09.13.07
Posted in AV 2007 International at 6:37 am by seanpaul
I am angry.
But not at you, reader. To be honest, I don´t know who I am angry with, or if I am angry with anyone in particular. Its the situation that gets to me - Children without enough food to eat, children without education for their brains, women without a voice and without options for their children, oppression.
You might come to Chulucanas and find it peaceful, but ignorance is a violent kind of thing, and it is steath in its nature to kill.
I suppose, like many of my companions and those who have gone before and who will go after me as Augustinian Volunteers, I struggle with a particular anger towards the idea of the 1st word having, and the oppressed having not.
Let me be clear on this point in particular, I am a part of the problem. I haven’t read enough. I haven’t paid enough attention to the ways I can live a more just life. And because I don’t know the ways my actions, or lack there of, adversely affect the millions of dying, I feel the pressure. I am guilty of violent ignorance.
Still, I find myself treasuring my time in Chulucanas. Why? For starters, my community is beautiful. I live with 2 other volunteers. Their names are Maura and Elizabeth. Angels. When I am angry, they remind me that there is love and compassion, that there still can be understanding and that ignorance can be overcome by practicing that compassion. Community life isn’t hard for me. Not with these two girls. We laugh together, we share books (when and where else would I ever have read The Secret Life of Bees?). We pray and reflect together, and sometimes we cry together (especially if we somehow catch an episode of Extreme Makeover, Home Edition).
I suppose the idea is, that even though we are in a specific place together, we are TOGETHER in knowing there is a lot of suffering that happens outside our close walls. Hours or blocks away are the mothers whose husbands leave them or beat or sexually abuse their children. There are no wars in Peru today, but ignorance is violent too. What affect has 1st World mining in northern Peru have on the people who struggle to survive on the little water they have access to? What will the mines do to that access? And why do 1st World companies have the power to decide? What international trade laws allow this, and who has the power to make or change those laws? Why do ceramic makers in Chulucanas make pennies off of a piece of pottery that goes for $60 in Target? How is that just?
I keep trying to figure out what it is that I’m “supposed to do” about it. As far as I’ve been able to figure, combating my own ignorance is the one thing I can do. So I try to learn. I talk to my friends about the hungry children, the thousands dying of Aids in this ignorant world, and I get right to the point of the bush I find myself beating around. What can we, in the 1st world do? Pick up a book, an article, a review, and read. Find people who love and laugh with you, and ask them what they think about suffering. Find out who supports human rights (for ALL HUMANS) and vote for that person.
A certain Augustinian reflected on the Gospel. Jesus asked a rich man to give up his possessions, to give to the poor and to follow, to learn, to read, to lay down his violent ignorance, and to follow him. And when the man refused - this is the clincher- he turned to the man lovingly.
In my anger for the conditions of my surroundings, in my anger toward the powerful who ignore it, and the anger I direct toward myself for not doing much about it, I think of Jesus’ compassionate embrace, and that with all the problems and ignorace we face, we can still turn towards it lovingly.
Sean Paul Murray
Chulucanas, Peru
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09.12.07
Posted in AV 2007 International at 12:30 pm by marydillon
“How’s Africa?” “What’s it like?” “Tell me about South Africa.” Phrases I’ve heard before, when I went home for Dec. holiday. Impossible questions to answer? Imagine if someone said to you, “tell me about the United States.” Well, do you tell them about the weather in California or Boston? Tell you. Tell you what?
Maybe you want to know about the rolling hills that expand the length of the horizon; hills that twist and wind through the valley of Embo, that surround the community of Molweni; the hills that I look upon, that give me a view of contrasting realities. Maybe you want to know that I do not live in the “bush”; there are no lions or giraffes or elephants wandering the streets. In fact, most people I know have not seen and most likely will never see these animals. No, I do not live in the “bush”. I live in an affluent neighborhood, on a beautiful piece of land, with gardens tended by Bheki; a place where the lights turn on and water flows through the faucets. I live in the 1st world.
Perhaps, you’d like to know that those running this country believe that a shower after sex can prevent HIV/Aids; that the government doesn’t seem to be doing much about the HIV/Aids pandemic; that approx. 42% of people in KZN are infected with HIV and that statistic doesn’t include the many who haven’t been tested; that the health minister believes beetroot is the answer, is the cure for Aids.
