I promise there is an explanation behind the absurdity of my face here. Please, read on.
Between my sometimes intense personality and the lessons and challenges of my time in Africa, you might worry that I don’t think much about having fun. But that’s not true! And this week I want to share briefly some photos and captions that prove I care about more than learning and being serious. Sometimes I’m as goofy as I was when I left high school. Humility combined with immaturity is an important part of college, I think.
Case in point: star spinning, which is the most fun you can possibly have with only stars and flashlights. Basically, you stare at a star directly above you while spinning really fast for 30 seconds. Then you stop spinning and someone shines a flashlight in your eyes. You become so disoriented that you instantly fall over and have no concept of balance. It’s pretty hilarious.
(Star spinning unhinged reality for me in this moment. It was beautiful.)
Now, I would say “try this at home,” but I might then be liable if you twisted your arm after falling over. So don’t try it at home. Try it in Uganda. That’s one thing that you don’t have to worry about in Africa: liability. Outside of America, you find that people don’t really care what you do.
Christians who want to have fun within such a loose environment – without getting drunk in pubs every night – have to find some respectable way to entertain themselves. “Meaningful conversations” only go so far. Eventually, everyone just wants to see people fall over and lose control of their bodies and minds. And I realize that sounds very similar to what happens in those pubs I just condemned, but I swear it’s different!
(See how happy they are? How can you go wrong with expressions like those?)
First of all, with star spinning you’re getting exercise, and you aren’t going to throw up or get alcohol poisoning. Good, harmless fun. It’s also very beautiful, as you can see roughly five million-trillion more stars in the sky when you’re not surrounded by city lights. Moral of the story: another great adventure in Uganda that you should come try for yourself.
This entry is going to be a bit longer than my others, but I’m writing about the most rewarding experience of my entire time in college, so please forgive me. I have a lot to say.
Last week, I got to spend six days in a rural village in Soroti District, part of Northern Uganda. I lived with the Okui family in Serere, and I spent my time helping out around their farm and simply observing how their daily life reveals their rural African values of subsistence agriculture, family community, and Christian faith.
First, a quick rundown of the family: there's “Papa” and “Toto” (the heads of the household), their two grown daughters, and about six grandchildren; many other relatives visited during the week. They’re a big family already, but the first thing I noticed was how welcoming and friendly they were, treating me as if I had always lived with them. In fact, when I first arrived, Papa gave me only a very brief tour of the homestead before ushering me into the main meeting room for an hour of family prayers!
Now, I thought I had seen truly fiery worship from other Ugandans, but the Okui family is a whole different breed. All the family members (even the 8-year olds!) pray simultaneously, some shouting, others whispering fiercely, and Papa trying his best to translate for me!
After I got used to the fervency of these prayer sessions, I started to enjoy them and joined in with my own (not so fierce) whispered prayers. Prayers were almost always followed by the children telling stories and riddles to the whole family, and the meals were also completely family-oriented. The Okuis finish most of their work before nightfall, so there is no anxiety or rush to spoil these nightly traditions of relaxing, singing, and watching three-year-old Gloria fall asleep on her mother's lap.
Intense worship followed by intense family time – yet it was never overwhelming. 7000 miles from my real home, it was very comforting.
After a few days, Papa brought me to visit the local school that his grandchildren attend. It was exciting to see so many enthusiastic kids, and the principal of the school took us to greet and encourage every classroom. Most of the kids were thrilled to greet us. Sadly, a few of the youngest thought I must be some pale monster and began sobbing when I approached.
Of course, although visiting the school was a lot of fun, it can’t compare to the hours of conversation I had with Papa. After working on his farm or eating a meal, we sat and talked about simple things like agriculture, local politics, differences between America and Uganda, and how nice the evening sky looked. And each night, after we finished singing and praying, he asked me to close the family meeting with a special prayer.
One night, after I said Amen, he turned to me and said, “Peter, you are a true son to us. You are a part of this family.” I know that’s the kind of thing that “you really have to be there” to appreciate, but I have to share it anyway. Even after the death of two of his eight children, Papa's home is still full of his loved ones. He lacks nothing, neither in family community nor in material resources to sustain them. And for some reason, he deemed me worthy of being a part of that.. He and his family are just that generous.
One blog entry couldn’t possibly suffice to explain all that I gained from living with the Okui family. But also, no amount of writing could really convey the full point of the story. You just have to live it for yourself. And the point is this: I’ve met thousands of wealthy people in my life, all of them more influential and educated than Papa and his family. Yet very few of those wealthy people interest me at all. Not like the Okuis. Because the Okuis want to just be with me and talk to me - and about pure things, too, like sweet potatoes, mango trees, and stories and songs from my childhood. One week with Papa, and I was “part of the family.” How many weeks would that take in America?
