And in the end...
I've never been afraid of goodbyes. But I sure don't like endings. Goodbyes are necessary, cathartic and we'd regret it if we didn't acknowledge the worth of whatever it is we are bidding farewell. But, an actual ending, reaching the finality of a time or an era in my life, is just something I'd rather not face. So maybe that is why I have yet to close this story of mine, the Somewhere Near Mbale tale, for almost a month.
Where did I leave off? Oh, yes, the tireless and stressful last weeks in Uganda. When it was all said and done I was thrilled with the progress Maama Suubi made: we finally built the energy-saving oven, received extra grant money to complete it, the Bungokho ladies completed basic bakery training, and it culminated in a beautiful Ugandan celebration of their work and a send-off for me. Looking back the celebration was a blur of carrot cake, gomesis (traditional dresses), baby spit up, 30 kilos of beef (which I saw getting hacked from the poor dead thing for our party), live performance, tears, bad Lumasaba to English translations, desperate and endearing goodbyes to the women who (while most of them are older than me) call me Mama.
Saying goodbye to all of our friends was of course, bittersweet. Tears flowed, last-minute money solicitations came out and arms held each other knowing how likely it is that we may not meet again, at least for a long time. Somewhere in those weeks Will could have died of malaria. (He lived! Good thing.) You may say it was an emotional time for us.
Now that I'm home and coddled firmly in the too-comfortable life Americans enjoy, I'm ambivalent about everything. It is hard not to appreciate (and loathe a little less) our ridiculous and frivolous lifestyle again-but I have tremendous guilt for being able to live it. I feel lucky to be safe and warm and hopeful about the future (rare luxuries in a lot of the world), but resentful about the unequal distribution of the opportunity. I'm inspired by the absolute drive for life to go on in a place like Uganda. People whose lives are ravaged by poverty, AIDS and gender inequality (to name a few) get up every morning to collect water and firewood and still smile at the wonderment in their children's eyes as they splash in the well. Little dramas of everyday life in the West are dwarfed by such pictures, now fired, in my mind. And while I am profoundly frustrated with international "development," I'm unprepared to devise a real viable alternative for global social justice. At least yet. Each parcel of truth I've found opens up one hundred new questions or doubts. But the real life experiences I've had, the people I know, keep me moving forward in a soup of uncertainties and cynicism.
While I'm settling back into American life, whatever that means, it is those people I've met that ground me, haunt me, remind me of what I'm really doing here and why I went to Africa at all. I'm flooded with faces I've seen and known all the time. Faces so far away. Dark, beautiful faces. Young, soiled, smiling faces. Cold, dead ones. Proud and hopeful faces. Sad, longing faces. The faces of the people who saw me (really, me?) as their last hope. The faces of those that challenged all of my faith, hopes and sensibilities. Those who broke me down just to build me up. The faces of the people who took me to their homes to hold their children, taste their food and gently touch their lives. I want their names to be known, their stories to be told. From them I feel like I was let in on a secret - shh, come here. This is what it's all about. This is the human story. Let the people call it out. Now, I could have realized this anywhere I suppose, but the urgent and visceral way of life in Africa jettisoned me to it. So everyday as I learn more of it I cannot ignore my secret, and those faces won't let me.
I just have to figure out a way to tell that secret. A way to speak their names and talk of their stories, to yell them out, or maybe just whisper them. To everyone, in everything I do, always.
***Thank you to everyone who followed my blog. I enjoyed letting you in to my experience. Stay tuned to see where I end up.
Where did I leave off? Oh, yes, the tireless and stressful last weeks in Uganda. When it was all said and done I was thrilled with the progress Maama Suubi made: we finally built the energy-saving oven, received extra grant money to complete it, the Bungokho ladies completed basic bakery training, and it culminated in a beautiful Ugandan celebration of their work and a send-off for me. Looking back the celebration was a blur of carrot cake, gomesis (traditional dresses), baby spit up, 30 kilos of beef (which I saw getting hacked from the poor dead thing for our party), live performance, tears, bad Lumasaba to English translations, desperate and endearing goodbyes to the women who (while most of them are older than me) call me Mama.
Saying goodbye to all of our friends was of course, bittersweet. Tears flowed, last-minute money solicitations came out and arms held each other knowing how likely it is that we may not meet again, at least for a long time. Somewhere in those weeks Will could have died of malaria. (He lived! Good thing.) You may say it was an emotional time for us.
Now that I'm home and coddled firmly in the too-comfortable life Americans enjoy, I'm ambivalent about everything. It is hard not to appreciate (and loathe a little less) our ridiculous and frivolous lifestyle again-but I have tremendous guilt for being able to live it. I feel lucky to be safe and warm and hopeful about the future (rare luxuries in a lot of the world), but resentful about the unequal distribution of the opportunity. I'm inspired by the absolute drive for life to go on in a place like Uganda. People whose lives are ravaged by poverty, AIDS and gender inequality (to name a few) get up every morning to collect water and firewood and still smile at the wonderment in their children's eyes as they splash in the well. Little dramas of everyday life in the West are dwarfed by such pictures, now fired, in my mind. And while I am profoundly frustrated with international "development," I'm unprepared to devise a real viable alternative for global social justice. At least yet. Each parcel of truth I've found opens up one hundred new questions or doubts. But the real life experiences I've had, the people I know, keep me moving forward in a soup of uncertainties and cynicism.
While I'm settling back into American life, whatever that means, it is those people I've met that ground me, haunt me, remind me of what I'm really doing here and why I went to Africa at all. I'm flooded with faces I've seen and known all the time. Faces so far away. Dark, beautiful faces. Young, soiled, smiling faces. Cold, dead ones. Proud and hopeful faces. Sad, longing faces. The faces of the people who saw me (really, me?) as their last hope. The faces of those that challenged all of my faith, hopes and sensibilities. Those who broke me down just to build me up. The faces of the people who took me to their homes to hold their children, taste their food and gently touch their lives. I want their names to be known, their stories to be told. From them I feel like I was let in on a secret - shh, come here. This is what it's all about. This is the human story. Let the people call it out. Now, I could have realized this anywhere I suppose, but the urgent and visceral way of life in Africa jettisoned me to it. So everyday as I learn more of it I cannot ignore my secret, and those faces won't let me.
I just have to figure out a way to tell that secret. A way to speak their names and talk of their stories, to yell them out, or maybe just whisper them. To everyone, in everything I do, always.
***Thank you to everyone who followed my blog. I enjoyed letting you in to my experience. Stay tuned to see where I end up.
posted by Sarah at 9:43 PM
2 Comments:
i truly enjoyed your last blog... i checked it almost everyday waiting and hoping for one last entry. i wondered how you would close this amazing experience and i think you did it quite well! im so happy to have you back! and soon enough we will be on the east coast living that dream!! love you so much!
mwah!
erin marie
Hey Sarah~ I've checked a few times wondering when you were going to put some sort of closure on 'our' trip.
You're already telling the secret. Every time you write, every time you tell a story. It may not feel like it because the impact you have is on an individual basis. You will eventually get to the masses. Just don't stop. I have a feeling your work in NY will have a similar (although on a much different scale)impact on you and on the people you'll be working with.
So, your door to Africa is closed for the moment, but it isn't locked. Look back as often as you like. Draw from it. Continue to learn from it. And, notice the million doors in front of you just waiting to be opened.
"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make...."
You go girl.
AJ
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