kill myself

Romans 6:6-7 "For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin—because anyone who has died has been freed from sin." This past weekend we visited Jinja, and since then I've been mulling over not the effects of culture shock or poverty shock, but self shock. It wasn't the little kids begging for money, but my ability to forget them when I went inside for lunch, and my ability to look past them when I got back on the bus. So my question is this: just how much is our old self crucified with Christ? Are we only kind of freed from being slaves to sin? Have we only kind of died with Christ? Is it possible to totally kill oneself, to be free to be a total slave to others? More importantly, would I even have the heart and the guts to do that? This isn't just a theological question, to the extent that any question's able not to be theological. It's also practical. In my law class we were discussing different Christian views on the state. Augustine played with our heads saying first that morality should have nothing to do with the state because government is just about economics, and then saying that there is no difference between a pirate and a navy admiral, unless that difference be seeking justice. And seeking justice, it just can't be self-seeking. It's not a means to an end. Through the process your personal justice would also be sought, but not your privilege. So what is just? Are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness really God-given rights, that when lacking mean a lack of justice? Or are those privileges? In the words of my favorite roomie, IDK. But I knew what I thought I knew I don't know anymore. Good times :) By the way, I actually wrote this with some seeds of joy. Seriousness doesn't equal solemness, as Chesterton would point out!

new family, new friends and new news

I want to know their language. When my family starts talking and laughing, I can only sit and smile and enjoy their laughter. I can’t understand them without being able to listen and speak with them. I want to know Iteso, too, and Acholi, and all the languages here. Everyone can speak English, at least a little, but I know it’s not the same. Edward is a cousin, I think he is ten. One night I was drawing a picture of the living room. He was coming in and out doing little chores, and every time I would look up and we would just have a moment smiling at each other. It became hilarious, because he was in and out so often. Finally, he came in shyly and started watching me draw, so I started pointing and asking Lugandan words for each thing. He was delighted. If he didn’t know, he’d run out and ask his mom and run back in. Eventually, he just started talking in Lugandan to me, smiling, and I would reply in English, smiling. We had no idea what words the other one was saying, but we still could tell what the other one was saying.

Family is interesting here. Edward and yaja, grandma, are gone now. I thought they lived with us. They don’t. A week ago our niece Faith came and stayed with us, we didn’t know for how long. She slept with my sister Judie in her bed. Now she’s back with her mother. Our cousins Michael and Rachel live with us. I didn’t realize until not very long ago that Mary isn’t part of the family and doesn’t even live here. The family pays her to come across the road from her home and help out. That same night I met Imelda I passed by a shack on the way home and was surprised to find her there. I met her two daughters, Joannie and Liliannie.

Everybody is just trying to live their life, like anywhere else in the world. Everyone talks about the problem of getting water. When it is dry, there is trouble. Luckily it has been getting closer to the rainy season. And the government is building a ditch for water pipes. Most everyone at the school and my home has a cell phone and internet access, but still we struggle for water and cook over fire outside and don’t always have shoes. Is this poverty? Is their life worse than ours? Some, certainly. For some, in some ways. But the same can be said going the other way.

Maybe water is precious, but birthdays are precious, too. Two of my Ugandan friends, Suzan and Vickie, have been telling and joking with me about the birthday practice to pour water on the person. We’ve decided that the everliving Today is another friend’s birthday. Suzanne is going to do a medical internship in Gulu this summer, in the north. Another friend, Patrick, goes to the north to do a sports outreach during the summer. During the school year he is involved with the Iteso (his tribe) Mission, going out to villages and bringing the gospel and prayer and food and water and laughter. I’m tempted to ask them both and see if I can go with them.

