Holding back tears

The Africa Posts

I apologize for this long post. I cannot see how to break it up into pieces.

When I was on my drive to the airport, 8 days before our visit to Goma, my son texted me that Bienve had asked him if we wanted to provide a meal for 100 children at a refugee camp, for $300. I expressed a willingness to spend the money but questioned whether this was the best use of funds. My son said to trust our host regarding that question. We agreed on the plan for a large meal, and today was the day.

This was to be our last full day in Goma. The following day we would return to Rwanda for an evening flight.

It had been decided to do the cooking in a more inexpensive way, and to keep the ingredients simple so that 400 children could attend rather than 100.

It turned out to be a church event. Some women had been cooking for rice and beans and cabbage and beef for hours and hours behind the church.

On the way to Bulango Camp for Displaced Persons, which was outside of Goma a few kilometers, we were warned by Bienve that we would probably hear artillery. It was uncertain whether it would be safe for us to walk around the camp. We did hear what sounded like rockets being fired nearby 3 times during the day. I did not focus on them and was not afraid. I had decided long ago to trust this journey I was on.

When we arrived and drove through the camp, I saw faces of hardness and great suffering. I understood later that this was a much larger camp than the one we had visited the day before, and that the inhabitants had arrived very recently. I smiled as I do, but …there was no room for smiles here. Nothing penetrated, and I had to hold back tears several times at the enormity of the pain and trauma I saw in face after face.

When we arrived at the church – a larger structure wrapped in the white plastic, we got out of the car and headed in. My son turned back from the entrance and saw my face. He stopped and said “You can’t cry.” I knew he was right, although I couldn’t put words to why at the time. I realized later that it would have been self-serving, this release for me of the horror I felt, as the people we were serving presented in the best way possible. It would have appeared pitying, and maybe it was. Pity is not something I am aware of feeling or something I align with. But I have no words for the version of sorrow I was experiencing. There was a deep threat to the wellbeing of the people I saw here.

This next few minutes was my most difficult time in Africa and it is with me still. Tears show up sometimes, and I trace them back to this point in time.

I assured my son that I would find a positive focus and would not cry.

We entered this place with 400 children sitting on benches. There were maybe 20 adults who would also eat this meal, including the 2 or 3 women who were preparing food in a tiny enclosure behind the structure. There were the organizers, (Beinve, support staff from Remember Youth for Change who rode in the van with us), a young male drummer, some older male church officials, and my son and I.

When I look back I recognize the blessing it was to have been at this event on this day in this place. It seems unreal, especially now that I am home in my comfortable surroundings. But I was there for some reason. Perhaps to teach me; perhaps to enable me to tell this story of my experience.

After peeking at the cooking process, I just stood there near the front of the church. My son told me to find a place to sit; I needed direction on this day. I went to a bench behind 2 rows of women. I don’t remember where my son sat, or if he did sit.

I focused on the place where the joy lies for me – children. There were a few little ones who were sitting near their mothers, and who I was able to connect with. I offered my smile and they came close to me and we talked a bit.

Bienve became my hero on this day. He performed the miracle of alchemy. He turned pain and suffering into joy and laughter before my eyes.

There were some announcements and introductions. Bienve said early on that the adults would eat first, as the children need the adults to be strong for them. (There was a lot of waiting for these children, who sat patiently for hours.)

After all the talk and a blessing by the pastor, the magic began. The women on the benches in front of me, and an equal number of men from somewhere (12 total) got up to dance a tribal dance in 2 rows in front of the pulpit, facing the congregation of chidren and others. I was on the side benches. There was some sort of portable sound system that provided music.

The women were dressed in their best – there were layers of color and fabric tied artfully and the clothes fit them beautifully. They were stunning. The women wore fabric headcoverings.

When sitting behind them I had noticed a few small holes in fabric and frayed zippers, but everyone presented beautifully as they stood and danced before us. Their presence in the dance was magical and powerful and healing for all. They danced for maybe 10 minutes to a song that everyone knew. The smallest children knew the words. They danced in 2 lines and at times the men and women faced each other, traveled apart, and rejoined. Hips, torsos and arms moved like fluid. I wanted it to go on forever. I wanted to know the song, learn the song, but it was elusive. When I asked about it on the way home in my broken French, I was unable to explain which song I was asking about. There was much music and many songs sung on that day. It was an experience not to be captured and brought home, but only to live in my heart and soul. I reached out to touch the arm of the closest dancer, 2 benches in front of me and said “Tres belle” – very beautiful – she thanked me and smiled.

