#9 – May 30th 2007

“He beat me. He resented me. He refused to help me. He died. I survived. I am alone. I survive.”

If I said the above to you, if you heard it from me, one-on-one, face-to-face, you would react. Possibly with dismay, disbelief, possibly with sorrow or anger. You would question why, and how, and who. You would ask if there was anything you would do. And you would be thankful it wasn’t you.

I just had a friend sit down with me, one-on-one, face-to-face, and tell me that story. A little longer, a little more detailed, a little harder to hear, but the same story, more or less. I felt dismay, disbelief, sorrow and anger. I did ask the questions of why (“because he did not like me,”) how (“with his fists and his boots”), and who (“my father”). There are a million things I could and could not do to help, and of course I am thankful it was not, and is not, me.

This story could belong to any of the boys. Being beaten, being resented, being unloved and uncared for. Surviving alone. Each one was walking destitute and hungry when they discovered the band playing in a field, a disheveled band of boys squawking on tubas and trumpets, playing songs about salvation. Each one approached Abbey with his own song, his own past and problems, and needs. Each time Abbey assessed the situation, researched the circumstances, and gave his final approval. Living arrangements, food, clothes, and a spot in the band were provided as per each child’s need. Some needed a place to sleep, some needed nourishment, some needed a family. All needed appreciation, understanding, and a place where they could just be. Where they could just be loved, be taken care of, just be teenagers. One by one I hear these boys’ stories and each time I find myself completely incapable of comprehending how they have survived, how they are the smiling, intelligent, charismatic characters that they are when they have experienced such hardships, as they continue to experience great obstacles and misfortune. They are pillars of strength that could teach Westerners a thing or two about complaining, about privilege, and about appreciation.

Every night this past week I’ve walked to the boys’ house. It has been more emotional than I bargained for. Mpola mpola (slowly by slowly) I get to know the boys better. I spar with Ronald, a sixteen-year-old weighing in at no more than 70lbs with a speaking voice that makes me melt. I share headphones and an appreciation for gospel with Eddy, lending him an encouraging gaze as he struggles with a stutter and the English language. I am tugged between Kimala and Robert, brothers eager to one-up each other. I am a fly on the wall when three of the boys jam with their instruments, one recording the event with my camera. I marvel at their dance moves when Akon’s new song comes on the radio. On the one hand I am these boys’ friend, with whom they can play with, be rambunctious and rowdy with, and just relax around. On the other, I am a confidant, someone who will listen to and record their personal story and positively reinforce they hopes and aspirations. I feel ill-equipped for such tasks, my heart does not seem nearly big enough to hold the histories of so many amazing children, so many of their stories heart-breaking and tortured. I can only try to offer them my friendship, my time, and my advice. Beyond that, they inspire me to further my education in order to orient my career towards international development, and do what little I can to achieve a more balanced position for developing nations such as Uganda.

When I am not with the kids, I sit in rapture as Abbey weaves for me a new lesson in Ugandan history and Museveni’s politics, while somehow entwining advice and inspiration, and making me feel like I am completely inadequate morally and intellectually. He is the sort of leader, the sort of teacher you dream about having but cannot believe exists. He takes all of your weaknesses, all of your faults and your unpleasant characteristics and tendencies and in one fell swoop is able to simultaneously heighten your awareness of your inadequacies while also convincing you of your ability to change them. The word inspirational does not begin to encompass this man.

To be single-handedly in charge of sixty-two young boys is a responsibility not many twenty-six year olds could handle. Although many of the boys are able to find some support with extended family, Abbey ensures that every boy has a home, a bed, food, and the potential to earn some money. Sponsorship for their schooling is the other top priority after the basic essentials. With a degree in social work, Abbey could easily find decently-paid employment and be working on making his own family, building a house, etc. Instead, he has chosen to dedicate his life to the lives of orphaned street kids. The other night he said to me, “Nicole, do you know what I pray for every night? I pray that God will not bring for me money, that he will not give me too much, for it is when you have too much that you forget the important things in life. That you forget the people, and struggles, you forget happiness and God. Once you have materialistic gain, you have an insatiable desire for more, and even when you die you will find that you are left unsatisfied. It can never be enough. So I want for less, I want for only the basic needs, and then I can be happy and have my faith.” I only hope that I can discover the same prayer within myself. To not want for more seems almost like an impossibility from the standpoint of a fortunate Canadian. We are practically bred to desire material achievement. I am not even sure how to dream for success in my career and separate that from the desire to have material gain, to want for the car, the clothes, the condo. I must be honest in this, there is no point in pretending I have no desire for these things, but I can imagine that the longer I spend here, the longer I can learn from these boys and from Abbey, the closer I will get to furthering myself from those things.

I was worried that once I graduated from University I would stop learning, but it seems that I am learning just as much here as I ever did in class, if not more. I think that while my experiences at university taught me many things, the education I receive here is deep and meaningful and will change me forever.

Until next time,

~Nicole