Another young man, Edward, brings food to school everyday and sells it during tea time. I met him today as I sat there drawing a picture of President Museveni from his book, “What’s the Problem with Africa?” People just go and sit as they please at whichever table in the dining hall.So, he came and sat and talked with me about my drawing and about Museveni. Museveni has been President now for 22 years, longer than many of my Ugandan friends have been alive. I have heard many things against him in the newspapers. And I have thought many things against him. But I read his inauguration speech, which he gave after a five-year coup against Obote. I do not like violence, but even non-violence people like Gandhi said sometimes violence may be necessary. I do not know. I do not like someone who changes the constitution to stay in power. But I know the words I read Museveni say impressed me. For Edward, he said that you must understand where the country has come from since Museveni. After having six Presidents in 26 years, including three within the space of one year, including the regime of Idi Amin’s atrocities and including every change of power coming by force, including being surrounded by two countries that have or are experiencing genocide, Edward is glad for stability. Museveni, in his words, was able to come to power and keep it because his movement was for all the tribes and religions in the country. I do not know if this is true, but I can respect those words. Edward also told me a lot about business; remember I said he was selling food. He plans to make one million shillings in 60 days, which is quite a bit over $500. He told me about the need to make specific goals and track your progress and have daily goals. I think there is much I can learn from that. His brother is in Long Beach now like a certain brother of mine, studying business like a certain brother of mine, married to an African-American woman (unlike a certain brother of mine!). Now I miss my brother!

I love tea time. Before he came and sat with me, I drank my tea and talked with some Master of Divinity students, a bunch of theology men. When I graduate in 2010 they will also graduate, and will all return to their churches to lead. Each wanted me to keep in touch, and to come back after I graduate and visit their church. Steven and Sam and Emmanuel had to leave for class, but Tom stayed for a bit afterwards. He told me about how people would text him theological questions, and he would reply. I asked him questions. He told me how ~ “Sin, it is a fire but God’s mercy is that it didn’t burn our house down completely,” and echoed my father in saying how we are all made in the image of God, no matter how far corrupted we have made that image, and that we need to “just remove where the rot is and have people run to Jesus.”

The students here I have met all have a goal, like Edward. They want to do good for their country. In my law class, which I’m not actually in, we introduced ourselves and so many Ugandans talked about their desire to be truly Christian lawyers. They had a mission.

We were discussing the role of religion in politics, and they spoke about how theoretically of
course your religion should matter, because it should change the way you live, but how for many it doesn’t. Others countered that it shouldn’t matter, because that would be discrimination. We talked, and struggled together. We considered an article about Obama and the Trinity United Church, and we talked about MLK Jr. Whatever Obama may or not actually be, as a symbol he has become a source of hope. That is why I wanted to draw him. More importantly, I have drawings of some of the students now in my pad, their faces and their words. These people inspire me; they have goals, and they are steadfastly and faithfully working towards them, day by day, like Edward. I want to remember them, because it's important. Kikulu. And so I sat there, listening to their voices and seeing the passion in their eyes, and I tried to draw them, so as not to forget.

I’m afraid of drawing them wrongly, of misrepresenting them or their words. I can’t draw lips, let alone African lips. I don’t want to make them into a caricature, like so many did during the times of colonialism. I love drawing eyes here when people are talking, because they talk with their eyes also. While I’m afraid of misrepresenting them, I’ve even more afraid of forgetting them; that is why I draw, and that is also why I write.

Barack Obama is in the news. His face and assurance that change CAN happen sits right next to an article about the suspension of UN refugee repatriation from Uganda to Sudan because of the worsening situation. No wonder people want to believe change can happen.

On the other page another article speaks about the LRA’s recent execution of 16 South Sudanese civilians, and the Rwandan troops sent into the Congo to put a stop to Hutu militants. There’s articles about what Obama can learn from Cuba, and how he has taught Africa how to bring hope back. There’s articles claiming he is actually Ugandan because of a change in borders at the time of his father’s birth. And there’s an article headlining “Yes he can but no he won’t” solve Africa’s problems.

America influences it feels like everything here. My brother’s cell phone ring is a Hillsong United song from the newest album – the album I haven’t even heard yet. Obama is the talk of the town. Hip hop and R&B come from everyone’s speakers. My other brother wears Michael Jordan shoes. I told my law class my favorite philosopher was the Black Eyed Peas and they all laughed. But at the same time, my Michael Jordan-wearing brother will do a traditional dance by the fire of a gas light to the beat of his mother pounding peanuts into powder, while his sister cooks over the outdoor charcoal fire by my flashlight, and still even while their father watches television in the living room. That’s Africa.

the good, the bad and the ugly...and the beautiful?

I talked earlier about the good and bad in people, and turning the other cheek. Several of the students have been faced with just that. One of the girls, B, was sitting on the patio of her dorm and a young man came and attempted to steal her laptop. She screamed and tackled him (because she’s a gangster like that), and when he continued to run away, ten guys from her dorm chased after him and retrieved the laptop. Another girl, Kia, was walking to school in the morning darkness and she was mugged; her ipod and cell phone were taken and she was punched in the face and side, but I think emotionally it's the worst. She has the painful choice of how to react, to stay or go. And, in staying or going, she has the more difficult choice of how to respond, how to understand her story.

