Another slice from my newsletter life at ALC...
This was one of the questions asked by one of our council members on my very first evening back in Norway. I found that I couldn’t really answer the question. Not because Ghana hadn’t changed my life. No. But because the changes were so many and so deep that I found it difficult to put into words.
“How has Ghana changed your life?”
The place itself provoked part of the change in me. My body didn’t quite know what do in +45° weather. And, a slightly obsessive internet-checker, I suddenly found myself in a rural area where not only was the town’s single internet connection never quite certain, the power grid wasn’t either. At least once a day the fans would stop and the TV would go blank while the nearest person would proclaim ‘lights out!’ Ghana, itself, forced me to slow down and live those two weeks at a slower pace.
And Ghana continues to force me to question whether I really need to send that email or watch that show.
Then, there are the changes that the Ghanaian culture has brought to me. First and foremost, it is a culture steeped in community and hospitality. It is a culture that welcomed me into their midst and treated me as one of them, not as an outsider. But it is also a culture that challenges me to remember the privilege in which I live as a woman in my own culture. As a young girl I did not have to fight for my basic education. As a High School graduate I did not have to questions whether or not I would be able to attend University. As a wife, in some future day, I will have the right to health and wellness. And if I am widowed, those rights to health and wellness will continue to persist. These are privileges that often do not exist for women in Ghana, and yet they are privileges I often take for granted.
And then there are the people! Oh the people! I think a part of my heart will forever reside with the people in Ghana, even if I never have the opportunity to return. Their faces and stories come to mind when I least expect it, and our relationships draw me ever closer. They taught me so much about what it means to be a disciple of Christ and a member of the body of Christ we call the church. They taught me so much about trust in God. Their petition to God for ‘daily bread’ is anything but metaphorical, and yet, when they raise their voices in prayer it is most often for those who have even less. They stick with me.
Finally, our companion ministries and the call they follow have changed my life. For they are truly ministries that give of themselves, no matter the economic climate. Ministries that follow the God’s call whether that takes them deeper into their culture or fights against their culture. Ministries that reach out to those the world considers useless and damaged. Ministries that truly live out the gospel.
“How has Ghana changed your life?”
‘Without end’ might be the simple answer to the complex question. But I sincerely hope that “How has Ghana changed your life?” isn’t the only question we find ourselves asking. Because there is an equal question that I think we need to remember and ponder:
“How have we, the American Lutheran Congregation, changed the lives of countless Children of God?”
Only after my visit in, with, and amongst our companion ministries have I come to realize that the sheer magnitude of change is beyond our grasp. It may be easy to gravitate to concrete numbers: 56 orphans cared for, 600 students educated, so many books translated. But these numbers only begin to sketch the life-changing picture these ministries bring to Ghana. Because each orphan that is cared for is also taught the worth of all human life to God. Each child that is educated is also taught a commitment to sharing his or her gifts from God. And each book that is translated teaches countless adults to read while it proclaims the Word of God. The ripples continue to spread in ever-widening circles.
“How have we, the American Lutheran Congregation, changed the lives of countless Children of God?”
Sometimes, as one congregation, we may question our ability to bring about the work of God. We are too small to support all of the countless worthy projects, we cry. Should we simply give up, we may well ask. But I hope that our companion ministries relationship in Damongo, Ghana stands tall and proclaims loudly that, as a single congregation, we are invited into dynamic relationship. We are invited into a relationship that builds up faith and tears down boundaries. We are invited into a relationship that has changed, is changing, and continues to change the lives of countless children of God—both in Ghana and in Norway.
Thank you for extending this truly life-changing relationship to me.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
"That's not a mouse!!!"
My fellow PK (Pastor’s Kid) last summer, on a tour of her house, pointed to her computer and proudly proclaimed, “That’s where the PBSkids.org live!” She’s three.
One of the children that I babysit was so excited one day to show me a new story he was writing: “Come on!” he said, and hopped up into the computer chair and opened up his file on the family computer. He was eight at the time.
And me? I don’t remember ever not having a computer. From the tiny Macintosh, to the IBM 286, to the Pentium, and, eventually, through to the Mac on my lap right now, computers are as much a part of my ‘necessities’ as, well, my violin. It’s almost impossible for me to write coherently without a keyboard. And when you say ‘mouse’ my first thought isn’t of the mammalian variety.
Argue with me if you want, but for my generation and younger in the Global North, I don’t think I’m that much of an anomaly. Likely, we don’t remember that ‘first look’ at a computer. Likely, we more often react with frustration to our computers, not awe.
But while I was in Ghana I got to experience that feeling of awe for the first time in a very long time.
