How I stayed awake in Heathrow International...

I wanted to stay awake while we had a nine-hour layover in Heathrow International. Jenna and I decided to see who could write the best poem about how much Heathrow sucks (we went through there 3 times and NONE of them were good experiences). In any case, I decided to occupy my time in Heathrow by doing a film version of my poem. Please keep in mind this was done at about 3 in the morning.

Getting ready to come home.

It’s almost time to come home now, and our first blog made some pretty lofty statements about trying to find a more genuine version of how to live. Our goal was to find that more genuine way by living in community in Africa. What we’ve discovered is a lot of humility and the realization that I cannot fix the problem of poverty—not that Jenna or I had the intent of “fixing” anything, but that was a major discovery just the same. So did we achieve our goal? Have we thrashed away the husk of a more distorted version of Jenna or a less sparkly version of Bryan? Have we achieved some magical evolution of soul to make life better?

Yes and no.

Our perspective on the world has most definitely developed since we left Sioux Falls, and we have conclusively decided that it is larger and more intense than we might have ever imagined. As for us individually, I think there needs to be a lot of reflection and time for it to really sink in: Bryan is no more sparkly than when he left (although Jenna has developed a glow we’re a little concerned about) and there have been no mystical moments of enlightenment, BUT the aim of this trip was never to force God to climb down from heaven and give us a seminar on how to “live it up” or buff away our scars. What has been the best part of this trip is getting to see the day to day lives of these people living in Katatura. Seeing not just the scars of a group of people, but how they exist. (I know it shouldn’t be shocking, but it was still surprising to go through the tin-shack village and see daily life carrying on.)

What has been the greatest part about this trip is getting to know the PEOPLE behind those scars, instead of just naming them “boy in squatter camp,” or “AIDS orphan who lives in fear and abuse.” Life goes on, despite what I might see as outrageous circumstances. What has been the hardest lesson of this trip is to learn that there is no balm to heal those scars that I can offer. We could come in and help out in the tutoring room, teach them lessons about math or history or even literature, and live with them for a time in unconditional love… but those scars will still be there.

Maybe another student’s story can better illustrate how you’d want to just “fix” the problem: Paul was one of the fist kids that really stuck to Jenna even the first day we were there. He loves soccer and he’s talented, especially for a bean-pole third grader who could be blown over by a mighty wind. His snaggle-toothed smile is a permanent fixture on his face. It’s like no trouble is weighing him down when he’s in that haggard, dusty play space where Community Hope takes their break.

We really loved playing soccer with him that first day, and he would be in his own little Paul-world when he was juggling that soccer ball, and then kick it back like a dog who spits out the ball with electric expectation that you’ll throw the ball again. The second day we were observing classes and didn’t get out to break-time. Paul caught us after school and asked us why we weren’t there to play soccer with him, which is a really easy question to answer, but impossible to justify to the snaggle-tooth bean-pole who really only needs someone to kick a ball around to set him back into his own little Paul-world. Day three, Jenna and I reminded each other that we need to go out for break because Paul will be waiting, and sure enough he was waiting for us with a half-inflated, totally tarnished soccer ball (if he had a tail, it would be wildly thrashing in anticipation).

Before we left for home on that third day, Paul ran up to us in the school hall with a card addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Aukermans saying he likes playing soccer and that he loves us. How can you do anything to respond to that but make for certain you can keep kicking around the tarnished, half-inflated soccer ball? At the end of the week, Suzanne was driving us home and asked how the first week had been and we bring up Paul.

Suzanne helped us better understand what life is like for Paul at home. Paul has a couple younger siblings and lived at home with his mom who was a severe alcoholic and consequently a negligent mother. Paul’s grandmother was an active part of her grandkids kids’ life with the encouragement of the school, Paul and his siblings lived with grandma for a while, but Paul’s love for his mom made it very difficult to keep them separated. According to Suzanne, Paul sees his mom as the salt of the earth and no matter how abusively neglectful she is, he still loves her. No matter how much she drinks and becomes a different person, he loves her. How do you explain to a third-grader he deserves better than his abusive, alcoholic mother?

That’s what I mean by we can teach these kids, we can love these kids, but we cannot be Paul’s mom—that is a scar that simply cannot be taken away—more importantly, it is one aspect of Paul’s life, and not his entire existence. Could I steal Paul away and take him in as my own and in that sense be Paul’s parent and play soccer with him until I only have nothing but nubs for feet? Yes. But can I fill that space that his mom occupies in the scars he has? No. Paul’s got a lot more heart than I do in that unconditional love for his mother and I think he’ll do a lot to bring his mom back to earth from wherever she is right now, today, but that’s one situation of the 89 kids at Community Hope that don’t need a foreign, unfamiliar, American face to swoop in and save the day. I’ve had a hard time coming to that conclusion, and I’m still not sure I’m comfortable with it or agree with it, but it’s one thing I feel more strongly about than I could have before I was there. Another school story might illustrate this better than I can put into words.

Theodore reminded me (Bryan) a lot of myself, a younger African version. Quick to make a joke out of whatever is going on, kind of lippy, and really had a hard time spelling. He was in tutoring every day because the sounds of words just did not make sense in how they were spelled, and it was clearly frustrating him. Because he was getting testy and bored, and he really just doesn’t care about spelling, he preferred to give his teacher a hard time.

