenty-three (abiri mwe ssatu), looking out on another year that is sure to be full of joy, uncertainty, sorrow, love, loss, disappointment, pride, friendship, peace, heartache, and a great deal of CHANGE. I have my guesses as to where I'll be a year from now, but even those are simply hypotheticals. Will this year change me as much as the past one? Katonda amanye. God only knows.

FYI

Two messages from MCC I thought I'd pass on as you all prepare for Christmas... and as many of the young folks I know are starting to think about post-high school and post-college plans, or simply contemplating the question, "what am I doing with my life?" To those of you who have admired what I'm doing and questioned your own ability to serve in a similiar manner, consider supporting MCC financially and/or applying for a SALT term of your own. Seriously, it's worth being the "weird one" who doesn't go straight to college or grad school or start in the working world simply to have the chance to see life from a perspective so different from the one you're accustomed to.

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2008 Christmas Giving

As we celebrate the birth of Jesus and the gift of God’s love for us, we invite you to give gifts that touch lives around the world.Through MCC projects, you can provide gifts of food, water and shelter for people around the world, walk alongside communities seeking solutions to poverty and help build peace. Meet needs in often-forgotten places by choosing the "where needed most" category. Follow this link to learn how you can be involved: http://mcc.org/christmas/

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Please pass the SALT.

Tell friends and family around your Thanksgiving & Christmas tables the 2009-2010 Serving and Learning Together (SALT) application season has begun! Encourage young adults in your life (ages 18-27) to "PASS THE SALT" to all their friends too. You can check daily for Open SALT Assignment Descriptions being posted on the web at: http://domino-18.prominic.com/A5584F/SOLtoWeb.nsf/a331d1c0656f6ef985256aaf0062b04c!OpenView&Start=1&Count=30&Expand=7#7 This list is being updated every day so keep checking back. For more info. about the SALT program go to http://mcc.org/salt.

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Blessings and peace to all of you this season!

Overheard in an internet cafe...

A little while ago, there were two guys sitting on either side of me in the internet cafe. I didn't actually speak to them, but was greatly amused by their American accents. Midwest, if I had to guess, though I didn't actually ask them where they were from. They spoke with a bit of a twang, using terms that have long since escaped my vocabulary. And as they checked the weather for Amsterdam and Chicago, they used phrases like "snow showers," "below freezing," and "cold," all of which are foreign to my current experience. I don't even know their names and will probably never see them again, but I felt a bit of instant connection even as I laughed (to myself) at how strange their accents seemed to me.
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And to all of you American friends and family, just wait, you too will eventually get the chance to laugh equally much about my accent (provided you speak to me within the first couple months after I return to the US, as it's unlikely to last beyond that).

Oyina emyaka ameka?

Directly translated, the above reads, "You have how many years?" and the question is as much asked by the tone of voice as by the ending question word. Less literally, it means, "How old are you?"
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Today marks my 23rd birthday, but I celebrate this birthday with less fanfare than probably any previous. In my community, people don't really seem to celebrate birthdays, except for the very old (to live long enough and healthily enough to have white hair is quite an accomplishment around here). I think some of them would have wanted to make me the exception, but I accidentally (on purpose) didn't really tell them about my birthday until, well, this morning. Not that knowing the date would make much difference. Yesterday, my little brother celebrated his 3rd birthday... I reminded Maama at tea that it was Pito's birthday, so she gave him a 100 shilling piece to buy a piece of candy with. That's the way of things around here.
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But, I did enjoy reading all of the birthday wishes I found in my email and on facebook. Plus, as is typical for a Tuesday morning, Father Peter brought me mail this morning. I haven't had a chance to open all the notes (and am saving some for the coasta (bus) trip to Kampala tomorrow), but please know that some of your birthday cards did arrive precisely on time. One parcel that I have opened contained a wonderful present... a book of poetry by Mary Oliver, who I have discovered (from flipping through a few pages) writes beautiful and thought-provoking verses. I had somehow forgotten how much I love poetry, how my mind sometimes slips naturally into verse. In the midst of marking exams, preparing reports, and otherwise being busy with the difficult task of teaching English, this book was, and will continue to be, a refreshing breath of cool air in the middle of an unseasonably hot afternoon (it's supposed to be raining right now, but we're in the midst of a week plus drought... bleh.).
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And tonight, to continue the non-celebratory birthday, I'll be sleeping over in town with my new and wonderful friend Rebecca, who loves to cook experimentally just as I do. And who, as we talked about mutual American friends a couple weeks ago, remarked, "sometimes, the world feels really small." Yes, indeed, it does. Especially at moments when one gets to enjoy the company of and/or the well wishes of people that one love around the world all on the same day. Today, the world is small, and I am blessed for that.
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Oh, and just so you know, most everyone I know will still tell me I'm lying when I tell them my age. After all, I couldn't possibly be so young ;) [Would I be so amused if people in America regularly told me that I looked at least 30, if not 40? Hmmm...]

How do you measure a year in a life?

Note: I don't know the reference for the following verses (which Melissa included in the wonderful book she gave me before I flew across the ocean), but in my head, they're always set to music, so I have a feeling that they're probably from a song. Forgive the lack of credits...
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Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure, measure a year?

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In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights,

in cups of coffee, in inches, in miles,

in laughter, in strife

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In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in a life?

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How about love?

