colour is too much. the light is blinding and the red reminds you of joy. so we make believe in black and white. it seems long gone this way. the memory not so imminent.
you place distance and barriers. you hope for interest from significant others. you plead for an absence of meaningful dreams. you stare longingly at articles pertaining to your experience. you live in a contradictory balance. like sleep walking. halfway between awake and sleeping.
you try to justify this absence of emotion. or the tears that spring unromantically while you wait for your coffee at 8:59am. the rain hitting you from under your umbrella reminds you of truth. it is staring you in the face. full of colour. the red dirt road is a black and white image left to gather dust. it sits behind the memory of climbing apple trees and running low on soy milk. it is confused.
so you walk forward and the weeks have gone by too fast. but that is ok. the further you get away from it, the easier it may become. you hope.
and then someone mentions it, or you hear of a strangers similar experience, and the word leaving or goodbye pulls at the barely healed scab.
remember us. never forget.
i made up the word unromantically.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
storming last days.
it's our last day in Pader. Millie, Bree and I are half way through painting the concrete slab where the babies and toddlers spend their days under a thatched roof with the babysitters. we are covered in paint. the stark whiteness is under our nails and in our hair. there are no turps and our scrubbing brushes are worn out from weeks of trying to achieve unmuddied feet.
our days here have blurred into moments, and they are all we have left. as shapeless memories imprinted in our minds, written in our journals and occasionally documented in our camera's. it will never be enough.
we set out with a mission today. to paint the 'childcare centre'. the dull concrete does not excite and enthuse imagination. so three white girls with less than 24 hours to spare buy paint and find paint brushes. most are hardened from not being rinsed. i manage to get one working, while Bree tries her luck with a roller. Millie who has had no luck, is using a seal stuffed toy to blot her way along the 60cm high wall. the paint is going to our heads. i've made sure the babies are all out of the way. most are sleeping in a small hut. it's nap time and like we once did in kindy, they sleep after lunch, though here it is on the bare concrete.
i've been carrying Elvis all day. i don't want to put him down. he's fallen asleep in my arms. he clings to my arm as i try to lay him on the ground next to the other babies. out comes the thumb from his mouth and with his eyes closed, he makes a whimpering sound, searching for me. i hold him a little longer. i'm going to fail at being a good mother who puts her babies to bed on time.
we paint for what feels like hours. it feels like hours when it has only been 45 minutes because it's so damn hot. we stop to head back for lunch and a nap, since everyone insists we have afternoon sleeps. (we think they think we can't handle the heat. we don't like to admit, they're right).
our last lunch in Pader. Stevie brings out chips and beans. we've asked for no more cabbage. there is only so much cabbage one can handle. Stevie smiles broadly at us; we going to miss you!
we smile, feel a tear or two burning our eyes and promise to be back. we've been told not to promise, but we do anyway. we will be back. it's more of a comforting promise to ourselves.
i can see storm clouds rolling in from where i sit. i grab my camera and we head up to the unfinished roof. click. click. click. still experimenting with new apertures and effects. before we know it, a storm has set in. we're not going anywhere for a few hours.
we pack, unwillingly, and pray our washing dries in the moist air. we lie on the bed and eat the last few pieces of chocolate and Vegemite dips. we watch Friends on Bree's ipod, and give each other massages. the storm is still raging outside. we resort to plan B. we will pay some people to finish painting the childcare centre.
when the rain finally eases we head to the markets with our friend Fiona. she walks us through the stalls picking out the right vegetables. we chose egg plant and ginger. a little too excited that we get to cook our own meal tonight. small things excite us these days.
thongs stuck in quick sand, men watching indiscreetly from near by stalls and the smell of fresh rain. we are feeling the longing for Pader before we have even left.
we spend the night at Alice's house with our Canadian friends, cooking dinner, drinking ginger tea with fresh honey and laughing and dreaming of making our return and all we will do. there is no electricity, so candles burn softly, making the warm yellow walls glow. Alice sits on the mat, smiling. i feel so much pride that i have had the privilege to meet and get to know this amazing women. anytime i don't feel like fighting my battles, hers is the face that will come to mind. brave and beautiful Alice.
(yes there are more made up words in this entry. deal. i'm the next Shakespeare).
our days here have blurred into moments, and they are all we have left. as shapeless memories imprinted in our minds, written in our journals and occasionally documented in our camera's. it will never be enough.
we set out with a mission today. to paint the 'childcare centre'. the dull concrete does not excite and enthuse imagination. so three white girls with less than 24 hours to spare buy paint and find paint brushes. most are hardened from not being rinsed. i manage to get one working, while Bree tries her luck with a roller. Millie who has had no luck, is using a seal stuffed toy to blot her way along the 60cm high wall. the paint is going to our heads. i've made sure the babies are all out of the way. most are sleeping in a small hut. it's nap time and like we once did in kindy, they sleep after lunch, though here it is on the bare concrete.