Computer education is just beginning to be required by the Ghanaian government. For the first time, there is curriculum being written, and schools are being faced with the need for computer labs, while perhaps a more pressing need may be that of a continuous power supply. And for two of the volunteers right now, the basics of computer education is part of their internship project for their Social Work degrees back in the Netherlands. And I got to be there for the very first ‘first look’!
Sister Fiona and Sir Mike brought with them three of the ‘One Laptop for Every Child’ computers, check them out if you’ve never come across them before here: http://www.laptop.org/en/laptop/index.shtml. Small and durable with both built-in wireless and a built-in handle, they’re designed as learning tools for children in developing countries.
But I digress…
Because the laptop is cool, but the look of awe on the children’s faces blew away any thought of the actual computers. It was four of the oldest children that were invited that first day; four children between the ages of fourteen and eighteen years. And they couldn’t have had more fun!
They began with the ‘Write’ icon, learning how to type lower-case and upper-case letters, numbers and symbols. “Can you type your name?” They thought it was amazing to see their names appear up on the screen!
Then onto the ‘Paint’ icon, which brought back a flood of memories for me. They did amazingly well for having never used a trackpad mouse before. One of the children drew an elephant, one a person, Pastor Abraham even gave ‘Paint’ a try. And the most awe-inspiring ‘change-of-color-with-the-click-of-a-mouse click’ trick.
Then they got to play with the ‘Record’ icon. Possibly their favorite. Why? Well, because the children all love to have their pictures taken. If they know you have a camera their eternal chant will be “Snap me! Snap me!” (the sound the camera makes when the picture is taken). Normally it requires begging, but here, now, they were able to “snap me” all on their own, with their own cameras. Even better than that, they could take videos too!
All in all, it was quite the day of discovery. The only thing the children didn’t want to learn was how to turn off the computers and to put them away. “Can’t we learn just a little bit more, please Sister?” was their plea. “Next week,” was their answer.
My goodness, how they soaked it all in, so eager to learn!
There was only one thing the children really didn’t get: why the trackpad mouse was called a mouse. I think they thought we were joking, as ridiculous as the idea was. They were giggling and laughing as they replied to our most excellent joke:
“That’s not a mouse!!!!”
Peace,
Shoeless
One of the children that I babysit was so excited one day to show me a new story he was writing: “Come on!” he said, and hopped up into the computer chair and opened up his file on the family computer. He was eight at the time.
And me? I don’t remember ever not having a computer. From the tiny Macintosh, to the IBM 286, to the Pentium, and, eventually, through to the Mac on my lap right now, computers are as much a part of my ‘necessities’ as, well, my violin. It’s almost impossible for me to write coherently without a keyboard. And when you say ‘mouse’ my first thought isn’t of the mammalian variety.
Argue with me if you want, but for my generation and younger in the Global North, I don’t think I’m that much of an anomaly. Likely, we don’t remember that ‘first look’ at a computer. Likely, we more often react with frustration to our computers, not awe.
But while I was in Ghana I got to experience that feeling of awe for the first time in a very long time.
Computer education is just beginning to be required by the Ghanaian government. For the first time, there is curriculum being written, and schools are being faced with the need for computer labs, while perhaps a more pressing need may be that of a continuous power supply. And for two of the volunteers right now, the basics of computer education is part of their internship project for their Social Work degrees back in the Netherlands. And I got to be there for the very first ‘first look’!
Sister Fiona and Sir Mike brought with them three of the ‘One Laptop for Every Child’ computers, check them out if you’ve never come across them before here: http://www.laptop.org/en/laptop/index.shtml. Small and durable with both built-in wireless and a built-in handle, they’re designed as learning tools for children in developing countries.
But I digress…
Because the laptop is cool, but the look of awe on the children’s faces blew away any thought of the actual computers. It was four of the oldest children that were invited that first day; four children between the ages of fourteen and eighteen years. And they couldn’t have had more fun!
They began with the ‘Write’ icon, learning how to type lower-case and upper-case letters, numbers and symbols. “Can you type your name?” They thought it was amazing to see their names appear up on the screen!
Then onto the ‘Paint’ icon, which brought back a flood of memories for me. They did amazingly well for having never used a trackpad mouse before. One of the children drew an elephant, one a person, Pastor Abraham even gave ‘Paint’ a try. And the most awe-inspiring ‘change-of-color-with-the-click-of-a-mouse click’ trick.
Then they got to play with the ‘Record’ icon. Possibly their favorite. Why? Well, because the children all love to have their pictures taken. If they know you have a camera their eternal chant will be “Snap me! Snap me!” (the sound the camera makes when the picture is taken). Normally it requires begging, but here, now, they were able to “snap me” all on their own, with their own cameras. Even better than that, they could take videos too!
