The Story of One Young Man

This is not just any story and this is not just any young man.  This story starts in Burundi where a 1-year-old baby is forced into the arms of another young mother because both of his parents have been murdered by the national army.  The baby boy is too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation or the affects it will have on his life but he is hungry and cries to be fed.  Violence in Burundi causes the young mother to flee the country in search of safety and security.  She flees to Tanzania and to a refugee camp where the young boy will grow up.  At age five he is separated from the woman who has taken care of him and becomes the responsibility of another man whom he will live with for the next 5 years.  From there the man will disappear, likely to South Africa, in search of work and a better life.  The boy, alone, scared, waits for the man to return as he was told to do. He sleeps anywhere he can rest his head.  He suffers.  Eventually a family leaving Tanzania take the young boy, now 10 years old, to the Dzaleka Refugee Camp, a place they are promised has a better future.  It is here, in Dzaleka, where the boy will spend his formative years sleeping on a straw mat, concerned about the source of his next meal, schooling when possible and finding refuse in football games and model wire trucks made of old fermented beer cartons. 

His family of circumstance stand by him just until their own biological children start to eat their way through the food rations provided.  The parents reach a breaking point and force the boy to choose between quitting school to earn an income or living alone and unaccompanied.  With wisdom beyond his years, he choses school.  Now, independent, his knowledge and determination are his strengths that keep his head above the water as he treads to find a different path.  

I met this boy in his 18^th year, having spent 17 years of his young life living according to the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) and the local governments willing to house refugees.  It is the developing countries that provide for a majority of refugees around the world posing the obvious question: “Why is it the poor countries that take on a lions share of the burden when it comes to taking care of asylum seekers and refugees?”  Not in our backyard we say.  Not in our backyard.

In a session just last week I was speaking to this boy who has become a young man with far too many responsibilities and stress for someone his age.  He is a most genuine spirit with good intentions and a modest courage that speaks louder than his tenor pitched voice ever could.  Without rations for the month of February he is scraping by on one cup of pourage per day provided by the primary school where he is a student.  A 19-year-old 8^th grader.  Language barrier, war and basic need have kept him from school across multiple academic years and his grade level, given his age, represents the dire struggle this boy has survived through.  I am proud to know him and humbled to realize that there are people living in this world that can prevail despite such tragedy.  Our session that day never felt like a session between counselor and client but more like old friends getting to the nitty gritty about life’s priorities, hopes and dreams, and the questions and uncertainties that still plague us. 

At one point in the conversation he disclosed that there are moments when he is physically present in the classroom yet his mind wanders and emotionally he finds himself with his head buried in his hands, “I have no family, I am hungry. I feel sorry for myself.”  Despite my battle to hold back my eminent emotions they still got the best of me.  My eyes reddened and welled up with heavy tears that seemed to be drawn from my eyes with exceptional gravitational force.  No young man should have to be deal with this.  As an old friend would, I attempted to provide some hope. “I have never felt sorry for you.  I see in you a strong young man that has continued to overcome, has continued to fight and has made something of himself and for himself.  You are more powerful than you know.”  With that familiar smile that begins at the outside corners of his gaunt cheeks, he replied simply, “WOW.”  Exactly.  My sentiment Exactly. 

When I see his dark eyes gazing from behind his mysterious expression I find myself smiling.  This young man has made an impact on my life.  His journey has inspired me and enriched my time here in Dzaleka.  In one short word he managed to sum up his story in a way that other words cannot. WOW. 

   

Cranky Pants Loves Love

I’m in one of those moods.  One of those moods when I don’t feel like talking to anyone, preferring to turn my back on most everything and be alone with my thoughts.  I can’t put my finger on why exactly I have landed in this despondent state but non-the-less I am here.  I know the gloom will pass in good time but in some weird way I don’t mind wallowing in this 'Debbie Downer' mood.  It makes me feel grounded, knowing that everyone has their bad days.  As bizarre as it is, these moods turn me into a contemplative intellectual.  I brood over various things that have been on my mind, reflect on my life and the people in it and ask the hard questions.  Once I get tired of the philosopher in me I go back to being my enthusiastic self who thinks out loud even while others are listening, takes great pleasure in sunsets, makes wishes on stars, sings off key, laughs when it may be inappropriate and respects kids who play in the dirt.

When I am in one of these seldom dumpster dispositions I can count on thoughts of my classroom and the individuals in it to lift my spirits.  So with that, I would like to introduce you to a group of people I have been privileged enough to spend the last year of my life with.

They are men and women ranging in age from 25-66; asylum seekers, refugees and a local from the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Burundi and Malawi.  Everyday they are eager to learn about our coursework as well as tangential gems of wisdom that seem to sprout up and grow into teaching moments.  A description of my students based solely on their nationalities seems distant and unfamiliar when my intent is to show you the warmth of their personalities and the uniqueness of their spirits.

More specifically, they are a guitar maker, a pastor, a grandfather, an entrepreneur, a mother of six, a nurse, a community leader, a volunteer, a head counselor, a survivor, a storyteller, a quiet soul, an extrovert, a thinker and then there is me, the token Mzungu.  We are all individuals whose fate has brought us together to learn, laugh and share time.    

