#13 - June 15th 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Masaka

The hardest, and easiest thing…is saying no…

Today I celebrated my 24^th birthday in Uganda. Although a higher power did indeed do its level best to put me in as many precarious situations as it could, (there was even an earthquake!) I survived! The drive from Kampala to Masaka, a couple of hours in Dr.Nianze’s car, was only slightly treacherous (mostly because of cars coming in the other direction swerving all over the road). We arrived in Masaka, picked up Peter’s friend Lindsey and her friend Andrea (both Canadians), and all headed out to Dr.Nianze’s school. The doctor grew up in a small sub-county of Masaka where there was no access to education, so as a way of giving back to his community, he donated a huge parcel of land and the materials to build a secondary school, which is now known as Lakes High. At the school, they treated us to songs and dance, a traditional way of welcoming guests in Uganda. The children all have beautiful voices and dance moves that are beyond the comprehension of most Westerners.

I felt a little awkward as the five of us sat watching these performances in the midst of hundreds of Ugandan children, all looking at us with expectant eyes, their teachers giving speeches that implied we were there to help in one way or another. There seems to be an unspoken expectation that wherever Muzungus go, help will follow. Although every cause seems worthy of support, it would be a mistake to spread ourselves too thin. The projects in Bwera and Kampala already support hundreds of people and it doesn’t seem fair to add more. That would only serve to lessen the impact of our assistance. Thus far, this has been one of the most difficult things I’ve had to contend with. I’ve mentioned before that everyone’s lives here could be ‘saved’, and if I came across anyone in Canada with these kinds of problems it would be ridiculous not to help – however, its absolutely impossible to help everyone here. As I travel across the rural areas of Uganda, most of the children I meet ask for assistance; imagine, hundreds of children, their tattered clothing barely concealing their distended bellies, asking you for the equivalent of fifty cents, or for a pen, or even a pen-pal. You cannot say yes to everyone.

Picture this scenario: you’re downtown window-shopping on a sunny summer day, you’ve got a toonie and a loonie in your pocket, and a crumpled five dollar bill. You’re feeling good, enjoying the warmth on your face, excited to go home and try on the new shirt you’ve just bought. You turn the corner and there stand two children, the smaller boy is six, and the girl holding his hand might be eight. They are wide-eyed and inquisitive, you immediately wonder where their parents are, are they lost? Their clothes are a little too big, their hair a little unkempt, you push aside thoughts that they are alone. They share their big smiles as you pass. Around the next corner you see two more, this time you know they must be homeless, the tell-tale smudges of dirt on their cheeks, ripped clothing, battered shoes. You squeeze your hand into your pocket and produce a toonie. The children give a small bow in thanks and you have trouble feeling any satisfaction – how did they come to be here? Does anyone care for them? Is there more you could do? Several excuses come to mind; you’re too busy, you have an appointment, you just bought that new flat screen and have too many payments, how could you really help them anyway? Your thoughts are interrupted by another group of children, this time more numerous, maybe there are seven. These children cup their hands out in front of you. They ask for money, “One dollar please, ma’am, please?” You only have the loonie and the five left. Coffee and a bagel for the drive home. You decide to skip the bagel and pass them the loonie, to share. You arrive at your car fairly distraught by your experience. All the children, alone, and you can’t tell yourself they are too lazy to get jobs or help themselves – they are just children. At your car you find twelve more – twelve! You shake your head, what is going on? This is unbelievable. These children are no different from your cousins, just as cute, their small, intelligent eyes pleading with you for acknowledgement. They know you have money, they see the bags – there is no denying it no matter how many payments, debts, or responsibilities you have. You have a car, you have time to shop, you are smartly dressed and your hair was cut just last week. How do you feel when each and every one of these children comes up to you and asks for one dollar? Are you saddened? Do you feel a twinge of guilt? Do you immediately want to give them everything you can? Or do you feel a little angered that they are begging for money? A little annoyed that they are surrounding you, getting their dirty fingerprints on your vehicle? A little impatient because you are now going to be late for that appointment? These kids have no one to help them, no where to go, no skills to work with in order to support themselves, they have nothing. Maybe you say that you have no money, but these children do not even have the possibility of acquiring income. You climb into your car, that five dollar bill burning a hole in your pocket, your mind heavy and your appointment forgotten.

That’s enough for now. I sit here 100% guilty of experiencing every single one of those thoughts mentioned above. I’ve felt saddened, and also guilty, angry, annoyed and impatient. I’ve thought of all the excuses (I’m a student, in debt, car payments, credit card bills, etc.) and even expressed them to those asking for help. In rural Uganda, the above experience was mine, maybe not with loonies and toonies, maybe I don’t have a car or shopping bags, but they know I have more than them. They see my clean clothes without holes, they see my new shoes, they see my MEC backpack, cell phone, and digital camera. They ask for 100 shillings; less than five cents and I shake my head. I have never felt more befuddled, confused, exasperated. I do not know how to deal with this situation. In Canada it isn’t so hard to walk past people without so much as a second thought. Here, hundreds are hard to ignore. Children are hard to ignore. They shouldn’t be ignored. But then I think to myself, what about the boys? The boys back home in Kampala need me, my time and money and support, and they have already started to see me as a part of their lives, as their older sister in whom they can trust and find comfort in. I only have so much in me to give. So, I find myself shutting down, shutting off to these kids here in these small communities. I didn’t want to, but that is what happened. I don’t know what the solution is, I hope in time I will find one.

~Nicole