All in all, it was quite the day of discovery. The only thing the children didn’t want to learn was how to turn off the computers and to put them away. “Can’t we learn just a little bit more, please Sister?” was their plea. “Next week,” was their answer.
My goodness, how they soaked it all in, so eager to learn!
There was only one thing the children really didn’t get: why the trackpad mouse was called a mouse. I think they thought we were joking, as ridiculous as the idea was. They were giggling and laughing as they replied to our most excellent joke:
“That’s not a mouse!!!!”
Peace,
Shoeless
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Technological Quibbles...
Most of the time technology and I get along. We have our quibbles, but se soon make up. Last week we quibbled. You can't see, but I'm actually copying this from a pen and paper copy that I scribbled out in my hotel room in Tamale.
"Internet has been patchy at best duing my adventures in Ghana. In Damongo it was out for the last 10 days. In Tamale last Thursday the first two internet cafes we visited had no internet, and the third kept freezing. And today. Today, at the end of four hours of internet I actually had five LESS blogs than when I began.
The mysterious 'memory card error' of Egypt had struck again. Or, at least, that was one card--with 200 photos, project proposals, and three unposed blogs.
Then there came the extremely frustrating 'unformatted drive' after two hours of re-writing blogs and filling out scholarship applications (but thank goodness I found those 200 photos after I got back to Norway).
Technology and I quibble at the moment."
So, I begin the long task of re-blogging my final week in Ghana. This afternoon is devoted to coffee-shop/reading/blogging time, so hopefully you'll find more blogs by the time most of you in North America wake up.
I wish you all technological peace,
Shoeless
"Internet has been patchy at best duing my adventures in Ghana. In Damongo it was out for the last 10 days. In Tamale last Thursday the first two internet cafes we visited had no internet, and the third kept freezing. And today. Today, at the end of four hours of internet I actually had five LESS blogs than when I began.
The mysterious 'memory card error' of Egypt had struck again. Or, at least, that was one card--with 200 photos, project proposals, and three unposed blogs.
Then there came the extremely frustrating 'unformatted drive' after two hours of re-writing blogs and filling out scholarship applications (but thank goodness I found those 200 photos after I got back to Norway).
Technology and I quibble at the moment."
So, I begin the long task of re-blogging my final week in Ghana. This afternoon is devoted to coffee-shop/reading/blogging time, so hopefully you'll find more blogs by the time most of you in North America wake up.
I wish you all technological peace,
Shoeless
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Fill the Bottle
I was intrigued by an empty coca-cola bottle last Thursday when I first visited the Redemption Children’s Home. It carried importance. That was obvious. When other toys were left in the sand surrounding their dorms, the coca-cola bottle never was. Always carefully set on one of the porches, close to a pillar, it was often accompanied by a a plastic baggie filled with sand and tied into a ball-shape. I had no idea what it was used for, but it was obvious that this glass bottle wasn’t simply waiting to be recycled.
Yesterday I found out just how important this coca-cola bottle was. I was wandering about, greeting the children’s ‘Good Morning Sistah!’ when I heard yelling and screaming coming from the sandy expanse before the main hall. And as I walked around the corner of the building, the plastic-ball-shaped-baggie whizzed near my head, followed swiftly by one of the girls! Trying to stay out of the way, I clambered onto the porch with the littlest children. The girl soon came tearing back, and promptly threw the ball squarely at another girl I had failed to notice. The girl jumped, avoiding the ball with a sixth sense, and as she ran, laughingly, out of the path of the onslaught, I caught sight of the glass coca-cola bottle filled part-way with sand.
Here at last was the answer to my intrigue! A game! And I sat down to watch the play unfold. It wasn’t a difficult game to follow, after watching a couple of rounds, I understood the rules.
Each round started of simply enough. The bottle, emptied of any sand from the previous round, was set in the middle of the expanse, while three children took their places. Two children took up their posts on either end of the ‘field’, while the other took up position near the glass coca-cola bottle. It was that child which carried the ‘baggie-ball’onto the field. When all positions were taken, all children readied, the child in the middle would throw the bottle toward one of the other children and then begin to fill the coca-cola bottle with sand as quickly as possible. All the while, the ‘baggie-ball’would fling through the air with the intent of catching the bottle-filling child unawares, thereby knocking them out. If not, the child at the opposite end would run to gather the ‘baggie-ball’ and try once again to knock their sister or brother from their task. The only exception was this: If the child in the middle caught the ‘baggie-ball’ instead of avoiding it, they gained the right to hurl it as far as they could, in whichever direction they chose. If the child in the middle managed to fill the coca-cola bottle with sand before being pelted by a flying ‘baggie-ball’, they earned the right to dance and scream for joy, filled coca-cola bottle in hand.
