Tuesday, October 23, 2007

The Voice of the Children...

The “voice” of the children...

Thursday:
Last week, we spent some time at the “Inspiration Center” in Mathare, a slum on the east side of Nairobi. We walked around the area for a couple of hours, ate a delicious lunch in a local hotel (restaurant) and visited the largest school in the slum. It was one of those days when I wished that I could have come home, sat in the electric recliner, read the newspaper and drank a nice cold Black Butte Porter. My exhaustion didn't come as a result of our 5 km walk, nor the scorching sun, but the marathon that my mind completed that day.

It all started when we stepped foot off of the matatu and were greeted by the “How are Yoooouuuuuu!” screams from the nearby children. They don't require a response, just a validation of their limited English vocabulary. If you ever want to boost your ego, this is the place to be as a simple touch of the white skin puts you in Santa's league. The first question that I had to ask myself was, “why in the world are these kids not in school?” With the current presidential elections, politicians are tauting their implementation of free primary school for all kids. Apparently “all” no longer includes a huge chunk of the population under 12 years of age in Mathare.

Moments later, we began walking through the community just to get a simple lay of the land. The feel was starkly different than any of the other slums that we had visited. On our 90 minute walk, I saw 3 churches, two schools, one public restroom and 2 vehicles. Mathare is situated in a valley, so the opportunity for roads is limited but the lack of services was just disheartening. Where are the small, microfinance projects? The churches? The Non Government Organizations (NGO's)? The government? With all do respect for those that are doing things in other needy areas of Nairobi, did this community fall off the map? The walk gave us a pulse for the community...a pulse that was strong yet slightly hardened as there were very few units on standby for any type of resuscitation.

An afternoon walk to the largest school in the area gave us a glimpse of the realities of life in Mathare. Leaders of the Inspiration Center estimated that 700 kids attend the school sitting in the heart of Mathare Valley. In terms of Physical space, I would estimate that the facilities were 150 feet by 200 feet. For those of you that are voting on levy's for school renovations think about trying to pass the construction of buildings like these. We visited several of the classes where kids sang us a song, recited a Bible verse and /or a social issue chant and laughed at us as we stumbled through introductions in Swahili. The walls between the classrooms vary from tin to bed sheets as 40-50 students cram onto the benches with their notebooks. A side note: some of the best schools in all of Kenya are located in the slums as these are the kids that are extremely motivated to surpass societal expectations.

I was reminded of a book whose title I can't remember that was written by a friend and colleague of my brother and sister-in-law in New Mexico. The author, Tim Stewart-posed a question around children being labeled “at-risk”. In short, he asked whether there are any kids in this world that are not at risk of some type of failure. If there is any community that I would label as a haven for producing “at risk” kids, Mathare is it. Yet, under the dirt, the crowded conditions and few services, these kids are survivors. They are determined, have an amazing instinct and can navigate systems with the best of them...while the kids across the way at the embassy school, with everything that they could ever ask for and more may be the ones that are “at risk”.

We will be back at this school again. There was something that was warm, inviting and cozy about it even in the scorching heat. Behind the voices of these children was a source of hope and promise...one that I am “at risk” of missing.

Friday
Following our Swahili lesson on Friday, we joined Pastor Alfred in a community call Kawangware on the west side of the city. He took us to a church which functions as a school during the week and introduced us to the kids. There are 37 kids that attend the one room school ranging from age 3-10. Teachers out there...count your blessings as curriculum development and classroom management for a group like this cannot be a simple task. As the norm here, Mandy was asked to lead a PE lesson on the spot. Given the circumstances of no equipment, a language barrier and getting 3-10 year olds on the same page, she rocked it! These kids pay about $4.00/month to attend the school so that the teacher can be compensated. They are hoping to set up a food program as well so that the kids can have a meal at school. Lunchables, cafeterias and leftovers are not the norm in these parts of the city.