Thank God that I get to go home to a family and a college filled with people who can actually understand what I’m talking about.I hope you can, too..
Hello friends. It's been a while. I wish I've been posting here more, but I've been very busy. I promise I will have a more proper update sometime in the near future, but for now, a few poems from my most recent class.
I want to believe this is a silent scene,
(on Bergwald by Albert Müller, 1925)
but it’s not. Rarely is anything silent.
And over there, it’s all noise and laughter and talk
—and I’m drowning sometimes.
I’m lost, I think, but then I find myself here
and I feel a little better. A fire paints one section
of trees a light flickering green while the surrounding
forest continues to soak up dark like purple ink.
These are tall, skinny pines like we’d find
out west if we went up into the Rockies.
(Away from the mountains, it’s flat
and I’m almost crushed
by vacant sky.)
It is my camp, but I’ve snuck off and notice
the glow of light and sound coming together.
When I need to be no one and try
to remember what it is not to speak,
I come out here and feel the pleasing scrape
of pen on paper—not even writing for the words,
but for the sound words make when they’re scratched
out. If that were the only sound, there would be no need.
This is hyperbole. There need to be other sounds—
one in particular:
any moment of quiet is made all the more
still by your steady breathing.
But you are not at the camp
or in the woods.
Upon waking up
as if you have, for the last indefinite
amount of time, been dangled head-
first over the edge of a cliff,
which for all you knew could crash
into Hell itself,
but with no memory of the ordeal.
Only anxious sweat
and a thumb print above
your left ankle.
Thirty Pieces of Silver
(Inspired by Thirty Pieces of Silver (1988-89), an installation piece in the Tate Modern by Cornelia Parker)
“I resurrect things that have been killed off... My work is all about the potential of materials - even when it looks like they've lost all possibilities.” -Cornelia Parker
She scoured yard sales and thrift stores for silver
things, rented a steam roller, and produced
thirty clusters: large, more or less round groups
suspended inches, moments above the floor.
A shadow anticipates each object’s
descent, but also gawks at the surreal
levitation, a fragile détente between
floating and falling.
Fancy forks and platters
Spoons, teapots,
and candelabra,
A trombone, the bell
like a pressed flower pulled
from a yellowed book,
A trophy—to whom,
and for what, precisely
unimportant.
Keeping Time
(on a metal statue named Maurizio that rings the clock bells at Piazza del Duomo)
They cast Maurizio, dignified, skinny and small
To stand atop the tower, mallet in hand,
And wait in stoic stillness for the hour’s command
To hammer every measure of the daily song.
Envying the power his hands held to compel
A man, one moment resting, to retreat,
They thought, if life is an ever-undulating rhythm
That taps out time through crescendos and troughs,
What better job than to count the cadence
And watch men scatter, leaving trash for the pigeons?
But the deep wound of time seeped
through and slowed the gears that swung
his arms, until the bronze man knew nothing
more about the present turning hour.
A lonely ritardando in a choir of steady
Ticking clocks, Maurizio now stands, a street-side
Prophet with apocalypse on his tongue but crazy in his eyes,
Tolling two-sixteen with eight convicted
Notes. But if life is an ever-undulating rhythm
That taps out time through crescendos and troughs,
For too long, I have taken for granted the fact that I could always expect to attend college and even grad school, if I were willing to work for it. My education has been readily accessible and all but guaranteed. And now here I am, a student in Africa, and I’m finally gaining some much needed perspective on what an education is really worth.
(A girl at a local school has to go retrieve a spare desk by herself in order to do her coursework.)
The perspective I’m talking about comes from a sad reality: access to education may be the single most important factor for ending poverty and conflict in Africa, but there is not nearly enough to go around!
Here’s an overly simplistic summary of the issues at hand. African countries are poor and often corrupt. Many government leaders do not take care of their people, and the people lack the power and unity to make things better on their own. There are not enough schools or teachers, and the students don't have enough money in their pockets to pay for uniforms and tuition. And there are very few jobs available to the determined kids who overcome all these challenges and make it through the system. Yet without educated, middle-class citizens, African nations will not develop fast enough to keep up with poverty, disease, and war. So you’re probably going to keep seeing the starving kids on television – at least for a while.
(This is Julius. He is mute and has severe physical retardation, yet he absolutely loves to be at school. If only he could benefit from some kind of special education program, he might be capable of developing self-sufficiency.)
So, my account of African education is a major guilt trip, right? Well, that’s not really my intention. I’m actually just trying to set the scene for a pretty amazing juxtaposition that I’ve been witnessing since I arrived here. I am studying at Uganda Christian University literally with the future leaders of Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, and many other African countries, and although I know our high school graduation speakers all told us we’d be the future leaders of our country, somehow it just strikes me so much more when I come to study in Africa. In this context, the future leaders of the continent are living amongst beggars and AIDS victims and people whose entire families were murdered in a civil war (take your pick of which war). These students don’t need to do internships in the inner city to learn how they might possibly apply their majors in real life. “Real life” is shockingly ever present in Africa.