“Say ancient, Theodore.” His teacher would try to coach him.
“Aunkshint, Teodoor.” He would respond, with a smirk that you can’t help but laugh about, even though, as a teacher, you know you shouldn’t.
“No no no, you’re not paying attention to the vowels, that’s why you’re having a hard time spelling. Now listen to the vowel sounds.” His tutoring instructor, David, is patient with him. “Ang-cee-ent.”
“Aunk-shee-eent” He truly was trying now. Theodore and David have a strong relationship, and when David wants him to get to it, Theodore wants to try to please David.
“No, you’re saying ‘eent’ not ‘ent.’ It’s with an ‘E’ not a double ‘E’.” Now David was getting frustrated. This was clearly a discussion they’d had before.
“No, I say eent, we say eent. You say it like America says it.” It just got real.
“Theodore, I’m trying to help you spell, and if you say it like you say it, you’ll keep spelling it wrong.” David handled at situation well, but even I could tell that David understood the weight of this little discussion.
“Why do I need to be like you, and speak like an American?”

As you read in Chris’s story, there’s a lot of shame in Damara culture and one nuance of Windhoek culture is “White is best, coloured is good, and black is… in Katatura.” With this in mind, Theodore’s question went deeper than a simple spelling lesson: Are we teaching these kids to speak with an American accent or are we taking away their Namibian accent? Yes, it really will help with some spelling issues… but the test that these kids take before they can get a Namibian certificate of graduation will be from a tape that has a heavy British English accent, which is familiar to neither Namblish (Namibian English) or American English ears. Speaking with American accents will bring a lot of ethnic baggage for these kids and brings them into a culture war that is currently being waged in Namibia.

So, is there absolutely no hope and only hardship that can come from outsider influence? Certainly not. Dave, Sandy, Adam, Sarah, and Maria love those kids in an amazing way that the students see every day, and it's clear that God has a plan for them there. But speaking for Jenna and I, we can only help the kids to an extent because those scars they have do not belong to us. We cannot share in the scars, we can only listen and love when it comes to that part of their lives. Those scars belong to a culture which is not ours.

As an outsider, it’s so easy to only see the hardships and differences, but the best thing that we can do is find the strengths of their own culture—namely their art and their extremely tightly knit social structure—and utilize that IN teaching them how to escape that cycle of poverty. The culture is not evil, the culture is actually quite beautiful in many aspects, but there is a very real danger of siphoning off that Namibian culture.

Theodore needs an educated Namibian role model to remove that hurdle of, “You are just a white person trying to change me.” That is a real feeling amongst many of the students (now, do keep in mind that this feeling is from angsty 5th and 6th graders who are just developmentally at a stage where SOMETHING has to be wrong with the people in authority). These kids need to visually see and emotionally be invested in positive role models who are living representatives of a healthy, educated Namibian with dignity otherwise the education is a foreign concept from a foreign person.

For this reason, Jenna and I are more wary of how we can best affect Community Hope. As much fun as it was fun to be Mr. and Mrs. Aukermans in Africa for a while, we feel like the greatest contribution we can make is to be sure that teachers like the Bandas and Mr. Gumbo can make it to school every day and have the resources they need to continue to be the face of a positive Namibian (or surrounding countries') culture. Those teachers will be the anchor that the kids can rely on, and they can be the bridge of information for them that I could never fill.

Jenna has brought up, a number of times, how funny it is that we were really ready to uproot and move to Namibia if it felt like that’s where we needed to be, and BOTH of us really feel like we could make a more lasting impact by being a support back in the states. We’re not confused or unsure about this decision, but it has taken us a few days to let that decision settle. It’s easy to feel like you’re running away from such a great opportunity. We’re looking forward to how we can continue to share these kids’ stories back at home, and how we can re-enter our community back at in Sioux Falls.

We’ll be home in two days, and can’t wait to land and be back! See you all very soon.

Chris has a rough day

Chris is a student that I got to work with a lot in the fourth grade. He has a unique home-life in that he has a father at home. When we were at the school, Chris had a number of very out-of-character outbursts of anger. David is one of his teachers and after Chris and another kid got into a physical scuffle (as much as 4th graders can scuffle), David asked if everything was going OK at home. Chris was just silent after David asked if things were OK at home. Then he started breathing heavily and started mumbling through tears and then talking faster and faster until David couldn’t understand him any more. What David could make out of Chris’s mumbling was that Chris’s dad tried to kill himself and Chris found his dad. One aspect of Namibian culture that is very hard is that it is a shame-based system. Failure is something that is to be avoided at all costs because the weak are pointed out at every opportunity.
In public school, there are tests throughout a student’s education: 4th grade, 8th grade, 10th grade, and 12th grade. Passing means you advance on to the next level but failure means that you failed school, permanently. There is no retaking the test, there is no starting over from the beginning. You’re simply a failure and will either work at a gas-pump for the rest of your life or simply be one of the 50% of black Namibians that is unemployed. Even if they find jobs, it’s usually at a low-level position. Regardless of how well they do at that position there are still demeaning signs at cash registers warning customers to “Demand a receipt and count your change.” Even the way people treat gas-pump attendants or grocery-store workers is as though they were ordering a dumb animal, rather than a capable human being. The underlying message is that this person is lesser than me and deserves no dignity. This is just a daily reality.
I didn’t ever hear why Chris’s dad tried to take his life, but Chris had a lot on his mind that day at school. How does a 4th grader think of their dad when he’s just given up on his family? How does a 4th grader see the world when a parent, their safety, just failed to kill himself? How does Chris feel about himself when his dad just quite on him?