Soon, we gathered for lunch at Alfred's house with his family. 6 people living in a 10 foot by 12 foot space. We got cozy on the couch and enjoyed some Ugali, potatoes and beans followed by two rounds of chai. As guests, you never go hungry here! Shortly after lunch, we saw a girl pass by outside. Alfred mentioned that she is deaf. We explained that Mandy took American Sign Language and that we might be able to communicate with her.

We soon learned that Ruth was 9 years old and was born deaf. She has never been to school, only recently learned how to finger spell and has a very difficult time interacting with her family. Can you fathom what it would be like to not be able to communicate for 9 years? I am sure that she has been able to express herself in some ways, there is no such thing as a Disabilities Act over here, nor are there accessible resources for those that don't fit the norm. Mandy taught Ruth and her father a few signs. We will meet with her family again this week or next to see if we can help arrange for them to enroll her in a school and/or find some resources for them.

When I think about the life of a child in Kenya (I guess anywhere for that matter), the voice plays such a crucial role in discovering yourself and your surroundings. It's a ticket to asking questions, to picking up on social cues and to sharing who you are with the rest of the world. There are no “How are yooouuuu?”s from Ruth. No crammed classrooms with 40-50 kids listening intently to their teachers. No songs...just a glance of curiosity toward her surroundings...for now at least. We'll keep you posted.


Sunday
There is something so beautiful and authentic about a child in song...I have to share a brief story about a little boy names Moses at the Inspiration Center on Sunday. This little guy was a true gift to us. He couldn't have been more than three years old, standing at a proud 30 inches and a smile that pierced through the oppression outside. Moses was one of about 50 kids at a church service of 70 people. Kids galore! When he came into the room, he ran up to me trying to see what mzungu (white person) skin feels like. He ran over and just grabbed my hand, gave me a high five and then just looked up at me. I had a hard time figuring out who he was looking at early on as his head was facing one way and his eyes another...come to find out-my little man Moses is cross eyed. That didn't stop him from giving some wicked high 5's, climbing up onto my lap during the church service and dancing in the aisles during worship time.

I didn't hear many words from Moses, but his actions spoke louder than any keynote speaker that I have heard. He didn't hold back...but instead used his “voice” to welcome us, to make us comfortable and to show what it means to be authentic in the presence of others...particularly in the context of church...where we often feel stifled.

Moses did something for me that day that will help guide my time here in Nairobi. He gave me eyes to see and ears to listen to a Psalm from David that touched me in that place at that moment. His toothless smile, intersecting eyes and weathered clothes helped me articulate a Psalm that is emerging in my mind...although there are many stanzas to this Psalm of Nairobi, this speaks to the context in which I met my little friend.

“To the One who remembered us in our low estate,
His love endures forever.” Psalm 136: 23.

To the Inspiration Center and the communal cross that it carries,
His love endures forever.
To the waves of dung wisping from the neglected toilets below,
His love endures forever.
To the children entering with calloused feet and ugly sweaters,
His love endures forever.
To the little boy whose crossed eyes do not make him blind to worshipful dancing,
His love endures forever.
To the valley below, where moonshine is prepared to intoxicate the city,
His love endures forever.
To the Nissan vans lined up on the street, their bumping systems and careless drivers,
His love endures forever.
To the mother behind me who sits in tension of giving an offering or eating a meal,
His love endures forever.
To the Mark and Moses, who choose to cry with the city instead of for it,
His love endures forever.
To the pastor down the street striking a deal to buy a helicopter,
His love endures forever.
To the landlord, who has not provided electricity for months,
His love endures forever.
To me, who can leave at anytime, and not come back,
His love endures forever.
To the millions of people in Nairobi, dreaming of a better life,
His love endures forever.
To campaigning politicians, soliciting slum votes soon to abandon them,
His love endures forever.
To the drugged rapper meters away whose bitterness prevails in his psalms,
His love endures forever.
To the churches and NGO's who have neglected this community,
His love endures forever.
To you, the reader who has faithfully supported us in this journey,
His love endures forever.
To Mathare,
His love endures forever.

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