Next 6 children danced in a competition – 3 girls and 3 boys. Much cheering followed.

There were more dances and songs. by the children.

Then there was a balloon-blowing contest. 3 boys were selected and each was handed a long wavy bright balloon. The first to fill and break his balloon was the winner. The ballons started to be blown up, and the crowd started cheering. One burst. The second burst, and all 3 were sent back to their seats. Then 3 girls repeated the exercise.

Now it was time for another 3 boys, and this time my son was invited to participate. He stepped up with a big smile and was handed a blue balloon. There was increased excitement and chatter and laughter in the room. His 2 competitors came up to his waist and chest. He filled his balloon with air first, but took some time to break it, so that at least the 2nd place person had a full balloon. This is where we first showed ourselves to the group, and it was very positive, laughter and smiles all around.

The line between our world and theirs has been erased with laughter and delight all around.

After this, it was time for a coloring event that many of the children participated in.

After each event, we witnessed a simple, sweet and rythmic expression of gratitude to all the dancers, all the participants. It took less than 10 seconds. As the day went on, we joined in:

The food was to be brought forth soon, and my son suggested I might want to get up and walk around, so I did. People knew I provided the meal. Or that we did. I walked up and down the 2 aisles between the benches where the children sat patiently. Connection and warmth, smiles and laughter flowed. Touching of hands, and “bonjour.”

Toward the end of that walk, just before the meal, Bienve led everyone in a song that they all knew and soon I joined in. The translation is “God is good to me. God is good to me. He blesses me. He helps me.” This song went on for a very long time and was animated with hand movements. It was joyful to sing.

My son and the staff from Remember Youth for Change were the food servers. My son asked me if I would like to serve. I hesitated and then chose not to, for which I am glad. He + Bienve’s wife, Clariss, served the rice, and it was a painful endeavor for his 36 year old athletic arms after just a short time. This was the hardest task, as every plate recieved 2 full scoops of rice. There were 5 pots of rice, a pot of beans, a pot of cabbage, and about 1/3 of a pot of beef peices. The pots were about 2+1/2 ft across.

The church officials and I (and perhaps some of the other adults) were served. After getting my plate, I looked around helplessly until someone brought me a spoon. Looking back I am embarrassed by this. Almost everyone, including my son and Bienve, who ate after the children, ate with their fingers. Only the church officials and I needed this help.

I am so proud of the man my son is, and the awareness he carries.

I went to sit with the church officials behind the altar, then knew that was wrong. I was not part of the church – I also had some questions about this event being in the church. I moved to a bench near the entrance and ate by myself.

There was a washing station with soap and poured clean water with a bowl to catch. Everyone used it before eating.

After eating, I put my emptly paper plate in a pile of used plates and went to sit down. I was overwhelmed by everying around me, and oblivious of the fact that all the fed adults (except the church officials) were serving the children where they sat. My son left his post and asked me if I wanted to help serve the children. I did! We took paper plates, waited in line to fill them, then brought them to each child in the rows of children who had washed their hands.

After eating, people slowly left the church.

Many of the children did not have parents with them. I noticed, as I had seen before, that quite small children look after their younger siblings. There were no infants strapped to 4 year old backs today, but this is very common in all 3 countries we visited. I did notice that when the older sibling was not holding on, the younger sibling was sure to – they never let go of their brother or sister’s waistband.

During this event, I was aware that there were many many children outside who were not fed. This did not sit well with me, and I’m sure I was not alone. The event had captured a lot of attention. While I sat and ate, several faces at nearby holes in the plastic sheathing asked me for money and said things I didn’t understand, all respectfully and with smiles. Later on, I noticed a row of about 5 children sitting at a new opening in the plastic. After the meal, I asked my son why they couldn’t be fed and he said it would create a problem. Of course. I realized that a relaxation of the boundaries in place would interest many …and possibly cause more damage to the structure. The small amount of leftover food was brought outside on individual paper plates when people left. I have no idea of it’s destination – friends and neighbors? Elders or sick?

There was no tussle or snatching of the food by the crowd outside.

Soon we left the church to walk around the camp briefly.

Would you like to know more about Goma’s nonprofit Remember Youth for Change? https://www.facebook.com/rememberyouthforchange