post script

Almost exactly a year ago I wrote a blog, the content of which I'm sure was profound and life changing to all who read it. But my interest in bringing up this blog again is the post script I wrote at the end of it. It remarked on the fact that both Egypt and DR Congo had had Presidential Elections that week and I was saying that I would look with interest to the news from both countries.

The reason I bring this up is that, as I was watching the news the other day, amongst the Palestinian/Israeli and various other conflicts, there were pieces on both Egypt and DRC.

The situations in both countries are complicated and while both are generally political, it is the people who are suffering. In 2008 I visited a couple of refugee camps in Goma, DRC with a team from Australia HOPE International and tragically enough, the images on the news this week could have been stock footage from four years ago.

Once again rebels have taken over Goma, with the UN watching on and the Congolese Army just walking out. And a population that has already lost it's sense of home, moves on again, trying to make some semblance of a life while constantly dogged by fear.

I can't imagine living without a home. Even when I am here in Uganda, I think even if I lived here for the rest of my life I would still call Australia home. Specifically Victor Harbor, with its changeable weather, its horse drawn tram, its beaches that are pretty to look at but too cold for me to swim at most of the time, its holiday atmosphere all summer long and the greatest concentration in the world of my family and friends. I can't imagine a reality where we were all chased away from Victor only to end up in temporary shelters in different locations around South Australia. And that we would be gone so long that our children would be born there, and grow there, and perhaps have their own children there. All the while in temporary shelters without access to running water, dependant on outside agencies for food, knowing that at any time we might be chased again. Like those in Goma whose little stability has started to shake.

I feel utterly helpless seeing images of refugees once again fleeing and I know that there is little I can do but pray. And hold on to the hope I have in Jesus, that He sees and knows those that no one else wants to see. Those who are broken and desperate.

And I pray that I might be broken, moved to remember, that I would not just change the channel and wipe these images from my mind.

Many blessings

bron

My prayer for this week, stolen from Brooke Fraser. Heal my heart and make it clean, open up my eyes to the things unseen, show me how to love like You have loved me. Break my heart for what breaks Yours, everything I am for Your kingdoms' cause, as I walk from earth into eternity.

Small steps

Today I'm back in Kampala. I was here last week, for a rather short time I might add considering the amount of travel it takes to get here. A round trip, especially if you're on a public bus, will usually take around ten hours. Less than half the day! And last week it was particularly disappointing because I was here to go to Immigration to apply for my Entry Visa so that I can have an extended stay in Uganda. And after spending around an hour chasing down the right office and seeing the right people, I came away with a list of the 'real requirements' as I like to call them and felt not that much closer to my goal.

And the realisation that before I can apply for a work permit I have to get a recommendation from the NGO Board.

So today I headed back to Immigration and the NGO Board, armed with what I hoped were all the 'requirements' I needed. We will see. A very efficient guy took my papers and gave me a receipt and told me that I will check back to see how it is progressing. When I asked him how long before I should check, he told me that he couldn’t even guess when it might be.

So now I need a special pass, a visa that allows me three months grace while I wait for all these other papers to be processed. And the reason I couldn't put in my form today? That's another story.

Let's just say I'm learning to take smaller steps than I expected to.

But this did bring me to make the decision to stay in Kampala for the night (I really couldn't face another bus ride so soon). And so I spent the afternoon following Pastor Willy around the city. Which was a lot of fun. I saw a side to Kampala that I haven't seen before. And I hope that I'm somehow now more familiar with it's geography, although I suspect I would manage to get lost fairly easily on my own. Sometimes it's a shambles with buildings that look like they might fall down at any moment. Sometimes you find a quiet oasis and look around in astonishment. Sometimes you see beggars and sometimes you see businessmen. But there is a bustle, an energy, a sense of being alive that makes me try to soak it all in, grab all I can.

 

These street shots were taken in 2008. The Kampala ‘Jam’.

So I may have taken small steps with Immigration but I feel like at least I've joined the dance on the streets of Kampala.

Have a great week

bron

Three small pieces of string

Skype is truly an amazing service and I am so thankful that I have access to it, that I get to see friends and family in real time and that I get to see their kids grow up and in a sense still be part of their lives. This week I talked to some friends in Australia that I haven't talked to except to email since I left in July. I was lucky enough to visit them just before I left for DRC, particularly because they had just had a baby. And this is one of the reasons Skype is such a beautiful thing. I was able to see their gorgeous little girl, a happy healthy baby. I sang for her and made faces and she laughed and smiled and was just generally adorable. Such a blessing.

Last week I was in Kamwenge visiting some friends I've made. We have two Australia HOPE International schools in Kamwenge district and by an amazing coincidence a South Aussie couple have started Maranatha Health which has built a Maternal and Child Health Clinic in Kamwenge town and are starting to do some community development work in villages around the area. This means that our schools have access to medical clinics and the opportunity to become more educated about health and what the community can to do be involved in improving health outcomes for their area.