But hold on a minute. Listen to another story, one that will really worry my brother. I decided to walk home early last night so I would have time to stand and chat with some of the children along the way. I was walking the same pace as a woman when I turned onto another road. I almost didn’t bother to smile, because I can’t deny sometimes I’m afraid, and not just of not being returned a smile now. But I did smile, and she smiled back, and we began talking. I learned about how she’s a geography teacher that volunteers Wednesdays at the Mukono health clinic and that she chose to walk home to get exercise. I shared about my family and my classes, and I asked her more questions. She was new to Mukono and still building her home with her husband and children. She invited me to come and see. She pointed up the road to where it was, and I made the choice to walk with her.

We walked up the dirt road that was muddy and slippery from the rain, up the winding hill and past the school and the water tanks. We talked about her children and how different they are from one another. Finally, we reached a turn in the road where I could see the whole town of Mukono. I’ve been down in the streets, so I knew the busy, annoyed, angry sounds of traffic and tempers. I knew I would see huge, elaborate hotels on one side of the road and a makeshift market just down and off the road on the other side. But I also knew I would see people trying to live and love like myself. And from my view on the hill I could see all of it, but I could also see none of it. It was beautiful, but it was far away.

The next turn took us to her home, which she kept apologizing for. Funny thing is, it was beautiful. I know poverty and wealth can live side by side, but still it’s always a surprise. There’s wall enclosures surrounding huge homes that their owners drive into and drive out of everyday, and there’s wooden shacks whose front yard is one of the main roads. Anyways, by this point Imelda and I were having a lovely time, and we took tea together and talked and I met her son and looked at pictures of her sleeping daughter. Still, I had to leave for home, but she told me to come back anytime, and she told me to have my family come to Uganda and stay with them, and she told me this was my second home.

I still don’t know Imelda’s last name.

Maybe that’s just me being naive and talking with strangers. But maybe that’s strangers turning out to always having some strange and some familiar in them, if you look for it. Walking home, the fear still came back a bit, the nerves. I walked faster, skipped and hopped in my skirt when no one else was on the road. I didn't want to be out when it was dark. But when I got to the house where I have made particular good friends with some of the children (Annet, Margaret, Violet!), I stopped. I stopped and talked and sign-talked and knew the sun was getting further gone. And I wasn't okay with it, but I wasn't okay with leaving, either. They know me as the mzungu named Sarah who asks them their names and shakes their hands and who moves her hand over her face to smile or frown. I don't want them to know me as the mzungu who's in too much of a hurry and too afraid to stop and smile and ask their names and give them mine. Africa makes me slow down, even when I’m scared.

These stories aren’t meant to cancel out the first one. B still had a boy nearly steal her laptop. And Kia still was attacked and robbed. But these stories ARE meant to balance the first ones. I can’t not tell you bad stories of people stealing and hurting others. But I can tell you that while some boys have that story, some boys have the story of running after those first boys and retrieving what is stolen and trying to heal what is hurt. And many of the young men here have the story of being so saddened and sorry and ashamed that some of their Ugandan peers hurt Kia. Kia has both a Ugandan mother and father and an American mother and father who are concerned for her and want her safety. And, somewhere, there is a young man who failed to steal from a white girl because her black brothers heard her cry. And, somewhere, there are young men who suceeded in stealing and hurting a white girl. But just a couple of minutes ago that same white girl was praying for him, that he might read that white girl's journal about her experiences in Africa and with God. And here in Uganda there's still a rather silly and out of place group of forty mzungu American students, ranging from future missionaries to politicians to teachers and to who really knows, trying to figure Africa out, to hear the stories of Africa and their Ugandan peers, and to find their own stories in that. We're still hear; we're still listening, and we're still searching.

Capitalization

How do we capitalize what’s truly important, and not just choose to capitalize our stories to justify capitalizing on others’ suffering? How do we love our enemies?

Capitalized letters are hard to speak. Why is that? It's not that we just make up the capitalization, that we just grab onto something abstractly good and personify it. Myths aren't make-believe. Oftentimes they're more concrete than abstract thought (Taylor). And myths aren't just stories you choose to believe in. You don't believe it just because it is good, even if it isn't true. Capitalization works because you're only emphasizing truth that is already there.