A simple enough game, yes, and yet the children never tired of playing, and I never tired of watching. Despite the sweat running down our faces, back, arms, legs... despite even that, ‘fill the bottle’never lost its charm. And I was struck by the vast difference between necessities for ‘play’between our cultures.
What percentage of toys sold in the Global North today require batteries? How many game colsoles are sold each day by competing companies? How many children’s rooms contain either a TV or computer—or both? If none of these, then how many parents scratched their heads in confusion as they attempted to assemble the ‘some assembly required’ toys that made it under the Christmas Trees this past year? Or how many board games do you simply set aside when the instructions become too complex and many?
How would we react to being given a beaten-up glass coca-cola bottle and a plastic-ball-shaped-baggie?
I, personally, am one of those electronics-junkies. I must admit that I’ve missed my laptop each and every day of my trip. The idea of walking almost one mile to log onto a computer that has only 32 MB of RAM and a 56K modem is difficult to take in. The fact that last night I walked that mile only to find that there was no internet at all, was frustrating, to say the least. And even with my laptop left at thome, there still resides in my carry-on backpack: 1 digital camera, 3 camera batteries, 4 SDHC cards, and 1 battery charger; 1 iPod and charger; and 2 cell phones and 2 chargers. Not exactly Ms. Simplicity. But the joyful afternoon I spent avoiding a ‘baggie-ball’ while attempting to fill a glass coca-cola bottle with sand seriously brought to question within me what exactly I consider essential to my happiness...
I knew enough, upon inspection, not to throw away the coca-cola bottle and ‘baggie-ball’ last Thursday. But I never would have imagined just how much fun I would have running and playing in the sand with the children of Redemption Children’s Home yesterday. The rules were simple, the objects common, but the happiness and joy that exuded from the field was unbelievable.
Just how much fun can you have with a plastic-ball-shaped-baggie and a beaten-up coca-cola bottle?
“Fill the Bottle” Instructions
Needed:
1 narrow-necked bottle
1 small, softish ball
3 people (1 bottle-filler; 2 tagger-outers)
Enough sand or dirt to fill the bottle
Objectives:
Bottle-filler: to fill the bottle with the sand/dirt without being hit by the ball
Tagger-outers: to hit the bottle-filler with the ball before the bottle is filled
Exceptions: the bottle-filler may choose to catch the ball. If the bottle-filler is successful in catching the ball, they may throw it as far as they wish in any direction.
Yesterday I found out just how important this coca-cola bottle was. I was wandering about, greeting the children’s ‘Good Morning Sistah!’ when I heard yelling and screaming coming from the sandy expanse before the main hall. And as I walked around the corner of the building, the plastic-ball-shaped-baggie whizzed near my head, followed swiftly by one of the girls! Trying to stay out of the way, I clambered onto the porch with the littlest children. The girl soon came tearing back, and promptly threw the ball squarely at another girl I had failed to notice. The girl jumped, avoiding the ball with a sixth sense, and as she ran, laughingly, out of the path of the onslaught, I caught sight of the glass coca-cola bottle filled part-way with sand.
Here at last was the answer to my intrigue! A game! And I sat down to watch the play unfold. It wasn’t a difficult game to follow, after watching a couple of rounds, I understood the rules.
Each round started of simply enough. The bottle, emptied of any sand from the previous round, was set in the middle of the expanse, while three children took their places. Two children took up their posts on either end of the ‘field’, while the other took up position near the glass coca-cola bottle. It was that child which carried the ‘baggie-ball’onto the field. When all positions were taken, all children readied, the child in the middle would throw the bottle toward one of the other children and then begin to fill the coca-cola bottle with sand as quickly as possible. All the while, the ‘baggie-ball’would fling through the air with the intent of catching the bottle-filling child unawares, thereby knocking them out. If not, the child at the opposite end would run to gather the ‘baggie-ball’ and try once again to knock their sister or brother from their task. The only exception was this: If the child in the middle caught the ‘baggie-ball’ instead of avoiding it, they gained the right to hurl it as far as they could, in whichever direction they chose. If the child in the middle managed to fill the coca-cola bottle with sand before being pelted by a flying ‘baggie-ball’, they earned the right to dance and scream for joy, filled coca-cola bottle in hand.
A simple enough game, yes, and yet the children never tired of playing, and I never tired of watching. Despite the sweat running down our faces, back, arms, legs... despite even that, ‘fill the bottle’never lost its charm. And I was struck by the vast difference between necessities for ‘play’between our cultures.