i've been carrying Elvis all day. i don't want to put him down. he's fallen asleep in my arms. he clings to my arm as i try to lay him on the ground next to the other babies. out comes the thumb from his mouth and with his eyes closed, he makes a whimpering sound, searching for me. i hold him a little longer. i'm going to fail at being a good mother who puts her babies to bed on time.
we paint for what feels like hours. it feels like hours when it has only been 45 minutes because it's so damn hot. we stop to head back for lunch and a nap, since everyone insists we have afternoon sleeps. (we think they think we can't handle the heat. we don't like to admit, they're right).
our last lunch in Pader. Stevie brings out chips and beans. we've asked for no more cabbage. there is only so much cabbage one can handle. Stevie smiles broadly at us; we going to miss you!
we smile, feel a tear or two burning our eyes and promise to be back. we've been told not to promise, but we do anyway. we will be back. it's more of a comforting promise to ourselves.
i can see storm clouds rolling in from where i sit. i grab my camera and we head up to the unfinished roof. click. click. click. still experimenting with new apertures and effects. before we know it, a storm has set in. we're not going anywhere for a few hours.
we pack, unwillingly, and pray our washing dries in the moist air. we lie on the bed and eat the last few pieces of chocolate and Vegemite dips. we watch Friends on Bree's ipod, and give each other massages. the storm is still raging outside. we resort to plan B. we will pay some people to finish painting the childcare centre.
when the rain finally eases we head to the markets with our friend Fiona. she walks us through the stalls picking out the right vegetables. we chose egg plant and ginger. a little too excited that we get to cook our own meal tonight. small things excite us these days.
thongs stuck in quick sand, men watching indiscreetly from near by stalls and the smell of fresh rain. we are feeling the longing for Pader before we have even left.
we spend the night at Alice's house with our Canadian friends, cooking dinner, drinking ginger tea with fresh honey and laughing and dreaming of making our return and all we will do. there is no electricity, so candles burn softly, making the warm yellow walls glow. Alice sits on the mat, smiling. i feel so much pride that i have had the privilege to meet and get to know this amazing women. anytime i don't feel like fighting my battles, hers is the face that will come to mind. brave and beautiful Alice.
(yes there are more made up words in this entry. deal. i'm the next Shakespeare).
we run from the places that we call safe
hiding. someone just asked me where i have been hiding.
i've been hiding in pictures and books. processing and attempting to formulate an understanding. as if understanding can be formulated. i should be waiting for an epiphany.
hiding is something the youth and children of Northern Uganda understand. i thought i understood hiding well. turns out hiding in western society pertains to a game of hide-&-seek in the play ground or avoiding an argument with friends or becoming inactive on facebook. i get asked where i've been hiding if i've missed a party or two.
hiding in uganda is a game of life and death. children at the age of 4 were sent to the bush and tall grasses to hide from the LRA. if they were found, a new game would begin. one of fear, torture and most likely death.
George used to hide. till he was 12 years old he slept in the bush with his friends. they slept spread out, hoping if one of them was found, the others would have a chance at a silent escape.
one night, as the rain pelted his tired, un-sleeping body, he decided he was tired of the hiding game. without a word to his brothers in the grass he walked home to his village.
i didn't care. if the LRA take me, they take me!
he was home for 45 minutes before the LRA came walking through his village. as his mum and grandma hid in their mud hut, one of the soldiers saw George and commanded him to show them the way to the next village. with confidence and an unnerving bravery, George walked with the LRA, boy his age, brainwashed to kill mercilessly, for 2 hours to their destination. upon arrival at the next village, the head soldier told George he could leave. stories like this are unheard of. once you are in LRA captivity, you are either made to kill or be killed. someone was watching out for George. he turned around and headed home.
i asked him if he turned and ran as fast as he could. he said;
no, i just walk. as if he was returning home from the store with a loaf of bread. so calm and casual.
after that George had 2 more encounters with the LRA and knows many of his friends who have been captured by them. now at 27 George has an amazing story of God's hand upon his life, he is actively involved in his local church doing youth ministry and visits the local prison in Kitgum to share and encourage the prisoners.
while we were in Kitgum, we could be sure to walk out of our rooms each morning and find baseball capped head and huge smile waiting for us. he took us to the village or to visit families, always willing to answer our curious questions.
his story is just one of many stories of strength and bravery we encountered in these people. strength and dignity mark them. their love for Jesus and unrestrained worship pierce my heart with regret for my own apathy.
the Acholi people no longer need to hide who they are. they are free to return from IDP's, sleep in their huts and villages, regrow their agriculture and worship. healing and regrowth is still in baby stages as they recover from a 21 year war, but the game is over. the light is flooding the land.
yes i did make up the word unsleeping.
i've been hiding in pictures and books. processing and attempting to formulate an understanding. as if understanding can be formulated. i should be waiting for an epiphany.
hiding is something the youth and children of Northern Uganda understand. i thought i understood hiding well. turns out hiding in western society pertains to a game of hide-&-seek in the play ground or avoiding an argument with friends or becoming inactive on facebook. i get asked where i've been hiding if i've missed a party or two.
hiding in uganda is a game of life and death. children at the age of 4 were sent to the bush and tall grasses to hide from the LRA. if they were found, a new game would begin. one of fear, torture and most likely death.