Measure in love

Seasons of love

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A couple weeks ago, during a student debate at school, while I was serving as the "English Doctor," I penned the lines below, inspired by the poem/song above.
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How do you measure a year in a life?
In sunsets,
in rainstorms,
in laughter,
in tears,
in longings,
in memories,
in fever dreams,
in lessons,
in empty ink pens,
in new clothes,
in power outages,
in tea times,
in hot mugs of sweet milk,
in mistakes,
in happy faces,
in groundnuts shelled,
in prayers,
in debates,
in tan lines,
in dances,
in trips to Town,
in visits to friends,
in journals filled,
in long distance phone calls,
in shooting stars,
in cloudy nights,
in new vocabulary,
in picked accents,
in hugs,
in sweets,
in fried grasshoppers,
in late nights,
in tired mornings,
in glass bottles of soda,
in steps,
in plans,
in burial rites,
in introduction ceremonies,
in progress reports,
in pda statements,
in visa applications,
in taxi rides,
in cooking lessons,
in welcomes,
in departures,
in verse,
in letters,
in exams marked,
in snaps,
in sunny days,
in habits formed,
in laundry washed,
in hair styles,
in callouses formed,
in cobbled shoes,
in utensils cleaned,
in bars of soap,
in litres of water,
in generosity,
in gratitude.

On Suffering

A quote from Thich Nhat Hanh's True Love: A Practice for Awakening the Heart, which I enjoyed reading last week, and quotes from which now fill multiple pages of my journal.
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"If a person has never suffered, he or she will never be able to know happiness. If a person does not know what hunger is, he or she will never know the joy of eating everyday. Thus pain and suffering are a necessary condition of our understanding of our happiness. So do not say that you do not want to know anything about pain and suffering, that you only want to know about happiness--that would be an impossible thing. We know well that suffering helps us to understand, that it nurtures our compassion, and that for this reason it is vitally necessary for us. So we must know how to learn from suffering, we must know how to make use of it to gather the energy of compassion, of love, of understanding."
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yes, I agree, suffering has much to teach us about life. and joy is best understood if one also knows the nature of pain. BUT, how I wish the suffering of the world was distributed more equitably...

The Science of Digging

Or, How to Adapt to a New Culture.
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I wanted to experience village life fully. The rains had started, though just barely, but we were not yet in school. My family was going to dig, and I wanted to help too. At my insistence, Maama let me tag along to "help," much the same way that I sometimes used to allow the "help" of my youngest cousins in Grandma's kitchen. That first day, we were tilling the earth between our banana plants, using hoes to turn the soil. At first, I didn't really know what to do. Maama showed me where to dig, and I watched for a bit to see what she and my sisters were doing. After watching for a bit, I started digging. At first, and for a few days, it was hard work [not that it isn't now, but my muscles have grown more accustomed to working]. I had to pay attention to where and how I was digging. I wasn't yet used to the sun, having only been in Africa for three weeks, so I had to take frequent breaks and drink a lot of water. My arms were reminding me that they were used to working in an office, not a field. And that first day, I forgot that I had work gloves from MCC, and it only took an hour for the blisters to form and break on my hands. The next time, I remembered my gloves, and eventually, the painful blisters began to develop protective callouses [though, since my ventures to the gardens are rare, I still always wear my gloves when using the hoe].
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Slowly, and after a few days, I developed a rhythm. But even after I started to feel that I had the hang of what I was doing and what was expected of me, my sisters still offered frequent correction and criticism. Why are you digging there? Why aren't you digging deeper? Why are you digging so deep? Why didn't you dig over there? Why are you letting the dirt pile up like that? I quickly realised that such questions really mean, You shouldn't do it like that! At times, I'd feel annoyed and a bit frustrated with their questions--why didn't you tell me that before I started, I sometimes wanted to ask. The answer was simple, though--they hadn't told me because they assumed I already knew, or because it was so natural that they hadn't even thought about it. It was humbling, too, to be (re)learning such tasks under the instruction of a twelve year old.
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But I bit my tongue and reminded myself to appreciate her lessons. And as I learned more and grew accustomed to the work, I was able to work longer and faster, with fewer critiques. Sometimes when we went to the garden, the work would be different--shallower digging with the hoe, or using our hands to pull weeds among the g nuts (peanuts). Each new task brought new lessons to learn, but I was learning faster now, still taking my cues from my observations of others and the occasional "why?"
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Digging affords a lot of time to think. Now that school is in session, I can only dig on Saturdays, and even then, my social calendar makes it a somehow rare event. But when I do get to go to the garden, I generally appreciate the change in pace, the chance to stretch my muscles and let my mind wander away from the tasks of teaching classes and tutoring illiterate students. One day a couple months ago, as I was digging, it occured to me that the process of learning to dig is like that of the scientific method, which is itself a good metaphor for acculturation. [And just in case you wondered, this reflection happened spontaneously, which might say quite a bit about the subject matter and metaphor genre my brain prefers.]
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The scientific method, which children are taught from a young age in US schools, is the process (whether formal or informal) by which scientists transform observations into cohesive theories about the way the world works. All of you use this method every day as you learn new things, though you are rarely aware of it [just as I would say that everyone is a theologian, also, everyone is also a scientist].
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It begins with an observation: I see my sister digging a certain way. Then a hypothesis, a guess about why or how what I have observed is happening: this must be the correct way to dig. Next I design and implement an experiment based on my hypothesis: I try to dig the same way that she is digging. The experiment yields data, information which can be used to determine the validity of my hypothesis: my sister asks "why" or tells me to do something else. This data is used to adapt my hypothesis and design a new experiment: now I know that those are cassava leaves, so I won't dig so deep around their plants. The process continues--hypothesis, experiment, data. Slowly, I develop a theory about the nature and cause of my initial observation: this is the correct way to dig. But like all good theories, even this one is always open for further refining and clarification when data arises to prove it in need of modification.
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And just as learning to dig follows the scientific method, however unconsciously, so does the process of adapting to a new culture and learning a new language. The cultural learner, like the scientist, is ever observant, watching and listening to how the native people act and speak, and then trying to do the same. Advice, correction, questions, and amusement help to adapt the new behaviours. And slowly, but surely, the persistent learner begins to speak the language and adapt to the culture. She develops a theory, constantly being refined, of how to live and work as a muganda rather than a muzungu.
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But like learning to dig, this process of acculturation can at times be tiring, frustrating, and downright painful.
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In the beginning, everything is new and nothing feels natural. The learner is often (and quickly) tired from all there is to learn. Just as digging leads to sore muscles, so can constant observation and hypothesising (whether conscious or not) lead to mental and physical exhaustion. But even as muscles slowly adapt to their new responsibilities, so does the cultural new-comer slowly lose the need for constant obervation. Life begins to feel natural, to have a rhythm.
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And just as the continual criticism and challenge of something new can make digging an incredibly frustrating task at times, so can the process of acculturation become a likewise frustrating task. The realisation that one no longer knows the correct way to speak, to eat, to dress, to work, even to sit--such a realisation can be overwhelming and frustrating. Further, it can sometimes be difficult and feel humiliating to learn these lessons so often from children much younger than oneself. But the same attitude of learning, humility, and gratitude which goes a long way toward learning how to dig, also smoothes the path of cultural learning. And if one persists in spite of the frustration, eventually it fades and one comes to consider once foreign behaviours natural and comfortable.
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Finally, though the bruises and scrapes of acculturation may not bleed and sting as those of physical labor, they can be just as painful. Gender roles, understandings of personal property, cultural differences, confrontations with poverty and suffering, questions of respect, authority, and discipline--all can rub wounds as raw as the blisters of hands unaccustomed to digging. But eventually, with continued exposure and attempts to understand and love, callouses bring protection and the learner remembers to wear gloves. Certain beliefs are held more loosely or, at least, defended less passionately. One learns not to take personally the critiques and different attitudes of others. And as one seeks to love and understand, the injuries come less frequently.