What percentage of toys sold in the Global North today require batteries? How many game colsoles are sold each day by competing companies? How many children’s rooms contain either a TV or computer—or both? If none of these, then how many parents scratched their heads in confusion as they attempted to assemble the ‘some assembly required’ toys that made it under the Christmas Trees this past year? Or how many board games do you simply set aside when the instructions become too complex and many?
How would we react to being given a beaten-up glass coca-cola bottle and a plastic-ball-shaped-baggie?
I, personally, am one of those electronics-junkies. I must admit that I’ve missed my laptop each and every day of my trip. The idea of walking almost one mile to log onto a computer that has only 32 MB of RAM and a 56K modem is difficult to take in. The fact that last night I walked that mile only to find that there was no internet at all, was frustrating, to say the least. And even with my laptop left at thome, there still resides in my carry-on backpack: 1 digital camera, 3 camera batteries, 4 SDHC cards, and 1 battery charger; 1 iPod and charger; and 2 cell phones and 2 chargers. Not exactly Ms. Simplicity. But the joyful afternoon I spent avoiding a ‘baggie-ball’ while attempting to fill a glass coca-cola bottle with sand seriously brought to question within me what exactly I consider essential to my happiness...
I knew enough, upon inspection, not to throw away the coca-cola bottle and ‘baggie-ball’ last Thursday. But I never would have imagined just how much fun I would have running and playing in the sand with the children of Redemption Children’s Home yesterday. The rules were simple, the objects common, but the happiness and joy that exuded from the field was unbelievable.
Just how much fun can you have with a plastic-ball-shaped-baggie and a beaten-up coca-cola bottle?
“Fill the Bottle” Instructions
Needed:
1 narrow-necked bottle
1 small, softish ball
3 people (1 bottle-filler; 2 tagger-outers)
Enough sand or dirt to fill the bottle
Objectives:
Bottle-filler: to fill the bottle with the sand/dirt without being hit by the ball
Tagger-outers: to hit the bottle-filler with the ball before the bottle is filled
Exceptions: the bottle-filler may choose to catch the ball. If the bottle-filler is successful in catching the ball, they may throw it as far as they wish in any direction.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Market Day in Damongo
I’m trying to catch up before I forget everything, and so I post one more new post today before I head back home.
After the festivities of yesterday, we settled back into the normal ebb and flow of the Damongo week with a trip to the market this morning. First, we caught a ride across town in Abraham’s vehicle, then made the mistake of asking the children, ‘who wants to come to the market with us this morning?’ Hands shot up, feet left the ground, the begging began. Market Day is one of the great excitements of the week.
After narrowing down the field to, ‘who didn’t get to go last week?’, waiting for the children to put on their best clothes, wash their faces, and find their new shoes—already covered in dust—we set out: 4 Cobruni (foreigners), 12 children, and 1 mouse—yes, you read that right, one mouse (pictures later).
It’s a fairly long walk, and the temperature was already well above 30 degrees Celsius. I, for one, was tired even before we arrived. And even before we reached the market it was time for another shock to my system, as one of the children stopped and pointed to a house along the way, saying, ‘hey, sister, that’s your house!’ We looked at the older girl to which she was referring, and she answer, ‘yes, that was where I lived.’ And as soon as she said that, we heard a call from the opposite direction. Over the rise, out of the maze of houses, there approached a woman who, it turned out, was this young girl’s aunt. She asked how her niece was doing, and explained to us that there were simply too many children to take care of, she couldn’t feed or take care of her sister’s children as well. My heart broke.
As we carried on, we pieced together a bit more of the story. The girl’s mother was still alive, but after the death of her father, they had lost everything, as is the custom in Northern Ghana. In order to survive, her mother had needed to take a job a few hours away, and, even working, she was not able to support her children. She brought them to her sister in Damongo, and there this girl had lived for a while, but there wasn’t enough food, and so her aunt, in what I am sure she thought of as the only loving thing she could do, brought her niece to Pastor Abraham. The girl fell silent at the end of her story.
It’s a story I can’t imagine, and yet it is a story that repeats itself time and again with very little variation here. It’s a story that begs for a solution that is more than one children’s home can offer. It’s a story that Pastor Abraham and others hope to be able to change one day, but, at the same time, it’s a story that will not change over night.
It’s a story that is part of our discussions during my time here, discussions that attempt to get at the root—or at least a deeper root—of the problem. Discussions as to how the widows of this area might be empowered and equipped so that their families need not be torn apart, even though their lives have been by the death of their fathers…
But for now, Market Day, because though it may seem as if the world should stop and stand still at the telling of a story such as this, it continues to roll on without much of a bump at all. And it was soon after this that we exited the maze of houses and goats and chickens to find ourselves facing the burst of colors and sights and sounds that is Market Day.
