Balance

August 19,2007

Hey Everyone.

Thank you for your continued support and encouragement. Here are some more experiences from the last few weeks.

One of my favorite aspects about traveling to rural schools or between towns is the views along the journey. Although travel is often tiring as you bump along dirt roads, there is something really exciting about speeding down a red-earth path, twisting and turning among the green crops, with no end in sight. There are always people along the road moving crops, water, and firewood to and from markets and homes. As we drive though these scenes, pictures are blurred by rain, dust, and speed, and I often feel like I am driving through beautiful paintings. This is the East Africa I love: the harsh elegant beauty of the people and the land. One day a few weeks ago we drive by a UNICEF distribution of mosquito nets for mothers of young children. Hundreds of women and their babies are gathered under some large trees. For the rest of the drive, the roadside is adorned by women walking as they carry their babies on their backs and some food and water in baskets on their heads. On second thought, walking is too simple a word to describe their movement. They sway elegantly, they dance to the rhythm of walking, and they balance to keep their lives together and the journey moving forward. As I observe them – the small movements of the head to keep heavy pots of water steady – I am intrigued by this balance.

A few weeks ago Betty asked a few of us to deliver some food items to her mother’s place, about an hour walk from Gulu. We walked for sometime and enjoyed the cool evening breeze. When we arrived, we were surprised to find Betty and about 40 other guests at the small village. Betty’s father passed away about two months ago, and this was an occasion for some friends of the family to come together to remember him. The girls and I quickly went to work, making fire, cooking rice and meat, and serving food for everyone. For the first while everyone was rather quiet, talking in small groups, and allowing the sadness to settle in. After the meal, two elderly women picked up a wooden log and a calabash, and began beating and scratching the calabash against the wood and earth, creating a drum-like music. Within seconds all the other women were up and dancing in a circle, stomping their legs to the music and singing in high-pitched voices. I observed in curiosity as I was not expecting dancing at a memorial service. The younger girls explained to me that when a man dies of old age, despite the sadness of losing a loved one, the funeral is a celebration of a long life lived. So many people here die young, whether due to violence, poverty, or disease, and so it makes sense to celebrate a life fully-lived. I danced for a few songs, before returning to checking on the fire, and from the fire-side, watching these women dressed in colorful fabrics dancing to a sad-song in the moonlight, I felt that happiness and sadness were in balance.

My work has been very interesting. We are very busy as the school term is ending and we need to provide all our students with transport money to go home for the holidays (most are at boarding schools since the insecurity has caused all the schools to shift to the towns). Running around to all the schools is tiring and it is difficult because you can never meet all the needs of students, and often assistance is met by requests for more. I wonder sometimes what are some of the negative consequences of this financial assistance and the dependency it can create? I ask students what they did before Windle Trust came to help, and many explain they really struggled to pay school fees and some were not in school. I believe education is a right and the assistance is not out of kindness, but responsibility, but I also think that students and families should be partners in the programme. The arrival of an NGO should not replace the local struggle for a better future, but complement it. I often tell students, we want to help them, but we can only do so if they also help themselves.

Yet among the long days and having to say ‘no’ to most requests, there are small moments of joy. The other day, I got to tell a student that we found space for him at a new school. I was going to the school that day, and offered him a ride if he could come back within the hour. Thirty minutes later he was back, with his mattress rolled up and all his life possessions in a small box. He had never been more than thirty minutes out of Gulu, and yet for the opportunity to go to a better school (2 hours away), he packed his entire life and moved towards the unknown with a huge smile on his face. On another case, a girl came to the office crying because she cannot see well enough to read. She had already missed three exams in her first year of school. Fortunately our programme also gives medical care to our students, and so we drove to the clinic, got her a pair of reading glasses, and as she read the very small text in front of her, she smiled shyly and said she is really thankful. I’ve also learned from some amazing colleagues at work that often endless requests from students are simply because they want someone to talk to, someone to care about them. Due to the long war, there has been such a breakdown in family, community, and social structures, that young people often seek guidance and care, and perhaps requests for new shoes or a better dormitory, are also pleas for attention. When we are not swamped with students, I get to talk to some of the youth, and in a playful conversation, we find a balance between listening to complaints, being strict, and encouraging them. Often, despite not getting what they came for, they leave with a smile.