4th November 2008

From my journal, 4th Nov, 8:41pm local time.
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Mwa Amerika, abantu balonda ku presidenti. Mwa Uganda, abaana bamaaze ku p.l.e. Kati, nkoye nnyo nnyo. Kubanga, Uncle Moses nange tubadde tusomesa nnyo nnyo nnyo ku ebibina nya, taano, ne mukaaga. Ne nfumbe keki wa Amerika ku kibina musanvu ne abasomesa. Tugenda kulya emerre, ne ngenda kwebaka nnyo. Enkya, abaana wa kibina musanvu baja kugende ka.
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Translation: In America, people are voting for the president. In Uganda, children have finished the P.L.E. Now, I am very very tired. Because, Uncle Moses and I have been teaching very very very much in the classes of primary 4, 5, and 6. And I have cooked an American cake for primary seven and the teachers. We are going to eat food, and I will go and sleep very much. Tomorrow, the children of primary 7 will go home.
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Back to today...
Although I can only write short portions of coherent Luganda, I am consistently pleased with my progress in language learning. Today, as I wandered around the Masaka market, I could understand most of the comments being thrown my direction, from the woman who asked for money to the women (and men) who complimented my braids [pics to come later, but right now, my hair is twisted into 78 long black braids made of yarn :)]. I had multiple conversations with vendors, did most of my bartering in Luganda, and bought a pineapple for the local price (approx. $0.66 USD) rather than the mzungu price ($1.00 USD). School has kept me really (really really) busy lately, as noted in the above excerpt, where I and Moses were the only teachers for 3 classes for 2 days; thus, my language sessions are happening less frequently, but I continue to learn and to use what I am learning to communicate when I get the chance. Most locals that I talk to refuse to believe that I've only been here for less than 3 months [they also refuse to believe that I'm only 22, but that's another topic]; they tell me I speak Luganda better than most bazungu who've been in the area for a few years. I don't so much consider that a compliment, though. It's more of a sad critique on the low importance too many foreigners place on actually learning the language and culture of the people they intend to serve.
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Before I got side-tracked talking about language, I also meant to include a brief comment about the recent presidential election in the US. I'm still processing how I feel about it, helped along the way by many the thought-provoking post-election blogs of many friends that I read today, so my own thoughts will have to come later.
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But, all ye Americans, know this: Ugandans as a whole seem to be very very very very very happy with your choice of president. I still receive congratulations from random people at least daily. I have discussed multiple times with my classes (to no clear outcome) the fact that Obama is not actually an African, but people here generally consider him a brother. Prior to the election, I knew two Ugandans who preferred McCain; most liked Obama not only for the colour of his skin and racial ancestry (his father was Kenyan, did you know?), but also because they remember the policies of the Clinton administration [very random thought: I'm glad my hair has finally grown long enough that people no longer compliment me by telling me that I look like Clinton, primarily because it was just weird to be compared to a middle-aged man]. Our eastern neighbour, Kenya, declared a public holiday to celebrate Obama's victory, and most East Africans seem to assume that his administration will be kind (and monetarily generous) to the region in memory of his family background (I also fail when I try to explain that US politics aren't so family/clan/tribe-based as ours here). People expect monumentous things to happen both within the US and around the world as a result of this new appointment. Generally, I would bet that Ugandans were even more excited about the election results than the general population of America.
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So, America, Obama, Democratic-controlled House and Senate, you have a huge task ahead of you to fulfill the expectations of the greater world. I wish you the best, and I pray that you will live up to the hopes of all my friends and neighbours.