Do you want to know about the Kloof parishioners, who, 2 years ago, set up our little cottages to welcome us and make us feel at home; who have been supportive and interested in our lives and the work we are doing; who have invited us into their parish, their homes, their lives?
Would you like me to tell you about Lindo? Lindo, who, in my first year teaching English, was in Grade 3; a little boy, who seemed to never be paying attention, who I didn’t think knew one word of English, yet, when I gave them an oral test, he aced it, teaching me that kids do listen, they do respond; that despite the days they jump on desks, sing and dance during a lesson, and do everything but work, something is getting through to them; you must be persistent, you must never give up on them.
Or, if you like I could tell you about the time I went to a funeral with Eunice? I sat on a little wooden chair in the corner of a small room, with the deceased body and seven Zulu women sitting on straw mats and mattresses, wailing, lamenting, praying; where a small child fell asleep in my arms and didn’t wake, even when groups of 12 or 15 people would march in, singing, dancing, clapping, banging drums, paying their respects; for 4 hours I sat, I watched, I listened. It was sereal.
Maybe you would like to know that every Monday I eat dinner at Robyn and Shirley’s home; a couple who has invited us in, fed us, and given us a sense of family; or about the Carpenters, who have also extended their generosity and hospitality to us; that Dr. Carpenter is the only doctor for the surrounding valleys, or that his wife, Mary Ann, pours every ounce of her energy into caring for those with HIV/Aids; or that I have befriended their daughter, Ruthie, and in turn, she has befriended me.
Do you want to know that our dog Thembi ran away last year, or that I run in the neighborhood across the street, that we have security gates and barbed wire fencing surrounding our home, that the police probably won’t pull you over for speeding, but the cameras will get you everytime, that the stores close by 7, and traffic lights are called robots?
Or maybe you’re interested in the Shezi family; 14 children, staying with a Gogo(Grandma); 5 of the boys leave home at 4:30 in the morning to walk 3 hours to school, uphill, so they can learn, so they can be kept occupied during the day, so they can eat.
Should I tell you about serving lunch at St. Leo’s? It might make you cry to know that for some children the only meal they eat is the plate of rice and beans served at 10 that morning; and that on some days I would be looking down, scooping plate after plate of rice, blisters forming on my fingers, only to realize the pot is suddenly empty; only to look up to find children still waiting to eat, to see the disappointment on their faces, the hunger in their eyes, as I tell them, there is no more food; they will have to wait for tomorrow.
I probably shouldn’t tell you about Michael; wandering, lost, confused, homeless, lonely, searching for a job, searching for food, searching for a warm place to sleep at night, searching for a friend, searching for life; do you want to know what it’s like to feel someone’s hunger; to share in their disappointment; to feel their loneliness? I hope your answer is no.
Have you ever heard the voices that ring out from the St. Leo’s church choir? You do not have to understand a language to have a spiritual experience, to feel like you are sitting with angels. Have you seen the children of St. Leo’s dance? Amazing. The Zulu culture is rich with strength and rhythm. I can feel the sounds of their songs beating in my heart. Would you like to know that the children of St. Leo’s were fascinated with my veins and even more amazed when they discovered, that they too have veins?
Do you want me to tell you about Thabisile? A precious girl, with big ears, yearning for life; one day, you pray that she lives; one day, you pray that God peacefully takes her; a 9 year old should not have to suffer from Aids. Would you like to know about Beauty? She died of Aids, leaving 4 children behind. Orphans. Would you like to know about my friend Cynthia, who has been at the Respite Unit since Jan. and will now be admitted to another hospital for another 6 months? She has XDR TB. She is warm; she is friendly; she crochets; she has lungs infested with ugliness.
What do you want me to tell you about? Do you want to know that at work I was gluing bead earrings onto little dolls? Doesn’t sound very important, does it? Well, I will tell you that for every doll that sells, the proceeds go to help care for those at the Respite Unit; that the proceeds help supply Ncami with an income. Have you seen Nokuthula’s fluffy necklaces? Some probably have 10,000 beads; one by one they are strategically placed. Have you seen Margaret’s embroidery, Baba’s pottery, Janet’s crocheting, Zibhuyile’s painting? Every bead earring, every string of beads, every stitch, every stroke of the brush, is food on the table, a light, a child’s education, a mother’s love.