One of the things I've heard people say really bothered me, and I couldn't quite get past it; they tried to tell me, “These people don’t value life here.” By "these people" they meant the black tribes. I think that’s a load of crap. I think “these people” are no less human than anybody else who has a father or mother or person that they care about. What’s different is that life is so much more transient. Life is less reliable. Can you imagine the cloud of depression that would smother this culture of people who have at least a 30% rate of HIV/ AIDS (not to mention the Meningitis epidemic that swept through Katatura while we were there or the Polio outbreak in Katatura the year before or the countless other diseases that plague people who are not educated on simple sanitation)? We have the luxury of not facing death at every illness, not having a steady rotation of neighbors because of this epidemic or that neighbor being raped and killed. We have the luxury of mourning. Can you imagine the inescapable shroud that death would cast on “these people” if they were forced to cope with death in the way that you and I do? So do “these people not value life?” Hell no. Chris was learning to deal with one of the darker aspects of death in the 4th grade, and that will give him a very different perspective on life, but that doesn’t mean he values it any less than you and I.
Living in poverty has a lot more weight to it than I could understand before I worked with Chris. It’s not just hunger, it’s not just shame, and it’s not as simple as putting the value of life at a higher or lower premium. Chris has a lot on his plate, so I’m just glad that he has a little more stability than the kids who don’t have a reliable adult, even if it’s only in the form of his teachers at school and that that school gives him a lot of positive support. Chris is very lucky to have a teacher like David who will let him be a kid and cry.

Jerry's story

As with anybody’s story, you need to understand the context in which a person is growing up. For most of these kids, they are born into the Damara tribe. In northern Namibia there are the traditional village styles and norms of this cultures living. In Windhoek, this was the case until the whites moved in. After a while of living in relative proximity to the Damara and other black tribes in the area, the whites relocated the various tribes into one large squatter-camp called Katatura. So to see it the way that these kids from Community Hope see it, when you look at the sea of tin shacks in these pictures, consider this living style less like urban poverty and more like an upgrade from the wood huts that their extended family might have up north along the Angola boarder. Damara culture is matriarchal. Not in the sense that the woman is the head of the house, rather, when a woman becomes pregnant it is most typical that the father does not stick around. So when this happens, it’s more like the woman IS the house. That being said, most kids at community hope don’t really have a father figure. Most kids in Katatura don’t really have a father figure.

Alright, so with that in mind, here’s the snapshot of the life of one of the students: Jerry (Jerry wasn’t at school every day while we were there, at least not on either day that we took the camera to Community Hope). Jerry is one of the oldest kids at Community Hope, and has been at the school since day 1. He is 15 and in the sixth grade. It’s not that he was ever held back or mentally delayed in any way, it’s just that when Community Hope began and offered him the opportunity of an education, he was a little older than the other 1st graders. Like I said, he doesn’t come to school every day and that’s because he doesn’t exactly have a supportive home life.

Jerry’s mom died of AIDS a while back, at least before Jerry started school at Community Hope. Because Jerry is like most kids in the area, and had no father to look to after Mom died, Jerry was now in the care of his older sister (we never met her). Like most kids in Katatura, Jerry’s older sister had not gotten an education nor had any means of learning any job skills but now had to car for Jerry and herself. Most girls in this situation turn to prostitution. Because of this, sence Jerry was a very young boy, he grew up in a brothel. Once Jerry was offered a place at Community Hope, there was a new possibility for this micro-family to get a grasp on day-to-day needs (if Jerry can get an education enough to get a job, maybe Sister doesn’t have to belong to a brothel… maybe there are options… maybe there are even options for Sister… you get the idea of an upward spiral of Hope). Jerry’s sister eventually asked if there were any classes she could take to work her way out of the situation she was in. It wouldn’t make sense to enroll her in elementary classes, but she was able to join with a group of women who currently work with another Y.W.A.M. organization (called Beautiful Kids) making some articles of clothing. It’s not enough to take care of all of their needs, but it does earn her enough so that she and Jerry could move out of the brothel.
Currently Jerry is in 6th grade, which is the oldest class of kids at Community Hope. Next year, the school will rent the last room available at the school’s current location. After that, they will need a new location for the school to spill into. Jerry’s a smart kid and is one of the more outspoken people at the school, which would only be expected of a person his age. He towers above the rest of the students at Community Hope (and even a few of the teachers) and really is a leader that the rest of the kids look to.

In Doolin. Cliffs of Moher are unreal. Beanz is better.

We've gotten a chance to rest up and take it easy for a day in Doolin. Evidently Guinness is good for a bad sore throught. With that in mind, last night we went to a pub for dinner and had Guinness and a stew that was a Guinness-beef-broth base, potatoes, and more beef. We're both feeling pretty good at this point. The scenery is increadible, and the B&B that Jenna found for us is a gem. These guys that run it are the real-deal when it comes to cooking, so breakfast was looking out on Shire-like farms of cobblestone fences with horses or sheep or cows, a surreal drizzle which has sun peeking under a thin layer of clouds, and that kind of food that just makes you giggle after you take a bite. Not too shabby.
All that being said, there is one thing that trumps it all. His name is Beanz.

He is a golden retreiver. He is one of my favorite animals. When we drove up to the B&B, I opened my cardoor and kicked my foot over the car door only to discover a very friendly snout poking almost in the car to say hello. That was Beanz. He ushered us into his house to check in. When we woke up this morning, Beans was laying in front of our door. He didn't move as we crept around him to go down for breakfast, but beat his tail on the ground to let us know he was glad we woke up and now needed to be pet. We abliged him, and so he followed us down stairs. When we got back from breakfast, he was again waiting at our door and again too tired to stir, except for his tail and very expressive eyebrows. After we gave Beanz a scratch, we opened our door and he snapped up with surprising speed and pranced into our room. Beans is one of our favorite animals in the world. We love you Beanz!

We're in Ireland!

We are officially in Ireland but we are both feeling a little under the weather. It's nothing serious, just some sore throat and fatigue sort of symptoms (Bryan thinks it's pretty much from little sleept+ lots of work+ foreign bacteria+ foreign climate= really tuckered out). Now that we're in Ireland, there is actually some humidity and comfort and plenty of Guiness. We landed today in London and it took more than an hour and a half to pass through customs and security but suprisingly we made our flight to Dublin. With all that said, please accept a few pictures in leu of a more detailed post, and tomorrow we'll get more written.