But Sometimes Clouds Obscure the Shooting Stars

dirty face,

torn shirt,

stained dress,

tired yawn,

hungry belly,

painful sores,

lonely tears,

bare feet,

school debts,

unkept hair,

grieving eyes

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child, you are so beautiful. but who is there to care for you? where are your parents, i want to scream, why don't they care? but the answer comes in three simple letters, whispered, as if saying them too loud might spread the curse.
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you buried your father. your mother grows sicker each day. and can an elderly grandmother really care for a child already marked positive? what hope can i offer you? your eyes betray the rapid aging of grief, and the future holds no promise for you. you, who should be playing in the mud and learning to tie your shoes, you pay the painful price for a father's sins (or perhaps, for the violence of an unknown stranger). and what does this world care for you? you will become another statistic, but how few will mourn at your passing. my heart aches for you, innocent one.
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and as i hold your hand, as i dry your tears, as i give you my food, as i pay your school fees, as i wash your face, as i mend your uniform, may you know that you are loved. may you know that there are some who still care for you. may you know that together we still cling to hope, wishing for the resurrection of your childhood. and every shooting star holds the possibility of a warm bed, a full belly, clean clothes, shoes, hair cuts, ointment, income, and more than all else, a cure.

Home

Written 26th/10/08

As I write, I am sitting in what is quite possibly my favourite room of our house--the one with bare walls, a cement floor, no ceiling, and mats for furniture. The room where we take our meals, kneeling on mats (as Maama has observed, "Amanyi kutulla bulungi" [You know how to sit correctly]). The room where we visit, where Simanda sometimes hangs out waiting for food, where Maama sorts beans for planting, where we sometimes (often) pass an evening by the light of a kerosene lamp, where my brothers play football with polyetheylene bottles, and where we can throw bones or groundnut husks on the floor because we will sweep them out in the morning. It is a comfortable place, a good place to come home to after a long day at school.
This morning, for some reason, the memory of my first impression of this room occured to me. It was the first night I came to Bukoto, barely 48 hours after arriving in Uganda. It was after the party they made to welcome me--the sitting room full of men. I remember being uncertain for awhile which one was even my host father, and I can barely recall now who exactly was there. The power had gone off just as darkness fell, but came back on shortly later. I had been shown my room and allowed a few minutes to settle. I had eaten food--luwomba, rice, macaroni, matooke, fruit--in the sitting room, and I'm sure there was soda too.
And then, as the party ended, I ventured my way back here for a few minutes. This room seemed so strange and foreign to me, full of women and children who stared at me strangely in the low light of the bare bulb hanging on the dirty wall. I thought: how will I live with these strange people in this strange place, how will I communicate with them, what am I doing here?
But now, I know their names and faces - Maama, Nakalawah, Hafisah, Entisimbe, Brender, Muta, Pito, Jaaja Susan, Susan, Maama Mellan. Context and experience have changed what once felt so foreign and strange into a place of comfort and rest. I feel at home here in this place.
And in so many ways, I think this room stands as a metaphor for the larger aspects of my life in Uganda. The faces, places, tastes, sounds, and practices which once felt so foreign have now come to feel familiar and comfortable. I am home.

Pen Pals?

I have some friends here, namely the teachers at my school, who would be interested in writing to pen pals in the US. So far I've had one friend from my parents' church express interest from that side of the ocean. Anyone else interested?

If you are, send me your address by email, and I'll pass it on.

Njagala nnyo nnyo ensuwa!!

Intended to make some of you grimace and others grin, the translation reads:
"I very very much enjoy white ants [fried of course]!"

These flying ants, which I think might be related to termites, come out after the rains. The birds love to catch them as they take their first flights, but unfortunately for the birds, the children often grab them just as they emerge from their holes. Some people eat them fresh, still squirming, wings and all. I've tried them that way, but they seem to lack flavor. Personally, I prefer them fried :) Given the abundance of rain we've had the last week or so, I've gotten to enjoy this treat multiple times.

To my impending visitors from the US: don't worry (or get too excited), you won't get to enjoy this treat in the dry season.

The Beauty of Random Comments

From the Head Teacher, on Monday, as I was holding Gloria, the month old baby daughter of one of my colleagues: "Nakaweesi, when are you going to produce?" (They used to just ask when I was planning to get married!)

From an older man, after I had kneeled to greet him, to my mother, who thankfully translated from Luganda (to my amusement and embarassment): "You have a very polite mzungu daughter. Shall I bring a cow, and my son can marry her?"