George used to hide. till he was 12 years old he slept in the bush with his friends. they slept spread out, hoping if one of them was found, the others would have a chance at a silent escape.
one night, as the rain pelted his tired, un-sleeping body, he decided he was tired of the hiding game. without a word to his brothers in the grass he walked home to his village.
i didn't care. if the LRA take me, they take me!
he was home for 45 minutes before the LRA came walking through his village. as his mum and grandma hid in their mud hut, one of the soldiers saw George and commanded him to show them the way to the next village. with confidence and an unnerving bravery, George walked with the LRA, boy his age, brainwashed to kill mercilessly, for 2 hours to their destination. upon arrival at the next village, the head soldier told George he could leave. stories like this are unheard of. once you are in LRA captivity, you are either made to kill or be killed. someone was watching out for George. he turned around and headed home.
i asked him if he turned and ran as fast as he could. he said;
no, i just walk. as if he was returning home from the store with a loaf of bread. so calm and casual.
after that George had 2 more encounters with the LRA and knows many of his friends who have been captured by them. now at 27 George has an amazing story of God's hand upon his life, he is actively involved in his local church doing youth ministry and visits the local prison in Kitgum to share and encourage the prisoners.
while we were in Kitgum, we could be sure to walk out of our rooms each morning and find baseball capped head and huge smile waiting for us. he took us to the village or to visit families, always willing to answer our curious questions.
his story is just one of many stories of strength and bravery we encountered in these people. strength and dignity mark them. their love for Jesus and unrestrained worship pierce my heart with regret for my own apathy.
the Acholi people no longer need to hide who they are. they are free to return from IDP's, sleep in their huts and villages, regrow their agriculture and worship. healing and regrowth is still in baby stages as they recover from a 21 year war, but the game is over. the light is flooding the land.
yes i did make up the word unsleeping.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mimco & Sand Storms
DSC00161, originally uploaded by http://www.flickr.com/people/49911439@N02/.
It is harder. Being here. Home.
In Europe, I was so busy seeing and doing, I couldn't think. Now I remember.
You know that feeling when you break up with someone, and you can't listen to certain music? I can't listen to Mumford and Sons. After The Storm throws me back into imagery of driving down red dirt roads 4 girls squashed into the backseat, my head banging on the door frame as we go over the bumps. The whole road is bumps.
I claimed my time in Europe as debrief. But it was running. Being here, people ask about it. At church they talk about it. And I have to show my parents my photo's.
It's easier to feel cynicism than anything else.
Shane Clairborne, The Irresistible Revolution.
The more I think about, the more I realise how completely different worlds are. I have left one world where death and fear are a constant mindset, to live in a world where Fashion Week makes news headlines and we complain about our high paying jobs.
Circumstances are relevant to worldview and interpretation. I'm trying to filter my shifted and shattered worldview from offending mindsets I'm surrounded by. And not sounding arrogant.
In Europe, I was so busy seeing and doing, I couldn't think. Now I remember.
You know that feeling when you break up with someone, and you can't listen to certain music? I can't listen to Mumford and Sons. After The Storm throws me back into imagery of driving down red dirt roads 4 girls squashed into the backseat, my head banging on the door frame as we go over the bumps. The whole road is bumps.
I claimed my time in Europe as debrief. But it was running. Being here, people ask about it. At church they talk about it. And I have to show my parents my photo's.
It's easier to feel cynicism than anything else.
Shane Clairborne, The Irresistible Revolution.
The more I think about, the more I realise how completely different worlds are. I have left one world where death and fear are a constant mindset, to live in a world where Fashion Week makes news headlines and we complain about our high paying jobs.
Circumstances are relevant to worldview and interpretation. I'm trying to filter my shifted and shattered worldview from offending mindsets I'm surrounded by. And not sounding arrogant.
The thing is, I don't know more. I've just seen things. And that changes you. I can't help who I've become, and sometimes I don't like it. I wish I could discuss the Romance Was Born fashion show with excitement and critique like everyone else. And spend a few hundred dollars on a new Mimco bag because, hey, I work hard and I deserve it. (Please note: I still understand the need to purchase Mimco bags and wallets upon occasion.)
So this blog will be homage to the adventure that destroyed me. I don't really care who, if anyone reads it. But if you are, read it knowing this is my opinion and interpretation of the places I have been and things I have seen. And I'll say it how I want, and try to keep the truth as raw as possible.
So this blog will be homage to the adventure that destroyed me. I don't really care who, if anyone reads it. But if you are, read it knowing this is my opinion and interpretation of the places I have been and things I have seen. And I'll say it how I want, and try to keep the truth as raw as possible.
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