A gathering of grass-covered wooden structures, it seems to set up on a first-come first-serve basis. There were stalls of kente cloth, rice, maize, pineapples, soccer jerseys—Ghana being most prominent—bags ice water carried upon the heads of women, ready to be taken down and sold to you for a mere 5 pesoas, shoes, sandals, chickens, goats, just about everything you could imagine. And bargaining going on as far as the eye could see. We 4 cobruni attracted some attention, but the people of Damongo are so used to seeing the influx of cobruni surrounded by Pastor Abraham’s children that they barely bat an eye. And from out of the woodwork, the children around us soon grasped food or drink or even a Ghana Cedi (dollar), slipped to them by a relative here, a relative there. It was overwhelming and so much fun to be a part of, but the children quickly tired out.
So, after a parcel of water bags had been passed about, we soon turned our feet back toward RCH, and meandered through the maze of houses once again. Market Day, at least for us, was over.
I can’t believe I’m actually caught up! See you soon!
Shoeless
After the festivities of yesterday, we settled back into the normal ebb and flow of the Damongo week with a trip to the market this morning. First, we caught a ride across town in Abraham’s vehicle, then made the mistake of asking the children, ‘who wants to come to the market with us this morning?’ Hands shot up, feet left the ground, the begging began. Market Day is one of the great excitements of the week.
After narrowing down the field to, ‘who didn’t get to go last week?’, waiting for the children to put on their best clothes, wash their faces, and find their new shoes—already covered in dust—we set out: 4 Cobruni (foreigners), 12 children, and 1 mouse—yes, you read that right, one mouse (pictures later).
It’s a fairly long walk, and the temperature was already well above 30 degrees Celsius. I, for one, was tired even before we arrived. And even before we reached the market it was time for another shock to my system, as one of the children stopped and pointed to a house along the way, saying, ‘hey, sister, that’s your house!’ We looked at the older girl to which she was referring, and she answer, ‘yes, that was where I lived.’ And as soon as she said that, we heard a call from the opposite direction. Over the rise, out of the maze of houses, there approached a woman who, it turned out, was this young girl’s aunt. She asked how her niece was doing, and explained to us that there were simply too many children to take care of, she couldn’t feed or take care of her sister’s children as well. My heart broke.
As we carried on, we pieced together a bit more of the story. The girl’s mother was still alive, but after the death of her father, they had lost everything, as is the custom in Northern Ghana. In order to survive, her mother had needed to take a job a few hours away, and, even working, she was not able to support her children. She brought them to her sister in Damongo, and there this girl had lived for a while, but there wasn’t enough food, and so her aunt, in what I am sure she thought of as the only loving thing she could do, brought her niece to Pastor Abraham. The girl fell silent at the end of her story.
It’s a story I can’t imagine, and yet it is a story that repeats itself time and again with very little variation here. It’s a story that begs for a solution that is more than one children’s home can offer. It’s a story that Pastor Abraham and others hope to be able to change one day, but, at the same time, it’s a story that will not change over night.
It’s a story that is part of our discussions during my time here, discussions that attempt to get at the root—or at least a deeper root—of the problem. Discussions as to how the widows of this area might be empowered and equipped so that their families need not be torn apart, even though their lives have been by the death of their fathers…
But for now, Market Day, because though it may seem as if the world should stop and stand still at the telling of a story such as this, it continues to roll on without much of a bump at all. And it was soon after this that we exited the maze of houses and goats and chickens to find ourselves facing the burst of colors and sights and sounds that is Market Day.
A gathering of grass-covered wooden structures, it seems to set up on a first-come first-serve basis. There were stalls of kente cloth, rice, maize, pineapples, soccer jerseys—Ghana being most prominent—bags ice water carried upon the heads of women, ready to be taken down and sold to you for a mere 5 pesoas, shoes, sandals, chickens, goats, just about everything you could imagine. And bargaining going on as far as the eye could see. We 4 cobruni attracted some attention, but the people of Damongo are so used to seeing the influx of cobruni surrounded by Pastor Abraham’s children that they barely bat an eye. And from out of the woodwork, the children around us soon grasped food or drink or even a Ghana Cedi (dollar), slipped to them by a relative here, a relative there. It was overwhelming and so much fun to be a part of, but the children quickly tired out.
So, after a parcel of water bags had been passed about, we soon turned our feet back toward RCH, and meandered through the maze of houses once again. Market Day, at least for us, was over.
I can’t believe I’m actually caught up! See you soon!
Shoeless
Ghanaian Independence Day!