From the Head Teacher, yesterday, as I was drinking water: "Nakaweesi, you're addicted to water!" I almost choked on my water, then laughed. But it's true... I drink about 3-5 litres of plain water per day, more when the sun is shining a lot, while my friends drink maybe one cup.

From Maama, Tuesday evening: "Christine, you're such a good drunkard!" Not to worry folks, this one was also in reference to how much water I drink :)

From Muta, my seven year old brother who is learning English, a few weeks ago: "Nakaweesi, is your sugar clean?" He was referring to my tea and meant to ask if I had enough sugar. This one has been the cause for much teasing and laughter ever since.

From Buyondo, my co-teacher in upper primary English, also a few weeks ago, referencing the spelling and pronunciation of terms that refer to objects brought by the colonists: "We lugandacise the spelling." And it is such a perfect term!!! For example, "shirt" is "essaati" in Luganda... and "cup" is "ekikopo".

Some Verses to Ponder...

I stumbled on a book of East African poetry a couple weeks ago while spending the night at a friend's house in Kampala. Thought I'd share this one.

"Building the Nation"

by Henry Barlow

Today I did my share

In building the nation.

I drove a Permanent Secretary

To an important urgent function

In fact to a luncheon at the Vic.

The menu reflected its importance

Cold Bell beer with small talk,

Then fried chicken with niceties

Wine to fill the hollowness of the laughs

Ice-cream to cover the stereotype jokes

Coffee to keep the PS awake on return journey.

I drove the Permanent Secretary back.

He yawned many times in back of the car

Then to keep awake, he suddenly asked,

Did you have any lunch friend?

I replied looking straight ahead

And secretly smiling at his belated concern

That I had not, but was slimming!

Upon which he said with a seriousness

That amused more than annoyed me,

Mwananchi, I too had none!

I attended to matters of state.

Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know,

And friend, it goes against my grain,

Causes me stomach ulcers and wind.

Ah, he continued, yawning again,

The pains we suffer in building the nation!

So the PS had ulcers too!

My ulcers I think are equally painful

Only they are caused by hunger,

Not sumptious lunches!

So two nation builders

Arrived home this evening

With terrible stomach pains

The result of building the nation --

-- Different ways.

A Series of Events...

Almost two weeks have passed since a rather eventful weekend. The short story: my camera was stolen, my camera was recovered, and I had malaria.

The slightly longer version...

My camera was stolen on a Friday, though I didn't realise that it was missing until Saturday morning when I wanted to bring it to Town to upload pictures. Most any other place, there would have been little hope of even figuring out what had happened, let alone finding it again. BUT... I live in a small village in rural Uganda... AND, I am the adopted daughter of the Village Chairman. For the sake of privacy, I won't explain the details of what happened or who was involved. By Sunday afternoon, however, after multiple "conferences" in our living room and announcements after mass in multiple villages, my father arrived home triumphantly carrying my camera (trust me, it's easy to distinguish, being that it's one of only a handful of cameras in the surrounding area and the only digital one at that). The batteries were dead, the hand strap was missing, and there were a couple extra (incriminating) photos, but all in all, the camera survived its adventure better than I expected.

Lessons learned: While I may not appreciate all the forms that justice and punishment takes in the village, I am in awe of how well it works. Sometimes I have to step back and silence my independent streak, as well as my "need to know what is going on" nature... for example, when my father and numerous other important villagers are arguing loudly in Luganda about the probable whereabouts of my property.

Mostly, I'm still glad I brought my camera with me. I'll be glad of the visual reminders of so many memories from this part of my life. And it's been really fun to be able to show people their snaps (and the kids love it when I indulge their desires for short videos of them yelling and playing). But I'm also fully aware that the main reason my camera was stolen was because it is such a strange and precious treasure in this place. If it was a commonplace item, it likely wouldn't have disappeared (especially not given the circumstances which surrounded this particular theft). So, in some ways, I am the one responsible for this theft - because I am the one who brought this strange toy here. This is a simple metaphor of one of the bigger questions regarding development which has been plaguing my contemplations so much lately: when we introduce new technology with all its benefits, what responsiblity do we have for the negative effects that inherently accompany it as well?


Then, to make the weekend even more exciting, shortly after getting my camera back, I finally admitted that I was sick and let my younger brother accompany me to the village hospital. I'd been feeling tired, and had a headache and stomachache for about four days, plus a fever and chills that came and went somewhat cyclically (i.e. I felt miserable every afternoon). Despite the fact that I've taken malaria prophylaxis religiously since before arriving in Uganda, the propensity with which I am bitten by mosquitoes made malaria still a possibility. I used a quick-test kit brought from Kampala to test my blood for P. falciparum, the deadliest of the local strains of malaria, but it was negative. However, when I showed it to the nurse (who diagnosed me with malaria based on my symptoms and a rapid heart beat [actually, malaria is synonymous with "fever" around here, so my elevated temperature alone would have gotten me that diagnosis]), she logically explained that I probably had one of the other strains and sold me Coartem for 3000/=. Three days of medicine that I bought for approximately $2, and I was completely better.

So there you have it, my first experience with what was most likely malaria. A few days of feeling absolutely miserable and having some ridiculous fever dreams, then a few handfuls of tablets, and I was back to normal. All in all, slightly anticlimatic. And to whom it may concern: yes, I realise that this most likely disqualifies me from any future voluntary studies on malaria, but please know, I never really desired to disqualify myself in such a manner.

