what could be more terrifying?

I wrote this back in early April. Perhaps, being too close at the time, I couldn't post. But now, in the interest of honesty and with some reflection, thought it might be ok to share.

What could be more terrifying

Than looking into his face

His childish face

At my window

Begging me for something

Anything to ease the hunger

He carries with him everywhere

But I do look

I look deep into his eyes

As his hand holds onto my door

His seven year old hand

I look deep into his eyes

And see someone who is anything

But a child

And I look across the street at the ground

That ground

Where he will most likely pass the night

It is deep, rich earth

Moist and saturated with the rains

Perhaps the concrete will be more

Inviting tonight

Cradling his small bones

With her rocks and crevices

I look down at his feet

Those feet

Bare and dusty from his travels

What could be more terrifying

than looking into his face

Deep into his eyes

And seeing

That he is just a child

My child, any child

Out there on the street

I looked deep into his eyes

And I drove by

What could be more terrifying

Than who I have become?

What has been so disturbing to me are the constant articles about child sorcery. It is a common problem in Kinshasa that children are thrown out of their homes after being accused of sorcery or witchcraft. Many are beaten or taken to churches to undergo rituals of exorcism. There are lists of random “signs” of being possessed and they range from leaving a bedroom door open at night to sneezing too often. Some children report their mother simply said, “You eat too much.” 

And so this evening as I sat in the miles of traffic and was approached by the endless beggars of the road, I made myself really look at the children outside my door. One in particular, so young, I looked deep into his eyes searching for the thing that could allow a mother to throw her child out. This looking deep was not easy. I wanted to open my door, invite him in and take him home.  But I can’t save them all. When the traffic comes to a standstill, the streets literally fill up with handicapped, homeless, hungry humans.   

It is no longer faces on a tv commercial. It is no longer something happening a continent away. It’s here, outside my door. I can roll my window down and touch the hand of a lonely, starving child. I can’t stop the tears from welling up because this boy is alone and my two children are in the back munching chips and feeling loved.  I cry all the way home through stalled traffic and honking horns. I cry as I make dinner and correct my students’ papers. I don’t want to be this person that drives away from a seven year old on the street. I stop myself from going back and I make up crazy plans and wonder if they are crazy after all. I can’t continue to live like this, with myself. I can’t continue to drive by a child. I wonder if I can rent a house. I wonder if helping five children would make it any easier. Would it satisfy me? Would I feel like it’s enough? I wonder how I can truly make it happen and if I have the courage. Mostly I wonder what on earth has happened to us humans to make this our reality.

As I read- most recently Malalai Joya- which reminds me remarkably of Benazair Bhutto- I have this perspective of looking down from above. It is what I imagine God must see looking out over us humans. It is deeply disturbing, something gone horribly wrong. It is century after century of war and violence, slavery, brutality, humans hurting humans. There are small pockets fighting for change, looking for the brighter path. But so much of it is covered in the blood and misery that we have brought to each other. It is completely overwhelming to me.  

 

Socially serving

The minature pink buckets were perfectly designed for holding crayons. I cannot begin to guess what their real purpose might be but it seemed they were designed for us. There was a little black handle which made it convenient for passing (though I noticed today that no one actually did) and the lids made them perfect for travel.

The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.

The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."

One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.

I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.

One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.

Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.

And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.

I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.