The Community Counseling Track Students 

My students are amazing human beings that have taught me more than I could have ever expected about myself and about what true priorities are.  We have shared secrets in the sanctity of each other’s company, built trust and companionship, exposed our weaknesses, asked honest questions and responded with sincere answers.  Over time we have become a unified group coming to understand each other’s idiosyncrasies and building off of each other’s strengths.  Academically we are learning about rapport building, clear communication techniques, Cognitive Behavior Therapy, Depression, symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, stages of trauma and recovery, counseling perspectives, self care and therapy especially focusing on people living with HIV/AIDS, unaccompanied minors, older adults and people with disabilities.  During each and every two-hour session we learn something new and I am able to tuck a life lesson into the back of my brain to be cherished for later.

I was recently pondering the concept of student to teacher reciprocity and I came to the conclusion that our scale is mostly lopsided.  On a daily basis I am thanked for my contribution but I feel my students need constant reminder that it is, and always has been my great pleasure and privilege to work alongside them.  I have explained that they are the reason I get up in the morning to walk 25 minutes through the rain to the office.  They are the reason I travel one hour in a cramped Land Cruiser to get to camp.  They are the reason I can look back on the last year and smile my crooked smile. 

Play Therapy Session

There are moments in the classroom when I can see people making connections between theory and their work.  Their eyebrows raise, their mouths tilt slightly open and the light bulbs inside their heads not just goes on, but beams with understanding.  At these moments I usually rise to my feet to drive the lesson home but more so because I can't seem to contain my excitement.  Their realization is my proudest moment. Their accomplishment is my accomplishment.  My students are always so grateful to be learning amongst a population that is mostly and forcibly idle (According to Malawian law refugees are unable to gain legal employment, which manifests itself into boredom, frustration and restlessness often multiplying the risk for mental health issues).      

  

The other day I walked in on a serious study session before our class even started.  My learners were questioning each other, nodding, clarifying and reaching a new level of comprehension.  When I realized what was going on around me my eyes watered up and made the extra hours of preparation, lesson planning and photocopying all worth it.  "This makes me so happy you have no idea."  Their work ethic and initiative fills me with a sense of satisfaction.  I am able to measure my success through their progress.  Based on their growth and accomplishment I would say that I have, and am, making an impact.  My days are long and despite the occasional ‘no good, very bad day’, when I get into that cramped Land Cruiser to go home I know that my privilege is going toward a greater good.  Sometimes on the ride back I am stressed out from the demanding schedule, other times my brain checks out and I can’t seem to form proper sentences, still other times I laugh uncontrollably out of sheer exhaustion, but always, ALWAYS, I am happy knowing I get to do it all again tomorrow.

As the time slips away faster and faster through my fingers while I prepare to leave I realize that most of the ‘goodbyes’ will be just that. Good bye.  I am struggling with the idea of such a permanent and abrupt ending but I don’t think time could possibly dull the memories only enhance them.  The thoughts will occupy small parts of my mind and huge parts of my heart.  I have made sacrafices to be here but the work has made it all worth it.  It is not a sacrafice I would be willing to make forever and I suppose as our program wraps up, now is as good a time as any to leave though I am not completely convinced.  Truth is I have no regrets as I return home except for my failure to learn Chechewa (AND French, Swahili, Kurundi, and Kirwanda).  I would not change a thing though.  Not even the perpetual broken window at HEM, the leaking roof or the boldness of the odd toilet flies.  Not the power cuts that made making copies impossible or the rusty red mud that got crusted in between my toes during the rains.  I would not change the afternoon water fights with Clotilde or take back the random embraces from children infected with ringworm.  If I had to do it all again I would keep the grit in my rice that almost cracked my teeth and still listen intently to the never ending stories of needs and struggles that could not be satiated.  I would not give up the warm greetings in the mornings nor the search for toilet key number 6 nor the inquisitive stares at the bore hole.  I would not modify the limited lunch menu selection of rice, beans and chapatti or beans, chapatti and rice, nor the need for three interpretations of the same English phrase so we can all be together.  I would not change having to hunt down masking tape to uphold lesson plans or having to sit on dirt floors to hold counseling sessions in cold, mud brick homes.  I would not change the days I left with tears in my eyes from heartbreaking stories nor distant shouts of  from excited children None of it. I wouldn't change a thing.  My experience has been  painfully perfect.    

Dome's Favorites:  Some quotes I pulled from email correspondence with my students (some of which may be the first ever email they have ever composed).

“I hope and believe that you are all sarounded by Angles who will guide and protect you in every step you make.”

“Good morning .I am very happy to have an opportunity to write to you

even  i do in late.

I appreciate how you teach us very well in spite of the crying  of my

child.Now I am doing my job very well because of your teaching.Thank

you again GOD bless you.”  [*breast feeding babies are always welcome in class.]

“It so good to wish and be in touch with someone you have been with.

the chance of life i expect it in : education, friends and membership.”

“When you are experiencing those down days, can you take a picture of their progress?  It is very real.  It has changed them. Honestly and truly your impact has made such a difference in their lives” –my supervisor