More classroom fun

Over the weekend the teacher that Bryan had been subbing for finally was able to pass through Zambia to get into Namibia. Ray is really a funny guy and it’s plain to tell that the kids really respect him, so it’s very good to have him back in the school community. The teachers still wanted a chance to see how to teach literature classes, so I (Bryan) continued to cover Pinocchio and The Apple and the Arrow (and no, I never shot and students… though Jenna did have to talk me out of trying to throw knives at them).
This Sunday (the 26th) is our sponsor child’s birthday, so we got to celebrate with the school yesterday.
Balbina is our sponsor child’s name, and when Jenna asked what she wanted for a birthday present she confidently said, “A horse!” I then asked her if it would be alright if we got her a unicorn instead. She had never heard of a unicorn. Jenna then proceeded to find a horse in a coloring book and spent copious hours making it beautiful. This horse happened to be in a coloring book detailing how the Vikings lived… so we ended up with a beautifully colored horse with a fierce Viking riding atop it (the Viking was left black and white to deemphasize him). I then took the drawing and put in a rainbow colored horn out of the horse’s forehead.
It was really fun teaching the Apple and the Arrow though. As we came into the school to start out the whole trip, the fifth and sixth grades are notorious for their bad behavior and poor performance. After about five minutes in the classroom with them, it was apparent that this was not just a rumor, but also painstakingly clear that these kids were just being age-appropriate and testing boundaries that they’d grown up with. What was fun about teaching the Apple and the Arrow with them was that they really were given a chance to act their age and read about a guy that pushed away bad authority. One kid, Alberto, was just a terror the first few days with the 5th/6th graders and really made the whole class get off track. Another was Theodore, who simply could not go five minutes without cracking some sort of joke (and usually a pretty good one, so it was hard not to give him positive feedback from it). Sharon was like the boss of them all, commanding attention at any time she deemed necessary. But the thing is, these kids just needed and outlet to move, talk, and lead the class. They took charge of discussions, if the questions were important to them, so when the book provides fodder to ask, “When is it OK to go against authority” they jumped at the chance to talk. Sharon could really sink her teeth into that, and Alberto would actually smile at me and give appropriate feedback (even do the stereotypical grunting and whining with his hand wriggling in the air like it might fall off to answer a question). And Theodore could joke about the characters in the book and provide some really good insight about why the characters could not agree. These kids are really bright, and I think they could provide some hope to the community around them to recognize how the city of Windhoek is really oppressive.
Again, we’ll talk to the Hunters today and see if we can provide a little more insight into who these kids are outside of class, so the next time we blog will be in Ireland and hopefully we can share a little about what life is like at home for these kids.

Another week in Africa

Bryan’s update on teaching elementary school:
After one week of teaching math and literature for 4th, 5th, and 6th graders, my students and I can report the following things:
1. Parallel lines will never touch, therefore they will never go out on a date.
2. Based off of #1, guys will now be turned down by girls in the following way “There’s NO WAY we could ever go out, we’re like parallel lines.”
3. Parallelograms are a group of complete and total losers.

Unfortunately, on the test at the end of the week over new geometry terms, more than one student wrote that the name for lines that intersect are “those lines that don’t go out.”… Oh well, at least they get the idea?

Also in the misadventures of Mr. Aukerman’s classes, the 5th and 6th graders started a book called “The Apple and the Arrow.” In this book the protagonist stands up against evil tyrants in the 1300’s who charge excessive taxes and demand people work for them as slaves. The symbolism of this frivolous oppression is that the subjects had to bow down to the ruler’s hat. In order to help kids understand symbolism in this sense, I had them start out class saying the pledge of allegiance, only they pledged allegiance to my right shoe. It started out, “I pledge allegiance to Mr. Aukerman’s shoe, which was on his right foot and smells awesome. And to the classroom for which he rules…” etc. They all got a kick out of it until I told them that to show their true allegiance, they would all now smell my shoe. I only made one student actually smell it, but the rest got the idea after seeing that kids face. They then understood how pledging to a shoe or bowing to a hat would make a person feel mighty small.
One last thing, then I’ll give the computer over to Jenna: because the book is about William Tell (the guy who shot an apple off of his son’s head) I brought in an apple, and an arrow. I asked for a volunteer to come to the front of the class. One good thing about elementary schoolers is that nobody is “too cool” yet (at least most people), so EVERYBODY’s hand shot up. I picked one of the kids who is usually a pretty big loudmouth, and had him come up to the front of the room as I handed him the apple and arrow. He smiled and asked what he was supposed to do with them. I told him to feel the tip of the arrow (this was one of John Hunter’s big-game arrows), and he looked a little nervous holding onto it when he realized we weren’t kidding around with the arrow. I then told him to go around the classroom and let the rest of the student verify that this was really an honest-to-god arrow, and I’d be right back (Jenna was in there to make sure nobody was impaled by the arrow). When I returned, I had John’s large compound-bow with me. My volunteer went about two shades paler than he was before and the rest of the class erupted into Oo’s and Ah’s. Once they all quieted down, my volunteer then had to go to the front of the class and put the apple on top of his head, as I walked to the back of the room and I notched the arrow, over exaggerating how heavy the bow was.