Wow! Well, let’s just say that I picked a good time of year to come in the way of holidays—not so much in the 40+ Celsius heat, but that’s another story.
Yesterday, 6 March 2009, was the Ghana’s 52nd Independence Day, and we all got to be part of the festivities here in Damongo. It’s actually kind of funny, because although I have crossed a continent and traversed almost 60 lateral degrees, the major festivities are quite similar to those of Syttende Mai in Norway (sorry, probably not spelled correctly). In both countries and celebrations the school children play one of the most significant roles. And Thursday was spent getting ready at the Redemption Children’s Home.
There was an air of excitement when we arrived at RCH on Thursday. School uniforms were being washed, new shoes were to be handed out, one of the older boys even heated up an old cast-iron iron in order to press his shirt to perfection. And all through the afternoon children kept disappearing, only to reappear with clean-shaven heads. Even the littlest children knew there was something afoot, and they weren’t about to be left out.
Friday morning dawned with a flurry of activity. We Sister- and Brother-Volunteers dressed in our best and ate a hurried breakfast. By the time we were done Pastor Abraham’s car had arrived with 18 of the children too young to march, most of them dressed in their pink and white gingham school uniforms of the New Life Preparatory Preschool. They were about the cutest thing you have ever seen.
Then it was off to the ‘park’, an open red-dirt field near the center of town where football matches are played. Normally it’s fairly empty, but by the time we got there around 9am it was packed! Along two sides were a crush of Ghanaians, full of excited energy; along the other two sides were rows upon rows upon rows of pristinely-uniformed school children in a blinding array of colors. We found ourselves a spot to crouch, the littlest children up front, and after a brief word from the resident dignitary, the band started to play and the children began to march. First the girls, then the boys, school after school after school. And they marched with such precision; they had been practicing all week! Round the circle to salute the dignitary, then back to their starting places to be released to the crowd. There must have been at least twenty different schools. And all of the public-school children wore their heads clean-shaven, the mystery was solved! But the heat…
Three hours in 40+ Celsius heat is more than most adults can take, let alone children as young as 2 years of age. Long before the children’s older brothers and sisters marched, most of the younger ones had fallen asleep, curled up in the dirt. And yet they were scarcely dirtier than we, and showed it much less. It was windy and dusty, the crowd pushed close, and when I can post pictures later, I will post some of the pictures of my legs simply caked in dirt. But it was amazing simply to be a part of that crowd and that celebration. Everyone was as excited as excited could be, and so proud to catch merely a glimpse of their children—their future—marching.
Peace to you all,
Shoeless
Yesterday, 6 March 2009, was the Ghana’s 52nd Independence Day, and we all got to be part of the festivities here in Damongo. It’s actually kind of funny, because although I have crossed a continent and traversed almost 60 lateral degrees, the major festivities are quite similar to those of Syttende Mai in Norway (sorry, probably not spelled correctly). In both countries and celebrations the school children play one of the most significant roles. And Thursday was spent getting ready at the Redemption Children’s Home.
There was an air of excitement when we arrived at RCH on Thursday. School uniforms were being washed, new shoes were to be handed out, one of the older boys even heated up an old cast-iron iron in order to press his shirt to perfection. And all through the afternoon children kept disappearing, only to reappear with clean-shaven heads. Even the littlest children knew there was something afoot, and they weren’t about to be left out.
Friday morning dawned with a flurry of activity. We Sister- and Brother-Volunteers dressed in our best and ate a hurried breakfast. By the time we were done Pastor Abraham’s car had arrived with 18 of the children too young to march, most of them dressed in their pink and white gingham school uniforms of the New Life Preparatory Preschool. They were about the cutest thing you have ever seen.
Then it was off to the ‘park’, an open red-dirt field near the center of town where football matches are played. Normally it’s fairly empty, but by the time we got there around 9am it was packed! Along two sides were a crush of Ghanaians, full of excited energy; along the other two sides were rows upon rows upon rows of pristinely-uniformed school children in a blinding array of colors. We found ourselves a spot to crouch, the littlest children up front, and after a brief word from the resident dignitary, the band started to play and the children began to march. First the girls, then the boys, school after school after school. And they marched with such precision; they had been practicing all week! Round the circle to salute the dignitary, then back to their starting places to be released to the crowd. There must have been at least twenty different schools. And all of the public-school children wore their heads clean-shaven, the mystery was solved! But the heat…
Three hours in 40+ Celsius heat is more than most adults can take, let alone children as young as 2 years of age. Long before the children’s older brothers and sisters marched, most of the younger ones had fallen asleep, curled up in the dirt. And yet they were scarcely dirtier than we, and showed it much less. It was windy and dusty, the crowd pushed close, and when I can post pictures later, I will post some of the pictures of my legs simply caked in dirt. But it was amazing simply to be a part of that crowd and that celebration. Everyone was as excited as excited could be, and so proud to catch merely a glimpse of their children—their future—marching.