And in case you're worried (Mom), know that I still sleep under my mosquito net and take my prophylaxis every day (with my vitamin). Don't be too concerned... given some of the more exotic fever-inducing diseases which exist in the world, I'm actually glad that it was malaria I seem to have had, as that is what I received quick and good treatment for.

Would you pass the PLE?

In less than a month, primary 7 students across the country will be sitting for the Primary Leaving Examinations (PLE), administed in each of the four core subjects: Mathematics, English, Social Studies and Religious Education, and Science. All tests are in English; there is no multiple choice. Marks on these exams determine whether students are eligible to continue on to secondary education.

Just for fun, here are some questions from a mock PLE English paper. A challenge for all of you native English speakers: how would you do? Spelling, grammar, and punctuation count in section A. By the way, the actual exam has 100 questions (50 grammar; 50 comprehension), and you need at least 35% to pass, though 75+% is considered the highest grade, Distinction 1. If you remind me, I'll try to post answers in a few weeks. (Oh, and this paper is fairly easy compared to some that I have seen).

Section A

Fill in the blank space with a suitable word.

1. That is the boy ____ purse got lost.
2. Julie is ____ careful that she rarely makes mistakes.

Use the correct form of the given word in brackets to complete the sentence.

3. It is important not to ___ people's lives. (danger)
4. His ____ in Makerere University surprised everybody. (admit)
5. This is the _____ mark I have ever got. (little)
6. The minister was given a warm ___ when he visited our area. (receive)
7. Oman crossed the road ____. (careful)

Use each of the given words in a sentence to show that you know the difference in their meaning.

8. dairy
9. daily

Arrange words in alphabetical order.

10. breadth, breed, bread, break
11. millet, mile, mill, mild

Write each of the abbreviations in full.
12. can't
13. Feb.
14. COD

Rewrite the sentence giving the opposite form of the underlined word.

15. James bought a shirt cheaply.
16. The arrival of the Queen surprised Ugandans.

Rewrite the sentence giving the plural form of the underlined word.

17. The head-of-state came to Uganda last year.
18. Did you see the monkey climbing up a tree?

Rewrite the sentence giving one word for the underlined group of words.

19. The desks, tables, chairs, and benches are well arranged in the main hall.
20. That boy in the blue shirt is a person who lost all his parents.

Rearrange the given words to form a correct sentence.

21. an story it educative is.
22. hard the very was exercise.

Rewrite the sentences as instructed in the brackets.

23. The song is very interesting. Everybody enjoys listening to it. [Join using "...such an... that..."]
24. I went to the market. I wanted to buy a t-shirt for myself. [Rewrite as one sentence using "...so as..."].
25. Jacob didn't come to school. Edward didn't come to school. [Join using "neither"].
26. She is the girl. I gave her my book. [Join using "whom"].
27. Peter eats an egg everyday. [Rewrite in passive voice].
28. He moved out of the house. It started raining. [Rewrite as one sentence, beginning "As soon as..."].
29. She arrived at the party five minutes late. [Rewrite using "reached"].
30. The tea is too cold for us to take. [Rewrite as two separate sentences].
31. You will not understand. You should pay attention to the teacher. [Join using "or else"].
32. Joan likes rice more than matooke. [Rewrite using "prefers"].
33. You should respect your parents. [Rewrite beginning "One..."].
34. "He went to Gulu yesterday," said his wife. [Rewrite beginning, "His wife said that..."].
35. Yes, Jesca is my elder sister. [Form a sensible question for the above response.]

Section B

36. Read the following information carefully and answer questions about it in full sentences. In Meme P.S., the P6 class teacher organised a sanitary competition during term I 2008 for his class of 40 pupils. The results were: 10 pupils washed but not ironing. 10 pupils polished shoes. All the pupils washed the latrines. None of the pupils had untrimmed hair. 26 pupils neither collected nor burnt rubbish.

a) What does the information above show?
b) How many pupils are in this class?
c) For which class are the results?
d) How many pupils ironed?
e) How many pupils polished shoes?
f) How many pupils had trimmed hair?
g) How many pupils collected and burnt rubbish?
h) Give one reason why you think maintaining sanitation at school is important.
i) Who organised the above competition?
j) Mention one good sanitary habit.

37. The sentences below are not in their correct order. Re-arrange them to form a short meaningful composition.
a) Pupils were very happy and they began to communicate to their parents immediately.
b) The day reached and we had to travel.
c) He told us that there are very many educative sites we had to see.
d) He continued talking about the amount we would pay for the whole journey.
e) It was so great because we had a lot of nice time there.
f) At the beginning of the term, our Headteacher told us that we would visit Kenya.
g) By the second week of the term, very many pupils had finished paying.
h) What a nice trip we had!
i) The second day of the journey, we visited Mt. Kenya.
j) After one week, we came back to our school and narrated what we had seen to our friends.

One last picture :)

taken just this morning by my sister Ritah, this is a picture of me heading into Masaka Town via my favourite mode of transportation: boda boda. my friend Benard (who made me promise that I will still phone sometimes once I return to America) is driving. I know you can't see it so well, but we are sitting on a motocycle in front of the Town Centre building. (And just in case you were wondering, it isn't usually necessary to hold on very tight, but I am careful to keep my skirt tucked tightly... for both modesty and safety's sake :)

Fetching Water

welcome to our bore hole, where much of the village fetches water... except when it has been raining, as is the case of the past few weeks :) this picture was taken around 7pm a few weeks ago... all of those jerry cans are waiting to be filled (some were ours). this night, Hafisah and I actually left without water around 7:45 because it got so dark.