As I put the student in the bow’s sights, the volunteer asked in a very high-pitched voice, “Have you done this before Mr. Aukermans?”
“Mr. Hunter taught me how to do this last night.” I stuttered back, very unassuringly.
At this point, the class was teeming with laughter. Then, hand still on the arrow and student still in the front, I had them turn to the page in their book where there was an illustration of William Tell aiming his cross-bow at his son. Once they looked this up, I let the student take the apple from his head and sit back down—much to dismay of every other student in the class. My volunteer, however, may or may not have wet his pants a little.
In any case, I think it’s safe to say that this week has been a new experience for both myself (as a high school teacher trying to teach elementary ages), as well as for the kids (I don’t think they had been physically threatened by pain of death AND pledged allegiance to footwear in class before). This blog has been more about the activities that have take place, but I’d like to write more about some students individually. Before I take the liberty to do that, I’m going to ask the Hunters if they’re OK with me commenting on their students. But fear not! News of the actual kids should be coming soon. Alright, here’s Jenna.

I (Jenna) fortunately had the joy of sitting in on this apple/arrow demonstration with “Mr. Aukermans”. I don’t think I’ve ever seen kids that excited and nervous to see one of their classmates possibly get skewered by the teacher. It was a good class.
Ok, interesting cultural observation #1: (this goes out to Rod especially) I helped out in the school kitchen for a day last week. When I went in to report for duty, the head cook was busy – get ready – cutting fresh vegetables. Yes, fresh vegetables. And fresh organic meat (hunted by John recently) was cooking on the stove. And I noticed that the noodles and bread here are usually made out of straight wheat flour with maybe a little salt added. No processed anything, no high fructose corn syrup, no loads and loads of sugar or fat in any of it. I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that these kids, in extreme poverty, eat better quality food at this school than 90% of American children.
Interesting cultural observation #2: Kids will play with anything here. I seriously mean anything. A frequent game during their break time involves only a wad of used plastic grocery bags. Or when there are no soccer balls in the morning before school, an old plastic pop bottle substitutes quite well for a game. And they all are having some serious fun.
Interesting cultural observation #3: The kids here speak at least 3 languages. For most of them their native language is Damara (which kind of sounds like a strain of Portuguese but with lots of clicks), Afrikaans, and English. I’m impressed.

First week in review

As much as I hate to take words from someone else, I’ve got to say that this week could really be summed up in the album title: the Foo Fighters latest album is titled Echoes, Silence, Patience, and Grace.

Echoes: While Namibia is proudly an African country, the South African Afrikaners and heavy German influence has made this culture shock much less shocking. It’s even familiar in many ways. What is shocking is the fierce racism that is rampant in Windhoek. Whites are demeaning to the black tribes, but at least a little more accepting to the “coloreds” (an exceedingly proud sub-culture of Namibia who escaped South African slavery many years ago to settle up north, and then proceeded to fight for their freedom against the German settlers later on in history… pretty B.A. if you ask me). The colored people are less out-right in their dislike for the other tribes, but it’s there, and there’s even a pecking-order in the black tribes (this is all what we’ve been informed about and seen in many instances). In any case, Community Hope works with many of these triply oppressed black cultures. So the kids that Community Hope is based around are the product of this new and still forming culture of Namibia. Regardless of this terribly fascinating culture (and I really do mean terrible) these kids grow up in, I cannot help but see my past student’s faces in the students here in Community Hope. It’s so strange that these circumstances do not mute out the consistency of life, but I think it’s kind of comforting too. Kids are kids, and life is life… but it seems harsher here.

Silence: This trip has been surprisingly quieting. Some times the silence comes because we have no words to react to the poverty but more frequently it’s humbling to realize how much joy there is despite this poverty. We’ve seen more smiles from people on their morning hike back to their tin shacks with loads of branches on their heads than anywhere else in the city of Windhoek. I’m still at a loss for words on that too. But even back at the YWAM (Youth With a Mission) base where we’re staying, we’ve gotten a lot of time to just sit in silence and rediscover living simply. In this way, it has been uncomfortable, humbling, and familiar.

Patience: In school, there needs to be structure and rules so that the elementary kids feel safe, have boundaries, and so things can simply GET DONE. That’s when the teachers need to start “cracking the whip,” so to speak. I (Bryan) had been pretty comfortable doing that at Washington, but both Jenna and I are struggling deciding where there needs to be more patience for these kids in this situation. In the last BLOG entry, you read how sacred this Community Hope School is because it provides a place where these kids get to be children. It’s hard to “crack the whip” when you know that this is the most comfortable place they have all day long… that kind of patience takes a lot out of a person by the end of the school day.

Grace: If nothing else, this whole travel experience has revealed a lot in seeing just how big this world really is. We’ve been on three very different continents over the past week and three days. We’ve heard dialects from the Irish lilt to the German and Africaans’ guttural speech, to the Damara clicks (what the kids speak in when they don’t want to teachers to know what they’re saying), to South African English, and John Hunter’s heavy Texan influence. It’s enough to make a person feel pretty small. It’s enough to have a little more respect for how much earth is turning around in the sky every day. It makes me pretty happy to realize how much falls into place every day, and it makes grace seem like an even more potent balm when you realize just how much grace cuts through.

So there you have it. It’s been a week in Windhoek, and our time here already seems like it’s slipping away. Next week brings some fun new experiences: Bryan will be teaching 4th, 5th, and 6th grade math & literature, Jenna will be running “soccer break” during the school day, and both of us will continue to work in the tutoring room during the rest of the day. It should be pretty fun!

Reflections on school

Katatura: (noun) Cat ah tour a—The title that the white governing bodies gave the part of town where they exiled the blacks because they didn’t want to live around such uneducated people with poor hygiene. Literally translated it means “Place where I don’t live.” Loosely translated it means “Please go suffer somewhere that I cannot see it.”