The other day while I was walking to work I got caught in a huge rainstorm. It is rainy season and at least once a day the sky opens and the entire town floods for a few hours. As I walk quickly in the rain trying to get to the office before being completely wet, I notice a young girl walking behind me without an umbrella. I stop and wait for her. She joins me and we walk together. We walk slowly trying to fit under my small umbrella. The umbrella is too small, and we both get even more wet then we would have if we just ran, but at least we are both smiling. When I arrive at the office, as I look for creative ways to dry my sox, I think about the girl and the rain. In a way, experience with the young girl in the rain is discouraging; a picture of the futility of good intentions in an incredibly complex and overwhelming environment. On the other hand, there is a sweetness to the picture of the two of us in the rain, the human side of doing humanitarian work, of taking a moment to share with another human being and find kindness among challenges. As I begin what I foreshadow will be a life commitment to education for all children, especially those in difficult circumstances, I realize the critical view is necessary because it pushes us to do better work, and the positive view inspires us to keep going. I watch the rain and think about the hardship it causes, especially for those living in crowded camps, and also the life it gives, as the soil is nourished and food grows. I watch the rain, take a deep breath, and I feel in balance, I can accept the good and the bad, and I love being here.

One of the responsibilities I have at work about which I am most excited is developing a psychosocial support programme for our beneficiaries. In an effort to work with other NGOs and not duplicate other efforts, I’ve been meeting with many of the NGOs who work in Northern Uganda. The meetings have been interesting and I am learning a lot. While school has incredible potential to reintegrate youth into their communities and restore a sense of pride and working towards the future, there are still real challenges, both past and present, that youth face and that need to be addressed in order for them to fulfill their potential. The challenge with psychosocial support is that it has many aspects and identifying the combination that is most meaningful is not easy. Psychosocial involves both psychological and social support, and knowing which is necessary for what students is a key part of the programme. Support can also be school-based or community-based, adult-lead or youth-lead, inclusive to all children or focused on specific needs of certain groups. I try to balance all these considerations in creating a programme. Needless to say, the work is fascinating.

On a quiet Saturday morning at Betty’s house, while we wash our clothes and clean the house, I talk to Claire about her dreams of owning her own business, and we joke about Maria sleeping in late (anything after 7 am is late). I think about an interesting conversation about personal space with a colleague from VIVO, a very cool organization working on trauma in post-conflict situations. Often when I ask young people about what they want to do in the future, I am met with blank stares. Perhaps it is the effect of the war, but many youth here don’t think about the future, or at least they don’t think they have choices. It concerns me, because being able to envision a positive future is incredibly motivating and a strong protective factor for young people. As Maria and Claire get hassled in a laughing manner for their strong individual qualities, I realize that living in a community-oriented society does not eliminate the possibility of individuality. It just makes it harder because without the private physical space to protect the intellectual and emotional self, you have to believe more in yourself, to believe in your dreams badly enough to take the jokes and real challenges. Claire and Maria, much like their mother Betty, have not given up neither the community nor their dreams. They find themselves in a mix of both, and they are graceful enough to balance. People who succeed in this modern Africa – and it is modern, despite the condescending Western perception that progress is becoming more like us – are amazing at this balance of old and new. Modern simply means ‘new’ or ‘current’ and African is extremely modern. In response to humongous challenges, survival requires continuous new ideas. But there is also an attachment to the old, and it ought to be valued. We forget that this so-called ‘modernity’ has introduced new social problems and challenges, and that without ‘traditional’ values of family and community, we can often feel lost. I think of development as balance between the old and new, and that implies respect for both.

I am still traveling a lot for work, going back and forth between our two offices, one in Gulu and one in Kitgum (the district on the border with Sudan). In many ways I still feel new, getting to know this new family that has welcomed me so openly, my colleagues at work, the language, the culture, and the places around me. I think of the women walking along the road. When the pot of water starts to fall in a certain direction, they tilt their head in that same direction, moving along with the water, before swaying back in the other direction and stabilizing the load. It is an interesting perspective about balance that diverges from the typical image of the two-sides scale, balanced by going against the flow. As my skin becomes tougher from the sun and I need less time for being alone, I realize that despite common misconceptions of ‘you’re becoming African,’ I am simply becoming myself in the Africa that I love. Sometimes going along with the local culture and traditions, and other times in my own way, and certainly in a much less graceful manner than those beautiful women on the road, I am discovering my own balance.

Thank you for being in my life.
Inbal

PICTURES

Pictures from home: the road to the house, washing clothes on a quiet sunday

In my room, and one of the boys taking care of the baby chickens

Washing dishes, and two of the young boys

Some of us at dinner

The UNICEF distribution for mothers and babies

Blurred views from the car

Talking to students under a tree

Gulu in the rain

Pictures from Betty's father memorial service