Peace to you all,
Shoeless
Friday, March 6, 2009
"Sistah, you look like my Barbie!"
I spent my first day at the Redemption Children’s Home (RCH) yesterday—one of the groups of people and projects that my congregation, the American Lutheran Congregation in Oslo, Norway (ALC) walks in companion relationship with, and a Level II Giving Opportunity through the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America’s Global Mission office. I have been looking forward to meeting the children of RCH since I had the blessing of meeting Pastor Abraham—their ‘Daddy’—last fall when he visited ALC to share with us and teach us. I’ll write more about the specifics of RCH later, but for now, just one quick story…
As I said before, I spent my first day with the children at Redemption Children’s Home yesterday. A hot, hot, hot day, beads of sweat ran down my face even while standing still in the shade, and yet the children ran and played, colored pictures and played football, ran to their ‘sisters and brothers’, my fellow volunteers Sisters Marije and Fiona and Sir Mike, and welcomed their new ‘Sister Elly’ with open arms. They truly are amazing children!
And although I spent most of that hot, hot, hot day smiling and laughing, one moment will stand out for a long time. It was mid-afternoon and one of the girls was playing with her hand-me-down Barbie doll. I wasn’t paying that much attention, until she suddenly stood before me and proclaimed, ‘Sistah, you look like my Barbie!’
I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to Barbie in my life. But, there she was, in front of me, tugging on Barbie’s hair with one hand and pulling me down onto her level with the other. She put Barbie’s hair next to mine and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ She put Barbie’s and my hands together and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ The same with Barbie’s legs, Barbie’s back, Barbie’s face… Then she pulled me even closer, her face within inches of mine, her eyes staring into mine, searching them, her face lit up and she laughed, pointing to Barbie’s eyes—‘See Sistah? Same!’
I’m still not quite sure how I feel about being a Barbie, and I’m still struggling with the fact that the only doll they have to play with is a white plastic Barbie doll… Maybe, instead of comparing myself to Barbie, I should have shown her how we, too, are the same. I’m not sure she would have believed me. I’m not sure, seeing the stark disparity between the two of us, I would have believed me either. I love the idea of ‘accompaniment’, but the actual walking alongside, that I still struggle to figure out for myself.
But, you know what? She really got a kick out of ‘Big Barbie’ and ‘Little Barbie.’ She was so proud of her discovery that she insisted that I take a picture of Barbie and her. I really tried to upload it here, but the computer just wouldn't let me. I'll post it later.
More stories later too, I promise!
The Shoeless Seminarian in Ghana
As I said before, I spent my first day with the children at Redemption Children’s Home yesterday. A hot, hot, hot day, beads of sweat ran down my face even while standing still in the shade, and yet the children ran and played, colored pictures and played football, ran to their ‘sisters and brothers’, my fellow volunteers Sisters Marije and Fiona and Sir Mike, and welcomed their new ‘Sister Elly’ with open arms. They truly are amazing children!
And although I spent most of that hot, hot, hot day smiling and laughing, one moment will stand out for a long time. It was mid-afternoon and one of the girls was playing with her hand-me-down Barbie doll. I wasn’t paying that much attention, until she suddenly stood before me and proclaimed, ‘Sistah, you look like my Barbie!’
I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to Barbie in my life. But, there she was, in front of me, tugging on Barbie’s hair with one hand and pulling me down onto her level with the other. She put Barbie’s hair next to mine and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ She put Barbie’s and my hands together and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ The same with Barbie’s legs, Barbie’s back, Barbie’s face… Then she pulled me even closer, her face within inches of mine, her eyes staring into mine, searching them, her face lit up and she laughed, pointing to Barbie’s eyes—‘See Sistah? Same!’
I’m still not quite sure how I feel about being a Barbie, and I’m still struggling with the fact that the only doll they have to play with is a white plastic Barbie doll… Maybe, instead of comparing myself to Barbie, I should have shown her how we, too, are the same. I’m not sure she would have believed me. I’m not sure, seeing the stark disparity between the two of us, I would have believed me either. I love the idea of ‘accompaniment’, but the actual walking alongside, that I still struggle to figure out for myself.
But, you know what? She really got a kick out of ‘Big Barbie’ and ‘Little Barbie.’ She was so proud of her discovery that she insisted that I take a picture of Barbie and her. I really tried to upload it here, but the computer just wouldn't let me. I'll post it later.
More stories later too, I promise!
The Shoeless Seminarian in Ghana
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