Today, Suzanne took us around Windhoek to the tin-shack village on the perimeter of the city. It was upsetting. We drove by this little encampment when all the school in Windhoek get out (about 1:00). All the kids were going home; walking along the shoulder and edge of the highway in school uniforms. There’s a famous African poet that wrote “Dry your tears Africa, your children return home to you…” and this was the most horrific bastardization of what the beautiful poem intended. These kids weren’t going home to anything. They didn’t go to school to get anything but a demeaning, terminal public babysitting that provides no nutrition or education that will help them reach their potential. They were going “home” in their home-land to the poorest housing and sanitation that Windhoek has to offer. It was upsetting, but some of the kids walking home were smiling, and many were poking fun at one another to pass the time on the hot walk home. Kids are kids, no matter what latitude they live on.
We passed through this scene as Suzanne explained that those kids were from the families in the area that could find the money to pay for uniforms, underwear, and books so they could go to school. Once we got to the more stable housing, but still Katatura chic, there were tall fences made out of purely barbed wire around anything business oriented.
It was poverty with emaciated concrete skin, slathered in thin layers of cracked paint and old coca-cola signs. Then we pulled into Community Hope.
I didn’t recognize it until I saw kids running around the recess area with the uniforms on. These kids were beaming. Jenna and I got out our bags of books and toys to deliver from the trunk. Two fourth graders ran up to the car immediately and Suzanne asked if they wanted to help. They were elated to help Suzanne with anything, so we stacked their arms full of books from one of the large duffle bags. Once that was emptied, I (Bryan) had a messenger bag full of heavy books and a large duffle of lighter toys and yarn. Jenna asked what she could carry so I handed her the large duffle—mind you it was at most equal in weight or lighter. One of the little girls who was watching the whole scene charged up to me, “No-no-no. You do not give the big heavy bag to the woman!” She scolded.
“Oh, no?!” I shot back. She was not used to new-comers being so forward and stepped back. “You want to hold my little, light bag?”
She held her hand out and I dropped the full weight of the messenger bag stuffed with hark-cover books on her. She almost fell over, laughing all the way. “What is in here?!”
I think Jenna and I made a friend very quickly, but she still insisted on at least helping Jenna take the big “heavy” bag. We didn’t get to say very long today, but we got a chance to play with some other kids and talk with some of the staff. I think we’ll get along well here.
While we were there it was extremely clear that we were in a poverty stricken community, and that at about 1:30 these kids would hang up their childhood on the gate as they left, returning to something you and I would not consider childhood. That part of Community Hope I realized the entire time I was there. Right up until we left, right before I got in the car and looked back at the school-yard of gravel in a whirlwind of dust from playing, that I remembered that many of these kids’ parents were dead from AIDS or this was a looming possibility. That was a moment of recognizing this school as a part of the Kingdom: offering these kids at least half of their day that they could just be kids, to have adults whose entire reason for being there is to love and care for them. Please don’t get me wrong, I am positive that many of these kids have parents or guardians who love them more than a school staff ever could, but many of them do not. Any way, these kids get to have this experience to just be a kid rather than having to grow up a lot faster than a first or third or fifth grader really should. More than that, this school is equipping them to be able to grow up and get a job rather than continue the cycle of oppression and poverty. I think that’s a pretty good thing.

On Safari but wanting to be at school...

We’ve just spent the past two days wondering around a nature preserve with a missionary couple named John and Suzanne Hunter. John likes to hunt in his free time (what a non-misleading name, right?) and so has a vast knowledge and story base about every creature we see. It makes the experience much more interesting when you hear about not only how to tell which animal is the male or female (aside from the obvious “balls” which Suzanne took great pleasure in pointing out) but also which animals taste the best. We are told that Etosha is about the same size as England, and as we drove from waterhole to waterhole we had time to spot beasts, discuss their theology, their school’s educational philosophy, and come to see these people that it would be so easy to lock into a box as “missionaries” become people that are just a vulnerable, mischievous, and human as the rest of us.
One of most interesting things to talk about were the extremely different but many cultures that make us Windhoek. It’s at least as diverse as the waterhole I’m sitting at as I write; Three main indigenous tribes with their own various sub-groups within them (ranging from cultures that still refuse to convert to wearing cloths all the way to cultures that have yielded wealthy politicians) and three white tribes (the oldest being the German settlers, then Dutch colonists, then English colonists, and so on). Socially, this place reminds me a lot of a dryer, more abusive version of Atlanta, Georgia. The rich (almost exclusively white German or Afrikaans folks have legally ostracized the native cultures while the local people seem to be put into the inescapable, lower cast. 50% of the blacks are unemployed in Windhoek. It will remain this way because the schools in black neighborhoods are incapable of teaching what is necessary to pass the nationalized graduation exams, never mind the usually failed 10th grade exam. This is where John (our host), would stop and say “Funny…” but not really mean it.
So, we’re getting all of this information as we cruise around the largest national park in the country, passing wealthy German tourists or Afrikaners. I just want to scream. I want to yell! It is so backwards to me that Jenna and I came to Africa (all the way to freakin’ Namibia) at the cost of my job, major risks to Jenna’s business, and most of the stability that we once had in our lives to learn more about and help reverse this travesty. But I cannot help but feel like we’re feeding into it. The least I could do is cause a big hullabaloo in the middle of this schmaltzy resort, right? But screaming won’t fix anything (Jenna assures me). It will only piss off the Euro-tourists who want to enjoy this odd, reverse-zoo—in silence.
So what the hell can we do? We’ve been here three days and I’m only less sure that there is a good answer to that question. Here’s a few facts I am sure of at this point, staring out at the waterhole:

Fact: Oryx are cool… but real jerks at the waterhole.
Fact: Elephants are well endowed.
Fact: Elephants play with their trunks like a supersoaker, and I’m pretty sure they realize how goofy they are. This makes them even more awesome than originally believed.
Fact: Zebras are the middle-schoolers of the animal kingdom.