Do you want to know about the time I polished a floor with cow dung and helped make Zulu beer? Do you want to know that Themba taught me how to make phuthu, jeqe(steamed bread), stiff pup, beef curry and chakalaka? Do you want to know who Themba is? She is an amazing woman; teaches Grade 4 at St. Leo’s, is the mother of 4. But what’s truly amazing to witness is the compassion she showers the children with. She knows them all; their joys, their sorrows; who’s orphaned; who’s sick. She knows. She cares. She loves.
I probably shouldn’t tell you about the time Nkanyiso and Nosipho spent (more or less) 3 weeks with us. Why? Because their mother, Eunice, was too sick with Aids to care for them and there was nobody else to watch them. What a special time it was; baths, dinner, laundry, breakfast, uniforms, baking cookies, making eggs, stories, pillow fights, pajamas, hugs, kisses, love.
Perhaps, you’re more interested in amasi, sour milk, that’s poured over phuthu; or byble meat, the squishy texture of the stomach lining of a cow; or the time I heard two goats being killed, only to see their heads later on.
Would you like to know about my walks home, and how, at the railroad tracks, reality hits? I continue, alone, walking up the hill into my neighborhood, and everybody else follows the tracks, some to paper thin homes, corrugated tin roofs, candles for lighting, paraffin stoves, outhouses; into the valley of Embo; the valley that I look upon everyday. Perhaps you’d like to know about the sun that rises over this valley; a beautiful array of colors; it’s true what they say about the African sun; it is beautiful; it is hot; the African sky; indescribable.
Do you want to know about the boys at St. Theresa’s Home; their smiles, craving for attention, yearning for someone to listen to them; to share a story with; seeking love?
What do you want to know about? That I have not mastered the Zulu language; but I continue to learn everyday; and that in a craftshop I learned new ways of crocheting and beadwork, made cards, silk-screened shirts, formed relationships, shared smiles and laughter with people of a different race, of a different culture.
Do you want to know that in the same moment I have felt compassion and anger; tears and joy; loneliness and belonging. Under African skies, I have fetched water from a tap, bathed in a basin, warmed up by a paraffin stove, sat for hours upon hours upon hours in rural South Africa, waiting; waiting for what? I don’t always know; waiting to eat, waiting to serve, waiting for bed; just waiting, waiting to follow the other women, to learn from them; to belong, to be accepted in a place where I undoubtedly stand out.
Do you want to know that all things are possible? They are. With faith, hope, and love, they are. Faith that God watches over hungry children; hope that one day Aids will not destroy families, communities, lives; love; an unconditional love that unites and binds us, humans.
So, what do you want to know about? Ask and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you that my answer is love; because love has formed unthinkable, unimaginable friendships and relationships. I have given love and received even more. Because with or without electricity, shoes, Aids, water, TB, a garden, a dog, the hills, beads, beans, sunrises, singing, shelter, dancing; with or without all these things, love is possible. Love. Love. Love.
Mary Dillon
South Africa
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09.10.07
Posted in AV 2007 International at 1:36 pm by bri
The sun is rising and I once again find myself sitting outside looking down into the valley, a place that was so foreign 8 months ago and now familiar, a place where many of my friends stay. I pause and listen, hearing Embo awaken. I watch, and see the people walking along the train tracks headed to work and school. I wonder if Peter took his medicine, hope that Lindo is off to school, and know that Cyprian is in a better place. I smile, sometimes shed a tear, and say a quick prayer for them. I often start my days this way, cup of coffee in hand, for it provides a great source of strength, peace, hope, and focus for my day. This is a very prayerful time for me and it is where I feel closest to God and to the people I encounter daily. The Zulu people are as colourful as the rising sun and are amongst the happiest people I have ever encountered. Their lives simple yet rich with love and compassion for one another. I have been blessed to witness and share in this love and compassion time and time again being situated at two beautiful places; Hillcrest AIDS Centre Trust Respite Unit and St. Theresa’s Home.