The first week of school...

morning parade at Jude Junior School... the building in the background is the Parish Hall, still in progress. there were decidedly more students after the first week of classes.

I apparently can't upload more than one picture at a time without being kicked off the internet every minute or two, so let's try this one by one...

Maama cooking in our kitchen.

(and sorry, but I don't know how to rotate pictures in blogger...)

If I could take you on a tour...

...these are some of the faces and places I might show you.

the view of Bukoto Town from the edge of our compound... at the far end is the "Town Centre" building where two main roads connect (if you go straight, you meet Mbararra-Masaka Road; if you go backwards, I think you eventually come to a road that takes you to Tanzania, which is apparently closer than Kampala)

this is how my siblings (and neighbours) react when my camera comes out... from left to right, in back: a boy I don't know, Brender (10 year old sister-cousin), Hafisah (12 year old sister-cousin), Entisimbe (10 year old brother dressed in his uniform; he was leaving for boarding school this day); in front: Muta (7 year old brother), Susan (9 year old friend of Brender), and Pito (almost 3 year old brother).

Unannounced Public Holidays

I remember when I was little (and not so little), how exciting it was to have a day off from school for a holiday. Holidays seemed to be few and far between (unlike the snow days that came with rapid frequency during the winter months), but when they came, we looked forward to them, planned for them, and enjoyed them. For some of you still at Messiah, this week holds the promise of fall break... and haven't you been looking forward to it?

Now, I find myself in a country where I don't know all the public holidays, and even the ones I know about seem to come unexpectedly. This past week, we celebrated Idi Day, the Muslim holy day which marks the end of Ramadhan. I had heard murmurs of Idi Day before, but no one really knew when it would be. Even at the beginning of the week, there was uncertainty as to whether it would occur on Tuesday or Wednesday, and some people were already planning simply to celebrate both. By Monday evening, we still didn't know on which day Idi would fall, as it was dependent on the appearance of the new moon. At school, some of my friends suggested that it would probably appear that night because we had had very heavy rains on Monday morning (finally!). All we knew for sure was that whichever day Idi fell on, it would be a public holiday -- with schools and businesses closed across the nation, even those which aren't in any way affiliated with Islam. We heard the announcement on the radio around 9pm Monday night as we were eating our supper: the next day (Tuesday) would be Idi Day.

[For those of you in America, can you imagine how chaotic and bent out of shape businesses would be if we announced government holidays the night before they occured...... which might just say something about how caught up America is in business and consumerism...].

Tuesday morning, I thought perhaps we would go and dig in the garden, but no, for two reasons. One, a village man had died on Sunday evening and was not yet buried; Maama told me that you can't dig when there is a dead body in the village. Two, it would be disrespectful to go and dig on a holy day, even if it is not for our own religion. One of my younger cousin sisters is Muslim, so she went to the mosque for prayers and then celebrated with another family in the village. My younger (Catholic) brother also joined them for the meal and celebration. For the Muslims in the village, the Idi meal was beef. For the rest of us who could afford it, we celebrated Idi with pork. It was a pretty laid-back day... I did laundry, was glad to have matooke for two meals instead of the school lunch of posho and beans, wrote a couple letters, took a nap, and hung out with friends. There was also a football game at the village playground, but I missed it because Father Peter was telling me about the two weeks he had just spent in Israel. And then, Wednesday, back to school as normal.

This next week, there will be no school on Wednesday or Thursday, for, respectively, a district teachers' seminar and Uganda Independence Day. But really, there is something utterly refreshing about a holiday that is only announced the night before...

And, also, I love being in this place where Catholics and Muslims live as neighbours and embody the graciousness of God to one another. What would it mean for inter-religious dialogue and relationships if we all respected and, to some degree at least, celebrated one another's holy days? What if more of us were willing to recognize the presence and pursuit of God visible in religious traditions other than our own? What if we were truly committed to making God's graciousness incarnate in this world? What if?

And yet, even here, I am constantly reminded that this dream of a gracious world isn't fully realised... as the Baptists from Masaka Town try their best to convert my parents... as the villagers condemn the family who worships the traditional spirits... and as the "born again" revival broadcast through the village by loudspeaker wakes me up at 2am.

But still, here in Bukoto, among my Catholic and Muslim neighbours and friends, I find an embodied graciousness that is far more refreshing and life-giving than the philosophical tolerance so common in America.

Emirembe gya Katonda

Nkwagaliza emirembe gya Katonda. I pass you the peace of God.

This is one of the phrases Roy taught me last week when I told her that I never understand much of what is going on during mass. I also learned to say the prayer that we use when crossing ourselves (which yes, I now often do before eating or at the end of praying... which means that my prayers often include Hebrew, English, and Luganda). This evening, I hope to begin learning the "Our Father" and perhaps one of the common songs that we sing.