The two funniest animal notes so far are:

1) Rhinosaurus’ have drinking problems and have an exaggerated cough like something from a Tom and Jerry cartoon.
2) The first time an elephant farted I could not tell what end the noise was coming out of. I asked Jenna and she was also mystified. I started to ask John but then numerous things fell out of its butt (the elephant’s, not John’s). Very funny.

Jenna has encouraged me to relax and enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’m still trying to do that. Elephant fart jokes help. The wild beauty of this place is so expansive, it’s hard to realize it all right now. I hope these pictures do it justice.

Well, the last major thing that is the cause of a great deal of confusion is this: the mission’s world-view and my personal Christian understanding. I’ll only speak for myself, and not necessarily Jenna here. I came expecting an extremely non-judgmental, love-centric, geographically (ethnicity) neutral version of evangelism. It would seem that the school has a more American-centric Christ than what I am comfortable with—but really it’s the first time I’ve encountered that philosophy of evangelism. I’m not sure I like it, but that’s not to say that I’m opposed to it… the jury is still out, and it would seem that “innocent until proven guilty” would be an apt euphemism.
At this point, I’m just not sure what to think, because many parts of tribal culture that still majorly influence day-to-day life AND the concept of justice are really genuinely abusive. Case in point: The first night we were camping, the Hunters got an emergency phone-call to let them know a woman that the Hunters know was beaten by her boy-friend. That wasn’t the news, because they already know she was beaten and that had caused her to lose the child she was carrying. The news was that the woman, who had been in critical care until about 6 days ago, had just passed away. The most troubling part was that they didn’t think this was going to make the news or that the boy-friend would even be taken into custody. This culture needs to be changed, for sure, and the corruption of a society that would let this go is disturbing. So for the time being, I’m reserving my judgment on how I feel about the “Americanization” of the gospel.
Here’s one more thing I am sure of. Without a doubt Community Hope and all the people involved LOVE these kids who go to the school. They came here to serve them and make their lives better, and they are doing that. They are providing hope to these kids’ lives and they are certainly some of the most caring, interesting Christians I’ve ever met (Jenna and I are already better for having spent time with them). More than anything, I want to get to Katatura and get to know those kids. Jenna and I are both ready to be present and hear what God would have us learn from all this.

The first night here in Africa

As Jenna and I lay down to our first night’s sleep in Namibia, I can’t help but think, ‘Its been one of those 48 hour days.’ It started as Jenna and I woke up to a croaking old Irish woman named Eithne who curse sang her way through making our breakfast. Ethnie didn’t warm up to us until she introduced us to her dogs the day before: one was blind and deaf (but liked to sit immediately in front of the doors) and the other was a tiny shi-tsu who had recently been neutered. Once we had been introduced to the rest of the family, there was a new softness to Eithne’s personality, and it was a bit sad to leave her standing in the doorway of her B&B in Dublin. In any case, it was time to track down a bus that could take us to the airport, so we could begin the arduous thirteen hours of flying that lay ahead of us.
We arrived at our bus stop early, but decided to take the first one that showed up en-route for the airport. This, unfortunately, spit us up at the airport a full five hours ahead of schedule, and we needed to wait two hours before we could even be checked in. After this long wait, the plane was delayed a full hour extra. Even as we sat at the terminal we realized that we were in for a brisk run through Heathrow Airport. That run had to be even faster, because the bus that took us from the regular terminal to the international terminal was painfully slow. What made it enjoyable though was a family of Brits who were on their way to Singapore. It was a large family: both parents and four very young girls. The youngest decided that of all the empty seats on the bus (of which there were many) she needed to sit next to me (Bryan). She decided that my hiking backpack looked like a rocket, and I informed here that I could not throw it as far as a rocket could fly, nor did I have any pink unicorns as pretty as her stuffed animal in my bag—suffice to say we quickly became friends. She later asked if Jenna if she had a boyfriend. We let her in on the secret that we were actually married, showing her the rings as proof. In a hushed voice, she asked if that meant that we had kissed. We said yes. In an even louder whisper, she asked if that meant that we had snogged. We couldn’t answer yes or no because we were giggling so much at the fact that our new friend just asked if we’d snogged. I’m still not sure if that means making out or caught somewhere between 2nd or 3rd base (I’d say “the pickle” but I think the context demands a different expression). Anyway, our bus finally arrived at international flights.
Cut to us sprinting as fast as we can up two HUGE escalators, dashing past Hindu folks that were in full white-robe garb as well as proper English folk who were appalled at our mad rush to make our hemisphere crossing flight. We arrived at the terminal in time, as they were boarding the plane itself. Our white robed friends we passed earlier also eventually made it into the same line (I noticed they were far less sweaty than we were), but we made the flight just the same. As I was drenched in sweat, I realized the one Indian gentleman in the white robes had a large white beard that I was very jealous of.
It was a peaceful flight, and we both actually got some pretty good sleep along the way (they offer free wine with dinner, so that didn’t hurt the process). In any case, we’ve landed in Windhoek!!!
Much more to come soon.

Here’s the next prayer list:

1) That we don’t get on the Hunter’s nerves too much as we live in one of the compounds guest houses on the YWAM base. The Hunters are our gracious hosts who also own and operate Community Hope School.
2) That we continue in good health so we can be helping hands for the school here (We DID find out that Bryan can teach at least for a little while in their literature classes… but also some math, and Jenna will help with one-on-one tutoring and or soccer after school)
3) That as we continue to discover more and more about this world that seems so much larger than we could have possibly understood before we got here, we can emotionally bear the load that will come when we visit Katatura (we did just discover that Katatura means “Place We Do Not Live”).