I had a lovely visit and stayed overnight with them. And I got to see the clinic in action. It has become somewhat of a referral hospital as they have access to oxygen and can give blood transfusions. But as you can also probably imagine, they have limited resources and are not set up for every and all medical emergencies. Which, along with the severity of some of the cases they see can be devastating. There was a little baby on oxygen that died while I was there. There was a young girl brought in with severe burns from hot porridge who will most likely lose her entire leg. I heard from them about their struggles, the ups and downs of running such a clinic and I feel blessed to know them and to be able to partner with them in some small way.

But back to Australia. My friend there is also pretty amazing and one project she is currently involved in is packing and sending birthing kits from Birthing Kit Foundation to countries where there are a high number of maternal and infant deaths and the majority of women give birth at home, often without any assistance. Each kit contains a few items and these are sent and given out, usually to a Traditional Birth Attendant, along with some training on their use. The items found in the kit? A scalpel blade. Three twenty-four centimetre pieces of string. A piece of plastic, one metre by one metre. Two gloves. Five ten centimetre by ten centimetre pieces of gauze. A small piece of soap, cut from a larger cake.

My friend told me about receiving all these supplies to pack and remembering her own recent experiences with giving birth. She specifically remembered being wrapped in a warm blanket straight from the blanket warmer immediately after giving birth and commenting to the nurse that there was a piece of equipment that was just for that. The nurse commented that they wanted to give the absolutely best experience to new mothers that they could. My friend said she remembered how luxurious that felt, to be wrapped in a warm blanket. As she looked through the supplies that she and other volunteers would be packing, she said that moment came back to her and she wondered as she looked at three small pieces of string, that somewhere in the world they would be more than a mother expected as she gave birth.

Health care is so different here and it's provision is haphazard and generally reliant on money. Things that we take for granted about our health system are luxuries here. But luxuries that contribute to length and quality of life. Luxuries that people can't afford.

Luxuries like three small pieces of string.

Have a blessed week

bron

A rose by any other name…

After more than a year in the country you would think I would be used to some things by now. Like the name thing. It doesn't matter how many times I explain I still don’t think many people here understand why when I introduce myself I use only Bron and when others know my last name, why they can't call me Lang. Don't get me wrong, I know that there are certain situations where last names are used i.e. on the sports field (with some kind of addition like Langy) or if you are a teacher. But as a general rule if you want to know my name, I give you the one that people call me, not the whole thing.

I guess it goes the other way too because names here are still a profound mystery to me. Many people here have three names, which is not unusual to my way of thinking, but many of them can be called by any of their three names. Which is why when I was signing up for my new modem the other day, I suddenly became Claire. I didn't bother correcting the guy, I'm sure he would have looked at me blankly, it wouldn't make sense to him that the only time Claire has ever been added to my name has been when I am in trouble or filling out official forms and then only when in the middle of my other two names.

I'm grateful (although not convinced it was the best thing to do) to missionaries who came and introduced the practice of Christian names. Which means that a large percentage of people have an English sounding name in amongst the others. So when I ask for their name I try really hard to hear that one. Although I often still have to ask several times before I'm sure I've got the right one.

My friends here gave me the name Kemigisha (meaning one who has many blessings) so sometimes I now get introduced by that name or Kemigisha Bron. Including last weekend at a wedding where I ended up in the front row with the important guests even though I didn't really know the bride and groom. One of those situations that have me feeling like I want to sink through the floor and escape but no one here really notices.

In many tourist spots around the place you can find t-shirts with the slogan 'My name is not Muzungu!' and if you have spent even a day here you will know why. Any white skinned person (which can include many of the Indian and Chinese community living here if they are deemed light skinned enough) is called out to by children, boda drivers and the less reserved of the general public, with either a greeting of "How are you, Muzungu?" or simply "Muzungu! Muzungu!". As muzungu means white person the greeting can be a little offensive if you keep thinking the same way you would in Australia (there are many chances to be offended here because being called old or fat is quite common too). But you learn to just let it roll over you (although I did give my friend a talking to the other day when he referred to me as muzungu even though he knows my name very well) and greet them back.

I take solace in the fact that even if no one here knows me or my name I am known by One who does.

O Israel, the one who formed you says, "Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. Isaiah 43:1 Bible

The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep recognize his voice and come to him. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. John 10:3 Bible

And I also get a kick out of the fact that two kids I know refer to all bazungu as Bron. Although a muzungu by any other name is still a muzungu.

Beauty putting a ‘hat’ on Gilbert who thinks that all bazungu are called Bron and arm wrestling with Dan who also tells his mum when he sees a white person “Look! There’s Bron.”

Have a blessed week

bron