You capitalize what's important. But so many people, myself included, all of us, we get wrong priorities. We prioritize ourselves, our existence and our dignity and our privilege. And so when we capitalize our own selves, we decide its okay to capitalize off of someone else.

Africa is amazing. But it's so true, you learn so much more about yourself. I'm glad, but I'm still waiting to learn more about Africa. That book Primal Vision keeps talking about African traditional beliefs and how they effect Africans today. But so far I see similarities more than differences. But I want to capitalize whatever is true, whether that be just African, just British, just American, or something much more complicated than all of that.

Because it's so easy just to capitalize yourself, your side of the story, your take, your cause, your suffering. But I’ve been reading Wink, who talks about how Christ's call for turning the other cheek is a call, in my own words, to capitalize both your own dignity and the injustice of your oppressor, while still also capitalizing the same dignity in that oppressor. It's loving your enemies and having the strength and courage to absorb their hate and return love, to end the cycle. Its civil rights demonstrators singing a call and answer song of Do you love _____; Yes we do, and being able to say Yes we do when the caller asks do you love Jim Crow.

I read that Obama spent time serving in memory of MLK Jr. in the time leading up to his inauguration. I saw a couple minutes of television, with people pouring into DC to see and hear him. I fell asleep last night to BBC radio commentators quoting and responding and questioning and applauding his words. I’ve read his words, his speech.

I told my mother in an email how I cried. I love my country, and I love this world, but sometimes I have so much fear, both of and for us. I’ll try and post an actual response to the speech in my other blog, but basically, what it comes down to is I heard Obama say that man’s got the answer, going with all the humanist secular eschatologies trying to get the world to believe the history of the world is a history of progress (Plant). In Obama’s assurance to the world of our return to ideals and rejection of a choice between safety and our ideals, I was alarmed to hear the assumption that we don’t have to sometimes sacrifice safety for our ideals (Obama).

But I’ll leave that for then. The question for this, now, was what we should capitalize, how do we choose between ourselves and others? I have hope that there is the option of capitalizing both ourselves and others. I have hope that there is a third way, neither passive flight and allowing of injustice, nor that never-ending cycle of fight that never leaves a winner, but only survivors.

And I have hope that, as the philosophers BEP put it, we can realize that “if you only have love for your own race than you only leave space to discriminate…man you gotta have love to set it straight…” Maybe then Christians can answer them YES to “will you practice what you preach? Will you turn the other cheek?...where is the love?...if loving people is so strong, why are so many pieces of love going so wrong?”



Links, Sources
- www.seersayersarah.blogspot.com
- Taylor, John, The Primal Vision, (Fortress Press: Philadelphia, 1963). He worked in Uganda from I think 1958-1964, as many African countries got independence.
- Plant, Stephen, Freedom as Development: Christian Mission and the Definition of Human Well-Being, (Wesley House: Cambridge, ?). he’s the guy that talks about secular eschatology. Interesting stuff.
- I got the text from the NYTimes transcript, where Obama says on the second page “As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals…Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience’s sake.”

planes, rains and automobiles

The KLM airlines is amazing. It was a flurry of sleeping, waking up to be fed scrumptious yummies, sleeping, waking up to watch free movies or tv shows, sleeping, waking up to get apple juice and more yummies, sleeping, waking up to listen to free music...I think I'm in love. Oh, and our stewardess, Irimgard, gave us candy. Just our row. That's right.

This guy on the right is Herbert, my second airport friend. When I got to the DC airport at six in the morning, I was drawing for a couple hours until he came along needing to make a call. We ended up hanging out for the next six hours and he told me some about his life, coming for the second time to the States from Ghana to work and study. He told me also about his country and its capital Accra. My first airport friend was a girl, Priscilla, who like me grew up first in Huntington Beach and then Anaheim! Although eventually I had to sleep it was so nice learning about her work in Brazil helping with a new Poruguese translation of the Bible. Really, airports are amazing!This is the guest room we stayed in the first night. When I first saw the mosquito net, it was tied at the top and I thought it was decoration! I feel like I'm in a princess bed every night. Really, I'm going to miss mosquito nets very much! After about 30 hours of flying, which was so amazing, we had a two-hour bus ride which I spent with my head out the window or busy eating bananas. We arrived at the school maybe 1 am.