And you should hear these students talk about the futures of their countries! I’m taking a politics class with almost all Africans, and they literally tremble with passion as they describe their ideas for bringing about development, peace, and social harmony. And when faced with all of Africa’s problems, many of them have this unbelievable optimism for creating a society where everyone can hope to enjoy the blessings they’ve received. Who am I, that I get to sit in on their discussions and even offer my own opinions?
(This is Jones, a friend of mine who graduated from UCU. He's the kind of student with the charisma, talent, and integrity to do great things for his country.)
But that inclusiveness is the beauty of my semester abroad. The brightest young minds in East Africa are fully willing to engage with me and discuss the tough global issues that made me want to come here in the first place. And if they had the resources for education that we have in the United States, I cannot imagine the impact they could have in their countries. Perhaps enough that we’d no longer need to televise starving babies. Now, there’s your guilt trip!
And if you want to know more about this, I’ll talk to you about it at Gordon when I'm back for the spring semester. Until then, good luck with your homework, and wish me luck with mine.
*A rather suspicious little girl at a school I visited in Rwanda. I'll use this image as a visual starting point for what I want to write about this week...
Before I came to Africa, a friend of mine who studied here one year ago gave me a warning about photography. He wasn’t so concerned with my bringing a large, expensive camera. Every camera an American brings is large and expensive. His concern was not even that I might become a nuisance by taking too many pictures. His warning was that I must not perpetuate negative stereotypes back home through the photos I show people. So, with that in mind, I want to share some of my thoughts about living abroad and doing justice to the people and places you see…and photograph.
Many of the pictures we see of Africa make poverty seem like a soul crushing force. Children with flies in their mouths and eyes, wearing no clothing and covered in dirt, suffering from distended stomachs and parched lips. Of course those realities exist, and the honest pictures depicting them have their rightful place in our lives.
But my friend warned me to place my pictures in the proper context. He pointed out that a naked, dirty kid might not be just some pitiful victim of social injustice, like we’re used to seeing in “Save the Children” campaigns on tv. He may simply have run out of his house without clothes, carefree and innocent, and then played in the dirt with his friends. His mother would probably yell at him later – I can recall similar incidents from my own childhood!
But if I just took that picture, of a dirty, naked African kid on the street, few people would think, “Oh what a playful little fellow!” Most would feel bad about the image, remind themselves to give money to World Vision, and move on to a more palatable photo. Without providing an explanation, I would be doing an injustice to the subject of my photograph. The following photo shows what I mean.
(This is Waswa. He lives with the family that hosted me for two weeks. He's outside sleeping on cement and has flies on his face...because he's got a headache and is really tired. His patio just happens to be made of cement, and he's such a deep sleeper that flies (which are everywhere) don't even wake him up! He's not impoverished. He's just adorable. Context.)
My goal in Africa has been to take great pictures of beautiful people, even if they are dirty or malnourished or poor. I hope each of my photos preserves the dignity of these people, and I want that dignity to be blind to poverty or wealth. I want my pictures to completely draw the viewer into them. I don’t want that to happen because it’s voyeuristically tragic or depressing, even if the subject is living amongst tragedy. I want that to happen because it's clear I’ve found something worth learning about, worth staring at - even if it’s not always glamorous.
(A girl practicing a choir song at a local primary school.)
I hope you also get the chance to spend some time studying in another country, and after two months in Uganda, I give it a full recommendation. And if you do go to Africa, bring a camera.
Hey guys, welcome back to my year-long blog about my last two semesters at Gordon College! In this post, I want to explain some of the daily life stuff of being an American college student in Africa. It’s an exciting but challenging experience.
First, you should know that Uganda is one of four countries in the East Africa region. The others are Kenya, Tanzania, and Rwanda, and many students at Uganda Christian University (UCU) come from these three nations. Furthermore, there is strong diversity even among the Ugandans, who come to UCU from all over the country and bring with them their regional and tribal differences.
Within this very cross-cultural campus, the conversations can get intense, especially because African society is heavily characterized by tribal culture and regional politics. A few weeks ago, this became very real to me when violent riots broke out in the capital and in our town over a controversy between the president and the leader of the largest tribe in Uganda. Being a Politics major in Africa is a fascinating experience!
Of course, being a Biblical Studies major in Africa is also really interesting. Christianity in Africa is growing rapidly, and it is loud, vibrant, and passionate, like many elements of the culture here. It’s also a lot more fundamentalist than Gordon College (and most of the United States), and I’ve had to adjust to a much more conservative lifestyle: dress clothes all the time, male-dominated religious institutions, and a huge emphasis on strict morality.