The definition of compassion is, “the humane quality of understanding the suffering of others and wanting to do something about it.” The value of compassion has never been more clear to me for it really is all about compassion; compassion for ourselves, our family, our friends, our neighbours. It starts with a smile and extends with human touch and realizing how vital these gestures are is humbling. Working at the Respite Unit, which is a home away from home for people suffering from HIV/AIDS, is just that and so much more. With compassion at the forefront of this operation, it takes a group of very special individuals to work at such a place that oozes with unconditional love. I am blessed to be apart of this family. I find myself constantly busy with a variety of tasks at the unit but firmly believe that spending and sharing my time with the patients, my friends, is where my time is best spent and relationships are formed. There is something beyond powerful and spiritual in holding someone’s hand restoring dignity into their soul. When you witness another’s difficulties for love, for companionship, for strength, for life, perspectives change for the better and priorities have a way of falling into place. I have taken walks around the hospital grounds with patients, massaged feet and backs, shared smiles and laughter over my broken Zulu, counselled and wiped away tears, spent many hours at clinics and hospitals, crafted memory books, bathed, changed, and fed patients. I have spent many hours by one’s bedside, holding hands, rubbing foreheads, singing, and praying for their souls to be at peace. I have had difficult conversations with patients about dying, both of us well aware that their time was near. I have seen many of my friends die with dignity returning home to God. I have witnessed loneliness in its rawest form and hope in its purest and am more aware of the harsh realities that exist in our world. I am not jaded by my experiences nor am I pessimistic about our society but rather hopeful for I trust with my whole heart in human compassion.
The love and compassion does not stop at the Respite Unit but continues in a different capacity as I make my way to St. Theresa’s for these children represent life. Spending my afternoons at St. Theresa’s Home with the boys of St. Joseph’s cottage, my 13 angels, is always fruitful and chaotic. Their beautiful smiles and warm hugs often set me on the right foot for the afternoon, melting away any heartache and baggage collected from the morning. They come from a variety of backgrounds; most orphans, some infected with HIV, some scared; all loveable. I do my best to provide a balance of discipline and enjoyment by celebrating their accomplishments and providing them with consistency; consistency equalling love in this equation. They never cease to amaze me and their curiosity and creativity is always refreshing. I have the boys journal once a week and recently came across this entry about friendship, “One of the most important things we do in life is to choose other people to be our friends. We spend some of our happiest moments with them. We laugh and cry together.” Words of wisdom from a 12 year old boy wise beyond his years. With that said, I can confirm that together we have shared in many happy moments. We have laughed together and cried at times too. These boys, Philani D., Sibonelo, Dumsani, Ayanda, Philani M., Siphiwe, Phumelele, Sandile N., Musa, Sihle, Mzamo, Siya, and Sandile M., my chosen friends, have shown and shared with me their whole self and I could not ask for anything more.
My attention is drawn back to the creeping sun. And yet again I am reminded that the sun rising is a chance to right ourselves and receive each day in all its glory. Each day is a wonder. Each day is a gift, and how easy it is for me to forget that sometimes when I am caught up in my own “stuff”; my own obligations and expectations. However, I try to strike a fine balance between work and renewal. It is a constant struggle that I am aware of but worth pushing myself toward one day at a time. I find myself captivated by the sun and its beauty, the colors swirling together. To be able to watch the day unfold above the clouds is a blessing. The sun casts a pink haze over the sky long before you see its rays, and the ridge below the cloud begins to glow. It is so still up there you can almost hear life whispering to you. Sometimes the whisper is too soft and at other times so loud it is deafening. I can feel the depth and potential of my own existence, the shared experiences I have had with Mary, Jacob, and Matthew, the unconditional love I have exchanged and shared with the patients at the Respite Unit, and the trust and kinship between myself and my boys at St. Theresa’s home. I stop and take a deep breath for them, for you, and myself.
No matter where God leads us in life, when the earth turns on its axis one more time and we see what appears to be the sun rising, it is the universe calling for change in ourselves and this world. To be able to witness the dawn each day, to be able to feel and share love and compassion is a wake-up call - I have been blessed in so many ways. My hope is that we all have one more day, and I hope you choose to rise with it.
Brianna Grande
South Africa
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