This is the beautiful view from our main classroom. For me, all of my scheduled classes are here. I'm taking History of East Africa from 1800s-independence, Politics of EA since independence, Faith and Action, International Missions and Ministry, and Creative Writing. There was a schedule conflict witht the Law and Christian Political Thought, but I will still attend one of the two sessions every week! It's quite an interesting schedule, as I have class at 8:30 every day. Monday and Tuesday my last class ends at 5, and Wednesday by 4, with a 4-hour break! Thursday I have only one class, so I will be done by 9:30, and Friday I will be done by 10:30, thought that day's schedule may change. And everyday of course I am to be home by 7, so I have to leave by 6:30 to make the walk in time. My family now lets us help in bringing out and taking in the dishes, and we prepare our own baths. Friday we will go into Kampala, the capital city, and Saturday my sister will teach us how to get eggs from the chickens and wash our clothes! Here is also a picture of the same classroom and some of us. This was our first morning and we were enjoying a breakfast of bananas and bread and juice. The food is amazing and it really is a shame I haven't take any pictures of it yet. Matoke is this mashed-potatoes like cooked banana, it is really a staple. It's quite bland, but when you pour your meat stew over it as they do it is great. Rice and beans are big here as well. For breakfast usually I just have tea and some bread with butter.This Tuesday we were eating lunch when quite quickly it began first to sprinkle and than to pour. During a brief reprieve we all ran to class together. Not all of the windows lock, and the door does not either, so we were sitting there in a small circle with our missions teacher, Brooke (an alum of the program!) nearly yelling to be heard over the howl of the wind and rain. Qutie a few trees fell down, including this one here, right in the middle of the road. This was when the man who returned Michelle's lost baggage returned us home. The boy has a stick in his hand trying to chop the tree! Eventually, we went off the road and around. It's amazing what people can do with cars here. The roads are similar to where I went off-roading one time, dirt and rocks and pits and bumps.

I will try to take more recent photos and tell you of more recent Ugandan adventures soon. Until then, I hope you have some really cool adventures of your own!

Good and Bad

Red dirt, green grass and blue sky Malaria nets, bucket showers and flirtatious boda boda motorcycle men The sweet evening smell of backyard kitchen fires like your favorite beach trip Ethnic tension and denominational competition My host father tells me that after he traveled to northern Uganda as a young man, the truth he learned was that there is good and bad in every people. One people are not all bad, and one are not all good. I agree. To be honest, though, most of what I have seen is good. And lovely. And delicious. It has not yet been even a week since I left California, let alone when I arrived in Uganda. The course of my life has not been changed forevermore. But it is not the same, either. I have even more reasons to laugh at myself. I have even more reasons to laugh at others, at life. At the way little children have the brightest smile when they see me and call out mzungu, white person! At the way I smile back shyly as the adults look on and chuckle. My sister, my mugandawange, is nineteen years old. She is incredible, her maturity and how much she contributes to her family's daily functioning. I have so much respect for her! My brothers are quiet with me, but in speaking with them I learn that they are regular guys who like to hang out with their friends. They even play Grand Theft Auto! My father is intelligent and very thoughtful towards making us feel at home. My mother and grandmother speak with their smiles. So far, I have been more struck by the similarities than by the differences, the good more than the bad. I am still intimidated when I walk around campus, but that is my own insecurity. I find if I have a bit of courage and smile, others smile back. So I think I will smile :)

kikulu

Countdown one week to Uganda, and in the holiday hustle and preparation bustle, it's kind of difficult to remember what' s important.

The first night I heard about Uganda I was outside in the night, up in the mountains where the stars actually show. Several young men told me and my friends their stories, stories of war and fear, of innocence lost and innocents lost. And one ended with the plea not to forget them. I had just seen Invisible Children, and I thought my eyes were wide open and would never close.

I can't count the times since then that I've paused in shame to realize I had forgotten Invisible Children and invisible chilren alike. I can't count the times I've failed to see the people around me, even family and friends and myself, as the beloved children of God that we are.

Kikulu means both "remember" and "it's important." For the moment, at least, I remember what's important. God loves. Crazy. And because of Him, I can love God and my neighbor wherever I am, and more importantly I want to, everywhere I am. That inclues here, even when I'm busy freaking out about going to Uganda. And that'll include in Uganda, even when I'm busy freaking out about being in Uganda.


Hopefully I'll be able to remember that and learn it even better.

After all, what's more important than that?