Since I arrived, my favourite part of mass has been the passing of the peace, if only because it was the only thing I understood the first time I attended church. But also, it is comforting because it reminds me of other places and people that I sometimes wish so much to see and talk to. Of my parents' church, where visits home always meant greetings and hugs from a long list of people who played fundamental roles in my growing up years. Of my grandparents' church, where I often introduced myself as "Kenny's daughter" and which has supported me very much with finances, prayers, and encouragement. Of the house church community which has taught me so much about peace, hospitality, and simple living these last few years, and which I still feel a part of due to the frequent emails and letters. Of the relationships with friends and professors at Messiah which encouraged me to ask questions (even, or especially, those without answers) and to accept myself graciously and humbly. And now too, the circle of family and friends has been extended, so that the dark hands I grasp with love during mass are those of my family, of my teacher friends, of my neighbours, and of my students.

And so, to all of you that I love so dearly, even as we find ourselves in different contexts and on different continents, I wish for you the peace of the God of grace, of beauty, of simplicity, of love, of peace, and of constant subtle presence that sustains the life of all that lives.

Shalom.

Emirembe.

Peace.

Looking back...

This blog has been spinning around in my head for a few days, and now that I've come to town, I'm going to try to pull it out of the thought realm and into the blog world. It is mostly written for those friends and family who are beginning, or preparing to begin, new chapters of life... be it college, traveling, marriage, jobs, or SALT assignments [it is a bit strange to realise that many of my fellow SALTers are only just now beginning to live in their long term homes and start their assignments, having completed six weeks of orientation and language training].

Every once in a while, I pull out the SALT assignment information that MCC sent me so many months ago. In three pages, it describes the assignment, qualifications, living situation, etc. that I accepted when I chose to serve at St. Jude Junior School in Bukoto Parish, Masaka District, Uganda. Some of you may recall conversations and my thoughts from that time period... I was nervous, excited, and not at all sure what I was getting myself into. Now, skimming through the pages again, it is amusing to read the description of the village I have come to call home. I realise that my teaching assignment is very similar, though not exactly identical, to what was originally intended.

A month and a half ago, this place and lifestyle felt strange and foreign. I was eating new food, waking up earlier, working harder, meeting entirely new people, learning a new language, even learning to speak my native language differently than I was accustomed to. Everyone I met was a stranger, and even if I had met them before, I could rarely remember their names. I hadn't started teaching, and my first encounter with the teachers (before I had learned to speak Ugandan English) left us all wondering if I would even be able to communicate with my students, let alone teach them.

And yet, here I find myself, having lost track of the days and weeks I have spent in Uganda, coming to the end of my third week teaching. There are still challenges and frustrations every day, but mostly, the same place that felt so strange in August has now become my home, and the same people I wondered if I could ever get to know have become my family and friends. I now feel comfortable introducing myself as a teacher and actually understand what that means in my context. I am finding my place in Bukoto village and now only hear constant cries of "bye mzungu" when I leave the few miles where I frequently walk (like today, when I have ridden on a boda the 10 or so kilometres to town and walked through Masaka Town). Instead, the children have learned my names and call "Bye Nakaweesi" or "Bye Chrishtine".

There is comfort in knowing that tomorrow I will attend mass at a church which is too small to fit everyone from my village, even though the only parts I will understand are the prayer, "In the name of the Father, of the Child, and of the Holy Spirit" and the passing of the peace, "emirembe gya Katonda". There is comfort in knowing that Monday morning I will wake up before the sun, bathe, and take tea with cassava before walking to school for 10.5 hours of lessons, not all of which I teach. There is comfort in glancing at my watch and seeing the local time displayed, in this equatorial place where 7 am marks the first hour of day, and 7 pm the first hour of night. There is comfort in knowing that this afternoon I will return to my village and spend a few hours studying Luganda and hanging out with my friends and fellow teachers. There is comfort in knowing that tonight, I will eat matooke, beans, and probably meat or cabbage, while kneeling on a mat with my mother, brothers, and sisters.

My life has established routines full of familiar faces and places (rather than foreign ones). My teaching assignment and living context doesn't look quite like what was originally described or what I originally imagined. But it has worked out, as I have lived each day for what it is.

And so, to the many of you who are facing unknowns and starting down new paths with unfamiliar sign posts, whatever part of the world you find yourselves in... Take a breath. Step back. Slow down. Let yourself imagine what it will be like. Write it down, if you like. Then let go of what you have imagined. Loose your expectations to fly on the wind, and live each day as it comes. Each day will have its troubles and frustrations, some more than others. But each will also bring its own joys and triumphs, though they may not be quite like you expected or wanted. You will form new relationships, and though they may feel strange at first, depth and comfort will come with time. The road ahead will bring unexpected twists, turns, potholes, puddles, mountains, goat herds. Don't worry if it doesn't take you quite where you thought you wanted to go - just keep walking, one step, one moment, one day at a time.

And in a few weeks or months, you will stop to rest and glance back at where you have come. You will realise that what was once foreign now feels familiar, that what once felt like insurmountable challenges, have now become moments which bring confidence as you face new hurdles. You will recall your expectations and realise that some of them have indeed been fulfilled. And others, well, maybe you had forgotten that you even wanted or expected that. There will be parts of your life that didn't even make the original list... and you will be so glad that they happened. Life will have continued, and you will discover that you are exactly where you are.

So, my friends, if you can, hold loosely to your expectations and looser still to your fears and doubts. Let life take you where it will. And know that I am standing beside you (in spirit if not in body) as you face new challenges and celebrate simple triumphs.