Castles, Coffee, and Guiness

Bryan let me blog today, so I a taking full advantage.
After coffee yesterday, we went and explored Malahide Castle & Malahide village - both of which were pretty amazing. But perhaps the highlight of adventure was a pub we discovered (and which Eithne recommended)called Duffys. After patronizing so many Irish-influenced-American-made pubs in the US, Bryan and I both commented about how our first reaction was the slightly 'cheesy' Irish decorations & crests that littered the bar...until we realized that, of course, they were authentic. (Oh yeah, we're in Ireland.)It was all real, and thankfully, so was the Guinness. Oh the Guinness...we received 2 of the most beautifully poured, incredibly delicious pints we have ever had. (Paired with a couple of 5 Euro burgers & chips made a fabulously cheap night out in Malahide.)

We wondered around the village for a bit, but then made our way back to the B&B through an amazing park around the castle. We stopped so many times to gawk at the thick trunks and stumps and strange mossiness of the forest. The paths were winding, and it reminded me (Bryan) of the portion of The Lord of the Rings where Merry and Pippin meet the Ents in Fangorn forest. I couldn't wrap my mind around the descriptions of Tolkien's forest until I saw such an old woods. Any way, the forest was wonderful, the pub was lovely, and the Guinness was well enjoyed with the pub full of old Irishmen (almost as gnarled as the trees). Now it's time for Africa, and our minds are swimming with thoughts of Community Hope.

One last thing for today: HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMILY!!!

Eithne the loud cursing Irishwoman

We've landed in Ireland and planned in a day in which we'll wait for a day across the atlantic (in case bags didn't make it or flights were postponed). Luckily, all bags arived along with us, all flights were on time (even through O'Hare), and despite the chidings of our cab driver who didn't want to drive away from Dublin we've made it to our one-night stay. We'll give a full post tomorrow morning, but at the moment we're enjoying some Irish brogue and pointing out flowers and birds that neither of us have EVER seen before.

P.S. Eithne (our B&B host) sings awefully but curses wonderfully... and both loudly. Totally awesome!

Departures

It's only 8:30, the day before we leave so it might be premature to call this entry "Departures," but it would be unfair to call all the fair-wells and fissures from our past way of life anything but a leaving of what we've known (I also hope that not every entry is as serious as this one... but after about 10 hours of packing, I defy you to have a sense of humor). Let me start this whole thing out by explaining the title. One of our favorite authors and a catalyst for this whole trip is named Shane Claiborne, and he talks often about the irresistible love that is Christ, but he is stubbornly set on the fact that this guy Jesus called us to love each other in a revolutionary sort of way. Both Jenna and I felt like we have been living in a way that was in need of revolution in order to manifest the love of this Jesus guy, and we were both drawn to this conclusion in a strange feeling of discomfort in both our lives.

We found ourselves living this American dream: we were planted in a community that is thriving, in families that are supportive, we have strong friendships, had work environments that were ripe for success, and we were financially doing pretty well for recent college grads... but we couldn't honestly find ourselves in the midst of all this "success." To be honest, our discontent was not founded on a feeling of "Something is missing," but more accurately we had lost ourselves in the midst of "success," or at least the parts of ourselves that we like. It became obvious that we needed to re-evaluate who we wanted to be. This is why Jenna and I have decided to depart from how we are living to investigate what a revolutionary love looks like for us.

So we are leaving Sioux Falls, South Dakota for Katatura, Namibia in about twelve hours. Are we going to sell all our possessions and give them to the poor in order to hike ourselves up on some moral high-ground? No. All this means is that we'd like to take a minute to breathe out a life we ran head long into because it's what we knew. It means we're taking a minute to breathe in a whole lot of world before we decide what our next step might hold. It means we're giving the momentum of our lives over to a God who has provided an irresistible path of adventure for us because, in the words of Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, "There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark. But I shall not depart from this place yet. In any case we must here await the morning-light." So we've got about twelve hours till morning.

Both Jenna and I will update this blog with information about John and Suzanne Hunter, the kids at Community Hope School in Namibia, and how we fit into all of that. John Hunter was here in Sioux Falls a number of months ago and quickly earned the title of "Top 5 Most Interesting Human Beings I've Ever Met." He has a strong love for his family both in blood and in Christ (something Jenna and I would love to learn to do better), he likes to hunt (big African game... something that is cool), throw pottery (also cool), and is teaching himself to throw knives (something that is cool and that I--Bryan-- would LOVE to learn how to do as well). Suzanne is one of the teachers and owners of Community Hope along with John, and we have yet to get to know her better but we cannot wait to get to know these people who will quickly become family.

Balbina is the only child from Community Hope that we already know, and she is currently in the fourth grade. I can't wait to talk with this wonderful little girl who we've already sent a few letters back and forth with.

To finish this first (possibly longest) entry of our blog, we're almost done packing for this major departure with anticipation for a grand adventure that we hope provides a more clear vision of where we want to be in life.

Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers as we set off on this journey. I hope not every entry is this serious, and I also look forward to posting pictures of what life looks like in a very different home in Namibia. I'll be sure to end every post with a brief word of what we'd love for you to think on and pray about, so here's the first list:

1) That we don't forget anything major... you know, passports or spouses
2) That all goes well getting on the plane tomorrow...and safely getting off...at the right destination.
3) That we don't get so caught up in the accidental stuff of this trip (cloths, cameras, books, etc...) and that we remember that there are more real concerns that will be met once we get there... no matter what
4) Please share in our thankfulness that this whole journey was not of our doing, and that we're in much better strength than our own...

Thanks guys!


In Love,

Bryan and Jenna