(This boy lives near me. I guess he didn't get the memo about the formal dress code.)
African Christianity is also complex because of its integration of tribal religions and traditional values. One of the most intriguing lessons I’m learning through all of this is that the Gospel is a lot less formulaic and rigid than I used to think. The Jesus Christ I’ve always “known” made sense to me as an American – discovering Africa’s Jesus is demanding a lot of humility, prayer, and conversation. I’ll talk more about this throughout the semester.
Now, I don’t want to make it seem like I just contemplate and argue and pray all the time – Africans also have fun! I play quite a bit of soccer, which is fast and chaotic. I visit Kampala, the massive capital city, and the local markets, filled with greasy meat and Barack Obama apparel. And I try to enjoy the traditional food – although rice, beans, and plantains get old pretty fast! I also stayed in a home near the university for two weeks, where I drank lots of tea, watched Nigerian soap operas and soccer, and even cooked my family an “American” meal. (OK, so the meal was spaghetti and sausages, but it was the only familiar food I saw at the market. Don’t judge me.)
(Another fun moment - the residents of my dorm dragged this guy outside on the morning of his birthday to "wash" him with buckets of cold water. Thank goodness my birthday was in August...)
Lastly, I just came back from a weekend in Eastern Uganda at the source of the Nile River. We went white water rafting and bungee jumping, and it was absolutely thrilling. It was also really expensive ($200) and very touristy, and this week we’re starting a sobering new course unit on African poverty. I get a sinking feeling in my gut when I pause to compare my relative wealth to the absolute poverty all around me. I think the guilt and conviction are essential to an honest study abroad experience in Africa.
I'm not yet sure what God wants me to do in my own life about all of this, but I have a feeling it’s going to hurt, like the rich young man in Matthew who was distraught at Jesus’ command to give up his wealth to become his follower. But I’ve also been learning that some changes have to hurt, at least a little bit, to be sincere. Keep reading this semester and I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.
My time in Aix has been fairly typical, nothing too out of the ordinary or particularly interesting to mention. I've found some people who I enjoy hanging out with, and who I'm making travel plans with. I feel traveling will help me pass the time here. As such this past weekend I travelled with two friends to Brussels. I had been told that it was a rather boring city but we had a great time. I was oddly surprised at how it actually fit the stereotype of people loving waffles (similar to France actually fitting the stereotype of loving French bread). They actually have waffle stands on the road, and you see people walking around the streets eating their waffles. And I must say, they are some of the tastiest waffles I've ever eaten!
Also, though fries would typically be thought of as French (or perhaps denote "freedom") they actually originated in Belgium as well. So there were probably just as many fry stands as there were waffle stands, and they're served with a little skewer and typically covered in mayo. Again, I must say that they were some tasty tasty fries. And of course they are also famous for their beer and chocolate. So the entire weekend was very food oriented. All the meals were hearty and often greasy, which was a nice change after being on a consistent diet of vegetables and olive oil - which, don't get me wrong, I enjoy immensely. We visited the Magritte museum, a surrealist painter, and probably best known for this piece:
We also saw the EU capital building. We happened to show up right as a protest was being set up for the dairy farms of Europe. They were prepared for it to get violent and had razor wire set up, riot police, water canons, etc. It was pretty intense. Here is a news article on the protest. We left before anything started, and by the looks of the article, it seemed pretty peaceful. In all, it was an enjoyable weekend.
Also, a friend from Gordon, Amy Bither, happened to be visiting France and we met up in Marseilles on Friday. It was really nice to see a familiar face from Gordon, and have some really good discussions (which have been rather lacking here). I feel like it made me even more homesick for Gordon, but it was still a great time nonetheless. We went to the beach, explored the town a bit, and then just hung out at the old port and at a café.
I got the chance to do a lot of reading and reflecting on the train back, and am almost finished with the book My Name is Asher Lev. It's been really good, and given me a lot to think about. I'll probably start some Kierkegaard soon. And I also brought some Dickens with me; maybe this semester I'll finally be able to finish David Copperfield, a book that I've tried to finish since freshman year. In general I spend a lot more time alone than I normally do. Most weeknights I just go back to my house, hang out with my host mom for a bit, watch some french TV with her, and then read for the rest of the evening. It's a good discipline which I've always admired, but never really been able to do. I must say, it's nice, but having substantially less significant and meaningful human interaction like I'm accustomed to has been difficult and rather lonely. But like I said in my previous post, it is teaching me how to stand on my own two legs. I'm just glad that I brought a mini-library with me.
(Star spinning unhinged reality for me in this moment. It was beautiful.)
