The Circle of Life

Would this blog about my life in Africa be complete without a reference to The Lion King??  By the way, the first few times I heard people speaking Swahili I got really excited; A few of the words, mostly simple greetings, are heard in the Disney movie.

This past Sunday was a long one.  I attended a church service in Bari at the local cathedral.  I've gone there before for the English service, but this was my first time attending in the local language.  At every church, they always ask the visitors to stand and introduce themselves.  Even though we had already attended, we were still new to the congregation so we were forced to the center of attention by the Bishop of the Dioceses, who is on the Board of Directors for RECONCILE.  We dazzled the people with our Arabic knowledge, all of which I practically learned in my first week here. ("My name is Jillian.  I work at RECONCILE")

One of our coworkers invited us (Nancy, Shelvis and myself) to this service because his first child was getting baptized.  We didn't realize what we were getting into...

This baby was asleep

"What's your child's name?"

One of the visitors to our compound attended a mass on Saturday, where they also had baptisms.  Between the thirty he saw in that service and the SEVENTY that we saw in this service, he witnessed one hundred children get baptized in one weekend.  

Not happy. She was screaming the entire time

  

I suppose you could say it was beautiful to see all these people bringing their children to the church to be baptized, but it was mostly hilarious as none of the sleeping babies or young children were happy to be woken up and splashed with water in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit.

NOT happy!

Another one of our coworkers was acting as a godfather

With all the passing of babies, Nancy and I were also "fearing" that they might drop one...

After a lovely meal at our colleagues' home in Yei, the day ended on a low note with my first funeral that I've attended since being in South Sudan.  The fact that I've been in the country for several months and still haven't attended a funeral service is actually a testament to how much I really avoid them.  With the number of times that staff leave to attend funerals and the nights that people stay up late playing drums, singing and mourning, I know that death happens often. For the fist time, I was hearing up close some of the haunting singing that I had previously heard from across the town in the middle of the night.  

The Bush

I've been exercising as intermittently in Africa as I do in the US.  The only thing is that in Africa, I have to try a bit harder to get in a good workout.  As unusual as we look just walking to town as kawajaat, Nancy and I amp up our weirdness by embarking on the occasional morning run.  Some men run for fitness for soccer, but for women it's almost unheard of.  The women here are busy enough already cleaning their compounds, retrieving water, washing clothes, and cooking.  After lifting 40 to 50 pound jerry cans to their heads on a daily basis, the arms of some women are comparable to those of Serena Williams. Why would they want or need to exercise more when they aren't exactly living a sedentary lifestyle?

line of jerry cans waiting to be filled during the dry season

Who do you think carries these back?  I've even seen a toddler girl carrying small ones!

More recently, my body seems to reject physical fitness.  A few weeks ago, I threw my back out from doing laundry (at 23?! what is this?) and I lent out my good running shoes, leaving me with my soccer cleats.  I would ask for tennis shoes back, but I'm not exactly how to ask a girl, who doesn't otherwise have shoes to play soccer in, to return my shoes so I can be more comfortable when I exercise.  Many are playing barefoot or in sandals.  So, my lack of assertiveness (I like to think that I'm not callous), means that I'm using my cleats.  The mushkila (problem) is that these ancient shoes seem to have a vendetta against my feet and are attempting to wear holes in my ankles.  The other day, on a run, I got a beautiful, bubbly blister and couldn't run in those shoes the next day.

In the course of conversation, I brought up exercise with one of my colleagues at RECONCILE. When I told him about my mushkila with my cleats and he told me about how he can't work out either:  His leg muscles are too damaged to allow him to run without pain.

He is a South Sudanese who, like most of the men you'll meet, was conscripted, if you can call it that, into the SPLA (Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army) as a young teenager.  After a short time, he escaped and started walking.  From his stories, it sounds like traversed the continent, walking through the Congo, Uganda, Kenya and back again. He eventually made his way to Zambia and studied there.  Still, after all this time walking and living in the bush, it took a heavy toll on his legs.  He would get bumps and bruises, scrapes and cuts and never get the chance to apply any sort of medical treatment.  The result is that his skin, muscles, and ligaments never healed properly.  Forget my blister.

The difficulties of living in the bush comprise a common theme here.  Although the physical and mental trauma is doubtlessly still affecting him today, my colleagues' story is something that he survived, something in the past. Elsewhere, the traumatic events are still unfolding.  Parts of South Sudan, as I'm sure many have read in the news, aren't as peaceful as Yei and Central Equatoria, where I live.  Thousands still have to flee into the bush to escape inter-ethnic fighting in areas like Jonglei State, or more specifically, Pibor.  These things are much closer to home when you know someone who is in the area.  RECONCILE trains volunteers who act as community mobilizers and points of contacts in different areas of the country.  One of our volunteers recently had to ask for RECONCILE to replace his reference books on conflict, trauma and other materials that were used for training and teaching him.  They were all burned along with his house.   This incident occurred only a few weeks after I arrived in the country.  Just a warning, this report, which is posted on the PCUSA website, contains graphic images at the very end.

I'll think of something completely different now when I see someone whose legs are scarred.